In the Widow's Bed

“I’ve not trained her, if that’s what you’re asking. But she does have a suitably robust temper and tends to use whatever is at hand.”

His friend pivoted, eyebrows raised high. “Like poor potted plants?”

Jonathan laughed weakly. “Oh, hell. Has Lizzy gotten physical with one of your guests? I bet Mr. Perkins regrets following her onto the terrace now.”

“Not Perkins.” Warminster ran both hands through his pale hair, disturbing the precise curls.

Alarmed, Jonathan sat forward. “Warminster? Are you all right?”

The other man nodded, but then shook his head. “A man, a stranger, was found just outside that terrace door this morning. Trussed like a bird with the shattered remnants of a potted petunia at his feet. I had wondered who’d dealt with him.”

“A spy?”

Warminster nodded and his face paled horribly. “Very likely.”

“Well, Lizzy appears no worse for wear this morning,” Jonathan mused. “In fact, I thought her downright cheerful.”

“Good. Good.” Warminster however appeared anything but. “I need to speak with her.”

Now that would be an interesting conversation, certainly one not to miss. So much for Lizzy’s good mood. Jonathan wearily dragged himself to his feet. “They were at breakfast when I left them.”

“They?”

“Lizzy and your mother.”

“Stepmother,” Warminster corrected as he dragged Jonathan from the room. But the ladies were no longer at the table. They stood some distance away in the garden.

Warminster hailed them cheerfully and swiftly dragged Jonathan’s sister aside for a private tête-à-tête. Jonathan watched them for a long moment and, seeing Lizzy didn’t appear likely to kneecap his friend immediately, he let his gaze shift to the countess.

Lady Warminster appeared to be looking everywhere but at him. Disappointed, he glanced at his sister and his friend where they stood in deep conversation. No sign of trouble yet. “Would you care to sit, my lady?”

Her back stiffened. “No, thank you.”

Jonathan shrugged off the rebuff. If she had worked out who had shared her bed last night, and didn’t like it, then that was her problem. But he distinctly remembered the lady singing his praises repeatedly during the night. She might fool herself today that she’d been imposed upon, but Jonathan remembered that she’d enjoyed his attentions thoroughly.

He sat with a groan, and swiveled so he could lie upon the bench, pressing one arm across his eyes. He’d rest here a few moments then return home.

~ * ~

Phoebe discreetly watched Lord Selwood fall asleep on the hard stone bench while she tried to control her pounding heart. But her pulse raced with the fear that she had not just been indiscreet, she’d been monumentally stupid. How could she have taken a man to her bed and not tried harder to determine his identity.

To be sure, the French accent had distracted her. She’d forgotten Selwood’s late mother was a French émigré, but the quick snippet of conversation she’d heard between Selwood and his sister at breakfast had brought her memory flooding back. Selwood spoke French fluently enough for her to suspect that Warminster might enlist his help in his highly secretive work. But had she really taken a man to her bed whose age was so much lower than hers?

Why would he desire an old woman?

She turned to face him fully. The long, dark hair fanned out over the stone bench was of similar length to her lover’s. The expertly tailored jacket and waistcoat hid a broad and possibly muscled chest. Phoebe let her gaze travel on, noting the strong legs, large feet and—when her gaze rose again—the obvious outline of an erection tenting his dark trousers.

“May I help you, my lady?” Selwood watched her, a wicked smile lingering on his lips.

Appalled to be caught staring, Phoebe spun about. No! She simply could not have made love to him. But when she heard Selwood climb to his feet and move to stand behind her she trembled.

“I forgot. You like the cloak of darkness to hide your desires behind. Did you enjoy your view, ma belle?”

Phoebe raised a hand to her throat. “Don’t speak like that.”

A light touch ghosted over her back. “Why not? You didn’t object last night. In fact, you were quite vocal in your appreciation of certain conversations. I particularly enjoyed the one about your breasts.”

“Please. Stop.”