Phoebe exhaled a tiny sigh of relief as Lucas introduced her to his valet, Mr. Popham. Lucas had told her that Popham had served him in the army as his batman, and was a competent man with a good deal of common sense. From the few vague statements her husband had made to her about Mistletoe Manor in the last few daysâdeliberately vague, she now suspectedâhe relied heavily on Popham in dealing with the estate's many problems.
Now those problems were hers, too. No matter her doubts about the marriage, it was time to take up the responsibilities that had been thrust upon her. In that way, at least, she could be of use to Lucas, rather than adding to his burdens.
“Thankâ” she bit back an errant
thee
, “
you
for your kind welcome, and for your work on behalf of my husband and the earl before him, my grandfather. It gives me great pleasure to finally come to Mistletoe Manor, which Grandfather so loved and which will now be my beloved home, too.”
Her speech won her several approving nods and murmurs, boosting her courage. “I would ask for your patience and help over the next few weeks as I become familiar with you and with the workings of this great house. I have much to learn, and I will be relying on all of you for your assistance.”
She glanced up at Lucas. His expression was a trifle stern, as it often was, but his eyes smiled and even, she hoped, held a bit of pride. Taking a deep breath, she reached over and took his hand. Immediately, his fingers closed around hers, and a tentative joy stole through her. “I am very happy to be among you,” she said. “With your support, I am confident we will restore Mistletoe Manor to full prosperity and beauty.”
The staff erupted into a round of cheers. No doubt their behavior would be frowned upon in so correct an establishment as Stanton House, but Phoebe could not bring herself to fault them. As she smiled at the happy little mob in the hall, Lucas tugged her a few inches closer.
“Well done, my lady,” he murmured in her ear. “You'll have them eating out of your hand in no time, exactly like your grandfather. God knows I haven't mastered the trick yet.”
His praise dispelled the last of her gloom. “Thank you, Lucas. I will try to do my best.”
“I have no doubt of that, sweetheart.” He cast a quick glance around the hall, then turned his gaze back to her. “And now,” he purred in a seductive voice, “perhaps you would like to see the rest of the house. Starting, I think, with the bedroom.”
Chapter 17
Phoebe had almost fainted when Lucas suggested they tour the bedrooms first. The thought of facing her wedding night before unpackingâeven before dinnerâunnerved her as nothing else had done that day. But, thankfully, he had only been teasing. When she had stammered out a jumbled excuse, Lucas had rolled his eyes before escorting her upstairs to her suite. Once there, he had left her alone to settle in.
That had been something of a shock. After his smoldering glances and suggestive remarks in the hall, Lucas's transformation back into the coolly polite aristocrat had left her confused. One moment he studied her with a warm, eager regard. The next, he treated her much as he would any other member of the Stanton family, a truly disconcerting notion for a bride on her wedding night.
As she sat in front of the old and battered dressing table in her bedroom brushing out her hair, she reluctantly acknowledged that Lucas had treated her with more affection before their precipitous engagement and marriage. Since that fateful night at the ball, he had retreated behind a courteous but rather distant facade that did nothing to ease her doubts about their future together.
She grimaced at her reflection in the smoky glass. Her new husband was sometimes as obscure as a cipher, and trying to puzzle him out struck her as a waste of time. Only by living with him would she find the answers she sought. She would pray that they would grow happily into their life as man and wife, finding common purpose in restoring Mistletoe Manor and eventually creating a family. Perhaps then he would learn to love her, and she would be able to cast aside her doubts and fears.
But first she had to get through tonight, and that thought hollowed out her stomach. Part of her longed to be back in his arms, experiencing the thrilling sensation of his touch, but she dreaded the encounter, too. She knew only of the essential details of marital relations, and she worried she would disappoint him. Tonight was not just her wedding nightâit would be the cornerstone of their marriage and of their dealings with each other. How well it went would set the tone for much to come. They were alone here at Mistletoe Manor, with no other friends and family to occupy them or deflect blame or disappointment. She and Lucas would find their way to each other, relying only on themselves, or founder on a sea of awkwardness, regret, and lost opportunities.
Putting down her hairbrush, Phoebe silently vowed she would not let that happen. She
would
make Lucas happy. If only she was not so ridiculously innocent when it came toâ
The old clock on the mantelpiece whirred and then chimed out the late hour in a rusty tone. Where was Lucas? After their first dinner together as husband and wifeâridiculously separated by the immense length of the dining room tableâhe had repaired to his study for a brandy. But if she had to wait for him much longer, she would likely expire from a fatal case of nerves. With her stomach twisted in knots and her palms damp, his lingering over his brandy was conducive to neither her confidence nor her patience. As much as she worried over what was to transpire, she wanted to get on with it and hoped her nerves would settle once Lucas began to kiss her. She did quite like the kissing they had done that night at Lady Framingham's, and she hoped to like it even more now as his wife.
To give herself something to do with her fidgety hands, she began to weave her hair into a tight braid until Maggie's horrified exclamation stopped her. “No, my lady! Don't be pulling it back so tightly. You're like to yank half your hairs out of your head.”
The maid bustled over from straightening up the old press cupboard in the corner and pushed her hands away, quickly undoing the braid. Smiling over Phoebe's shoulder, she took a hank from the top, wove it into a loose, attractive braid, and let the rest tumble over her back and shoulders.
“But I always put my hair up for bed,” Phoebe protested. “And wear a cap.”
“Not tonight, my lady. You have beautiful hair, and men like to see their ladies wear it down like this. As for your capâ” She grabbed Phoebe's white sleeping cap and whisked it away under her apron. “His lordship won't be wanting his bride to be looking like some old granny now, will he?”
Then Maggie gave her a broad wink, which had Phoebe biting down on her lip to hold back a horrified laugh. She would have to do something about the girl's carefree regard for bedroom matters, as soon as she mustered up the nerve and the appropriate words to address the subject.
Not right now, though. Dealing with her husband was enough for one night. “Oh, very well,” she said. “I'll keep it down for tonight.”
She leaned forward, peering into the mirror. Her eyes seemed almost feverish and her cheeks were flushed, but Maggie was right. The tumble of dark, curling locks around her face and shoulders suited her, and Phoebe possessed enough vanity to wish to look pretty for her new husband. She just hoped she looked as enticing as Esme Newton, the only other woman Lucas had ever wanted to marry.
Fortunately, before she could worry that idea to the bone, a quiet knock sounded on the connecting door from Lucas's suite. “Enter,” she called, wincing at the break in her voice.
The door opened and Lucas strolled in. He had removed his coat and waistcoat, and was clad only in an open-necked shirt and trousers. In one hand he deftly balanced two crystal tumblers of amber liquid. Brandy, she assumed. Phoebe usually turned her nose up at strong spirits, but tonight she was more than prepared to make an exception.
On legs that trembled, she rose to greet him, managing a shy smile.
“Good evening, my love,” Lucas said in that husky voice she was beginning to recognize. It did nothing to still the tremors in her legsâor in her stomach, for that matter. Gazing at his strong, broad-shouldered body did the oddest things to her insides. Not unpleasant things, but certainly unsettling and unfamiliar.
Maggie bobbed a curtsy even as she gave Phoebe a knowing little smile. “Will you be needing anything else, my lady?”
“No, Maggie. You may go.”
The maid threw her another wink so broad Phoebe almost gasped, then whisked herself out of the room. Mortified, Phoebe met her husband's ironic gaze. “I do apologize for Maggie's behavior,” she sighed. “I cannot imagine why she is so interested in our private intimacies.”
Lucas gave a little snort as he strolled up to her. “She's not the only servant in this house to remark upon it. I must say, their manners do seem to harken back to the older generation. I'm surprised they didn't insist on attending the bedding, like some damn medieval ceremony.” He shook his head, looking baffled. “And they all seem to blurt out whatever they're thinking and to hell with the fact that I'm supposedly their lord and master. It's remarkably unnerving, though I must say your grandfather never seemed to mind it.”
Phoebe gratefully took the glass he offered, wondering at the glimpse into Grandfather's life.
“Perhaps in his loneliness he found their manners a comfort,” she said. “I understand he was quite reclusive, especially after the death of my uncle.”
“He was reclusive indeed,” Lucas replied absently as he wandered over to one of the mullioned windows. The housekeeper had left it open a crack to air out the room, but now a cold wind stirred the thick, faded drapes and swirled with a nasty bite around Phoebe's bare ankles. He seized the handle, wrestled with it, and finally managed to yank the window shut. It closed with an unexpected bang, and a little shower of plaster dust filtered down from somewhere above the window.
Lucas scowled up at the ceiling before throwing her a rueful glance. “I'm sorry to have brought you to such a ramshackle house, Phoebe. I'm sure it was not what you expected.”
“I do not mind at all,” she said truthfully. “I was just a bit surprised.”
What little she had seen of the manor was spotless, but it was clear that something had been amiss for a long time. Carpets were faded and threadbare, furniture was worn, and in some of the rooms she had spied the wallpaper peeling back, exposing mildew and damp. The neglect spoke volumes about her grandfather's state of mind in the years preceding his death, and that saddened her.
With a heavy sigh, Lucas sat down on a low armchair in front of the chimneypiece. “Still, I could have wished for a better homecoming for my bride.”
Falling into a brown study, he stared into the flames.
Putting down her glass, Phoebe pulled her wrapper tight against the chill and came to him, gingerly sitting on the creaky footstool at his feet. “I knew there were some problems, but why did you not tell me conditions were so bad?”
He reached to gently stroke her hair, the wry smile returning to his lips. His touch soothed her, even as tingles of awareness shivered through her body.
“I didn't want to scare you off. If you knew how bad it was, you might have run screaming back to America.”
“Lucas, you know very well I was not raised in the lap of luxury, and I am certainly not afraid of hard work. In fact, I welcome it.”
She hesitated, then carefully placed her hands on his knee. “If I can help you restore the manor and the estate to order, then I will be less of a burden to you.”
His body seemed to turn to stone under her fingers. His face did, too, although his eyes blazed with a dangerous heat. Then, so quickly she barely saw the movement, his arms lashed out and circled her waist. Alarmed, she squeaked out a protest when he swept her up in a rush and plunked her onto his lap. She grabbed the front of his shirt to steady herself.
Warm, calloused hands captured her face as he brought her close. Her heart stuttered as he studied her with an intense, heavy-lidded stare.
“Phoebe, you are not a burden to me, and you are forbidden to say that again. Do you understand?”
Butterflies danced in her stomach, but the raw sexuality in his eyes set off another kind of fluttering lower downâone that eagerly anticipated his touch. That was odd, since he was clearly annoyed with her, but she suspected another emotionâthe one that made her quiverâalso drove him.
She found herself unable to resist temptation's dark urgings. She flicked her tongue out, dampening lips gone suddenly dry. His gaze fastened on her mouth.
“And what will you do if I do not obey you?” she challenged in a breathless voice.
One hand left her face to slide down her spine to her rump. Through the delicate cambric of her night rail and wrapper, his hand felt huge and hot and wonderful. She squeaked again when it slipped underneath, settling her more comfortably in his lap.
When he removed it a moment later, her eyes widened in startled amazement. Something else nudged her bottom, and it also felt huge and hot and . . . wonderful, too.
When she wriggled against it, he drew in a sharp breath. He held her steady as he dipped his head, his mouth brushing over hers in a moist, teasing press of lips. Phoebe clutched at him, sighing with pleasure, but he broke the kiss all too soon.
“I will show you, Wife, what happens when you don't obey my commands. Especially in the bedroom.”
Underneath her fingertips, his heart thumped with a strong, rapid beat. Hers did, too, as he came back to nuzzle her mouth with tempting kisses, his hand stroking along her jaw. Down that hand went, over her neck, her collarbone, and finally settling on her breast. He cupped it, fondling the nipple, and she thought her heart really just might beat out of her chest.
With a helpless shudder, she curled into his teasing fingers. His other hand spanned her back, supporting her. He held her steady as he played with her breast, gently rubbing and tweaking the nipple until it contracted into a hard, aching bead. When he grasped it with the tips of his fingers, pulling gently, she felt an answering tug in the deepest part of her body. And between her legs, in that hidden, intimate place, she felt a hot slick of moisture.
Clutching the edges of Lucas's shirt, Phoebe broke away from the kiss. She stared at him, panting and disoriented by the rush of sensation. He stared back, his gaze hot and slumberous, and that look made her shiver again.
“What is it, love?” he asked in a deep, low voice.
Carefully, she spread her fingers across his chest, taking comfort in the solid strength of him. She was hot and muddled, excited and scared, not knowing whether she wanted to wrap herself around him or run away. “I feel rather strange. My body . . .” she trailed off, unable to express what she felt.
The hand stroking her back reassured her. The seductive smile he gave her did anything but. “What you feel is natural, Phoebe. Your body is getting ready to accept mine.”
She bit her lip. He seemed to like that, if the flare of heat in his eyes was any indication.
“How . . . how is it getting ready?” she asked.
It might be an indelicate question, but she truly wanted to know. This morning, as she changed in preparation for the journey to Kent, Meredith had spoken to her about what would happen on the wedding night. Phoebe had formed a general idea, of course, but Meredith's frank, calmly delivered description left her gaping at the details, too embarrassed to ask the questions that might have cleared up her resulting confusion.