Since their arrival at Ham, much of their time had been spent in tending the estate and in making necessary repairs to the house, having found it overgrown and neglected. ‘Did you notice our new River God on the forecourt?’ the Earl asked them.
‘Anna Maria, you
must
show Phoebe your Duchess’s bathroom. Everybody should have a bathroom like that, I believe, yet I cannot persuade my wife to use it.’ His enthusiasm was a joy to see, but it was when the conversation turned to the subject of families that voices chose a minor key, for the Dysarts had had no children and the nephew so loved by the Earl had been killed, aged eighteen. Naturally, Phoebe wondered whether that had something to do with their eagerness to sponsor young talent whenever they could find it.
Even as the two guests prepared to climb into the phaeton, information and instructions continued unabated. ‘We’re having a musical evening on Friday,’ the Countess said, planting a farewell kiss on Phoebe’s cheeks. ‘You will come, won’t you? Get Buck to bring you, my dear. Some string players from London. Some pieces by Mr Haydn and a bit of George Frederick Handel. A few singers. Starting at seven. A little supper.’
‘Thank you, my lady. We shall be honoured.’
It was the first time for years she’d said such a thing, as if she was once again part of a pair. But as they bowled out of the gates and turned towards Ham, she knew in her heart that a giant step had been taken in a direction which, only a few days ago, she would have thought utterly impossible. Her anger in the garden just now had reflected the way she had set herself to think since Claude’s death, that never again would she belong to any man, that no man would take her. Yet her impulses had clearly shown how outdated her protests were. Buck Ransome, that great arrogant, high-handed, handsome creature sitting close to her, taking up too much of the seat, had forced himself into her life and insisted on being part of it, and it was just such occasions as this that made her realise what she’d been starved of for so long. Companionship and conversation, gallantry, a man’s protection, and yes…that, too. Madly, wildly, she had responded to him like dry tinder to a spark.
She had been shown another side to him too, one she would never have associated with the man whose exploits had often been the talk of the
beau monde,
gambling, womanising, all the usual excesses of youth. There at Ham House, he had talked knowledgeably about the newest alterations, materials and styles, about places he’d been and people he’d met, artists and scientists he knew, politics and literature, as easy with the older generation as he was with her. Courteously, he had commended her brother Leon to the Earl in a way she could not have done, personally vouching for his dedication to a commission which, the Earl suggested, would be to paint views of Ham House as the renovations took place. A pictorial record for his private collection. For posterity.
‘How could you guarantee that?’ she asked him as the trees sped past them. ‘Wasn’t that rather a risk to take, knowing Leon’s habits?’
‘It’s not too late to change him round,’ he answered, keeping his eyes on the twists of the road. ‘In London, he appears to have no support, only parasites. Here, with us, he’ll have all the support he needs. He’s not past redemption,
madame.’
‘Earlier, you called me Phoebe. I seem to have committed myself, don’t I?’
‘Don’t take it too hard. It had to happen. And I’m not gloating. If it happened rather too quickly for your comfort, that’s due to circumstances and my impatience.’
And his other mistress? How much will she know about me, I wonder? Yet he had said he had no mistress. Having seen what she had seen, how could she believe him? Why did he need another home at Mortlake?
‘They called you Buck. Is that how they’ve always known you?’
‘Buckminster Percival Ransome at your service,
madame.
Now you have it.’
‘Buckminster?’
Like dark orbs, full of laughter, her eyes turned to him.
‘Yes,’ he said, not returning her look of disbelief. ‘I never thought the name Percy was one I could get used to. Not quite for me. Would you not agree?’
She hiccoughed as the phaeton bounced over a bump in the road. ‘Oh, I do indeed, my lord. And I could never be the mistress of a man called
Percy.’
‘I think I must have known that, somehow,’ he said, permitting himself a smile.
The drive home, made in companionable silence, gave Phoebe time to reflect on what else Buck had known. About the portrait, for instance. That had been a shock, to find that she had worthy ancestors whose employer was fond enough of them to have their portrait painted. A Duchess, no less—an ancestor of the Earl of Dysart had known
her
ancestors, Sir Leo and Lady Hawkynne. And Buck Ransome had known all along of her ancient lineage, seizing the chance to show her the famous side of her family while playing down the infamous side. And then, to give the comparison a touch of humour, he had revealed to her the glorious name of Buckminster Percival. What an amazing man he was.
Chapter Five
T
he low sun filled every window pane with an orange blaze, fading to yellow, then silver, as it sunk and dipped below the horizon, leaving Ferry House to its own grey-orange hues and a last squawking flutter of roosting starlings. In the garden, Phoebe walked alone with her thoughts, her grey-and-white cat moving alongside as if their direction was entirely coincidental.
Lord Ransome had not stayed long enough to discuss the new agreement with her, although he had allowed Claudette to lead him down to the river to be shown the baby frogs in the reeds, the cygnets and the ducklings. His manner with her was easy, more brotherly than fatherly, and it was clear that in each other’s company, they had found something to fill a void. To Phoebe, that was more important than discussing the finer points of a relationship which had not quite begun.
Touching the fragrant tips of lavender as she passed, she wondered for the twentieth time how it had come to this so quickly, and why she had told a man of whom she could not approve the humiliating details of her brief marriage when she’d shared that information with no other person. Even now, after all these busy years, the seamy side of it wrinkled her nose with disgust for, as an innocent girl, she had been bitterly disappointed by her young husband’s impatience with her ignorance. Teasing and boyish ridicule had quickly dampened the tender flame that had burned for him, and though she had assumed that, in time, this would mend under his instruction, his three attempts to stir her to great heights had been dismal failures. She had loved him, blaming herself, setting the scene with soft scented candles, satin sheets, all the trimmings of wifely seduction she’d been told were necessary. Perhaps she had expected too much. Perhaps they both had. Her later discoveries, when it was too late, had shed a dark and sinister light on the experience, and time had not softened its sharp edges.
It was therefore doubly astonishing that, after such a disappointment, the flame that had burned so low should suddenly and without warning be whipped to a conflagration by Ransome’s first kiss taken, not given, yet fuelled by real passion instead of duty. For all her personal lectures to the contrary, this afternoon she had been sure he desired her. Satin sheets and scented candles would be an irrelevancy for them both. But was she not stepping into yet another three-sided set-up doomed to failure? How could she trust him when she’d seen the proof with her own eyes? Did she have a choice, when it was all about bargains?
Turning the corner of the high wall, she pushed open the door to the kitchen garden into the secluded place that picked up the last of the light on the glass of cold-frames and cloches. Beans climbed up tall cane steeples, and the feathery fennel swayed as she walked towards the glasshouse that leaned against the south-facing wall. The perfume of plants still damp from the gardener’s watering can filled the evening air with mint and lavender, the green earthy scent of life. She stood still to breathe it in, noting the pattern of espaliered apricot and peach trees on the nearest wall, the waxy fig tree with its green nubs of fruit. Tomorrow was one of the days on which they sent most produce to the inns, when the men would be busily loading up the orders by dawn, having prepared them the night before.
The storage room was a specially built thatched shed for the preparation of the produce with sinks for washing, tables and bins for sorting, bunching and trimming, ready to be laid in baskets and boxes. Though she knew everything would be in order, Phoebe liked to see for herself who was buying it, and how much. Entering the dark warmth of the shed, she left the door open to let in just enough light to see the tables stacked with labelled containers, each one overflowing with vegetables, herbs and early strawberries. The scent was almost overpowering as she passed along the rows, touching the cool leaves of rhubarb and beetroot, turning in alarm as the light suddenly dimmed.
His bulk filled the doorframe, making her heart lurch with recognition and excitement. ‘You!’ she whispered. ‘You came back!’
She had no need to ask why or what for, when even before she’d finished speaking he was stripping off his coat and flinging it on to the nearest basket, pulling at his neckcloth, unbuttoning his waistcoat, advancing, wordless, reaching out to her with one hand, draping melons, cucumbers and cauliflowers with discarded clothing with the other.
To Phoebe, the act of love had been a bedroom experience, carefully choreographed within certain spaces and with controlled guidelines, devoid of any spontaneity and seeding it in her memory with pain and sadness. A garden shed had never seemed to her like a possible alternative. But, if she had to admit it, Ransome’s unconventional manners were infectious and more in keeping with her own way of living, these days. He knew how to shake her dormant emotions. She was already aflame. Raising her arms to receive him, she was gathered hard against his chest, her mouth being sought hungrily for the main course, the first of which had been at Ham House, cut short by a squabble. The craving for more had stayed with them both.
With a cry, she took his head between her hands like a great loving-cup, drawing it down to her with fingers deep in his thick hair, tasting the night air on his skin, the scent of his haste in her nostrils. The maleness of his powerful body was like a drug. Desire and need flared once again as his lips closed on hers, slanting hard across her, compelling her to forget, to go with him, to let him lead.
Breathlessly, willingly, she submitted to a world of sensation, of unreason, of a control that was not hers to direct, but his. Between the boxes and baskets their bodies bent and swayed in that first blaze of rapture, clinging, hardly pausing for breath. Pressed against the bench, she let his mouth move down her throat and felt the warm brush of his hair against her face, his skin on her lips.
More. She wanted more.
‘Here,’ she whispered. ‘Look…under there, a pile of…’
Knowing instantly what she meant, he stooped, hauling out a pile of folded blankets used for laying over the cold-frames in winter, spreading them along the wooden floor between baskets, watering-cans, pots and canes, taking her back into his arms as soon as it was done, gently pulling her down into a dark oblivion scented with earth and the tang of male vigour. Held captive by his weight, feeling the solid muscle of his chest and shoulders through his shirt, she moaned through his kiss and felt the excitement churn and flip inside her deepest parts as his hand moved over her, tenderly, like an evening breeze.
Under his exploring fingertips, the buttons of her bodice gave way easily against the strain of her aching breasts. She had borne a child and nursed her, and her figure had taken on the full roundness of a mother, her breasts still firm but no longer those of a girl. His touch set her skin alight, circling, weighing, stroking, telling him what his eyes couldn’t see, making her cry out as he reached the firm peaks, readying them for his mouth. ‘Beautiful earth-woman,’ he whispered, teasing her skin with his tongue. ‘Moon-goddess. Fruitful Phoebe. You said no man would take you. Isn’t that what you said?’
‘That’s not what I meant, Buck. You know what I meant, don’t you?’
Raising his head, he looked at her in the darkness so that she felt his breath upon her face, felt the smile, the silent laughter of triumph. ‘Yes, I know what you meant, proud woman. You were afraid. Afraid that your fires were burning out of control. With me, the man you’ve tried to dislike for so many years. Eh? Don’t think I couldn’t see how you felt about me, my beauty.’
‘I didn’t. I didn’t want you at all.’
‘You didn’t dare admit it. And now? Now I have you like this? Soft, and still argumentative? What is it you don’t want from me, woman?’
‘Nothing…you great…arrogant brute. Noth—’
There was no telling who moved first to quench the lie in mid-flow, but there was the smallest gurgle of laughter between them before their mouths forgot all words, seeking moistly, hungrily, promising, giving and demanding. She pushed his hands away from her breasts in an impatience to assuage the yearning, the emptiness that craved to be filled, then wildly, without thinking, she lifted her hips, writhing against the hardness that pressed upon her. Without more delay, he pulled at one side of her gown while she pulled at the other, easing it up around her waist, baring herself to his hand. With Claude Donville, this part had never gone well, his impatience having quite the opposite effect from the purpose, the pain of his entry completely overlooked in his selfish haste.
This time, however, the hand that caressed and fondled did so to the accompaniment of soft kisses over face, neck and breasts that scattered her mind until her sighs became cries for him to take what she was offering, quickly. She had waited years for this moment. She felt herself opening, aching, giving herself without fear of humiliation. Compliant at last. Quivering with anticipation.
Holding himself above her, he flicked open the buttons of his breeches and moved into the space she’d made for him, seeking her moistness with a gentle urgency that responded to her cries, pulsing with a mutual need. He had known Donville, his boasting, his amours, his disrespect of women, his profligacy. What Phoebe had told him would account for much of her resistance to another marriage. But now he had witnessed for himself her innocent wonder at the ways of lovemaking, even an experience as basic as this one, telling him what he’d only suspected, that she was every bit as unconventional and spontaneous as himself. She was a creature of impulse, passionate and untamed, for all her housewifely skills.
So this time it was he who did the thinking, who moved each exciting phase on according to her panting cries of ecstasy, her slow sighs that followed his rhythm, her hands that searched under his shirt over his moist skin. It was he who watched carefully for each sign, who discovered a fiercer passion within her than he’d supposed, who quickened the pace long before he thought she’d be ready, reacting with astonishing speed to his deep thrusts that rocked her on their earthy bed. She tried to stifle a growing wail of exhilaration, and he knew then that the explosion of tension that followed, and the cry, were an experience about which she had known nothing until now.
Euphoric, he released the unbearable assertive force he’d been holding on a tight rein for so long, groaning with an energy that shook them both, leaving them speechless with wonder as stars showered them. ‘Oh, my beauty,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, my nymph. All these years. What have we been missing?’
Phoebe smiled, stroking her hand across his temple and feeling the light pulse of him deep inside her. ‘If I’d known,’ she said to his jawline.
‘If you’d known…what?’
‘Mm…mm, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s as well that I didn’t. Then this wouldn’t have happened, would it? I would not have done this with anyone else. Only Buck Ransome would walk into a woman’s garden at night to make violent love to her.’
He stirred, kissed her and pulled away, drawing her close to him with her midnight hair strewed across his arm. ‘Unfinished business,’ he said.
‘You planned it.’
‘Spontaneously planned it. That’s much the best way with difficult widows.’
‘What
difficult widows?’
‘Beautiful wild ones called Phoebe, that a man doesn’t have time to take his boots off for, before he makes love to her.
That
kind of difficult widow.’
She smiled again, sleepily, stealing a hand beneath his shirt to discover a soft fuzz of hair around his navel. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said.
It was not easy, after that, for Phoebe to return to her room without being noticed and without looking as if something momentous had happened to her, physically and emotionally. After a hard and masterful kiss, Lord Ransome had mounted his black horse and clattered away into the night with no more than a sympathetic ‘Tch!’ at her rumpled state and a comment that her household might have to start getting used to seeing it. Which was tantamount to saying that
she
might have to, too. Still, she could not complain that he’d left the shed in a mess, for they’d been careful to leave no trace of their activities behind them. The morning packers would find nothing amiss.
But as Phoebe lay soaking in a warm bath early next morning with the scent of myrtle and elder steaming into her hair, she had time to ponder over that amazing day and to agree with Lord Ransome when he’d said that the recent events might be the best thing that had ever happened to her brother Leon, who they hoped would be with them by the afternoon. It might also, she thought, be the best thing that had happened to her, too. So when Claudette came in to share her mama’s bath, it was as well that the pretty child had plenty to say about her forthcoming visit to Aunt Mimi at Twickenham, for that way she hardly noticed her mama’s drowsiness or the secret smile that would not wash off. Miss Evie Cowling, however, certainly
had
noticed the swollen lips, amongst other things, as she patted her mistress dry. Sensibly keeping her thoughts to herself, she chose a day gown with a pie-frill neckline, a choice that Phoebe accepted without demur.
If she had been in the habit of indulging herself she would no doubt have spent the day in a daze, picking flowers, staring at the flowing river and its cargoes and wondering about the meaning of life. She had, whether she liked it or not, entered a new phase, well…not so much
entered
it as been hauled into it with barely a nod towards her objections. But she could not indulge herself, having things to organise such as the produce orders, Claudette’s harp lessons, the preparation of rooms for her guest. Consequently, there was little time for reflection, only for a strange fluttering sensation whenever she recalled how it felt to be stormed and sweetly conquered by the only man ever to disconcert her simply by being in the same room.
There had been no agreed time for Leon’s arrival, since no one could be certain how Ransome would find him, or where, or in what state. So when suppertime came and went, then Claudette’s bedtime, Phoebe was not unduly disturbed, only anxious for his safety. She had expected to hear the rumble of a carriage and an unloading of trunks, at least, not the single rider on the big black horse whose lone arrival brought instant images of the worst sort where Leon clung to life by a thread.