“Every night,” Phoebe said dismally. “And it’ll happen every night just like that until I conceive. He doesn’t find me appealing, don’t you see. How could he after Diana?”
“Diana was a bitch… hard as nails,” Portia stated. “I expect she preferred the dark. She probably would have preferred it if it could have happened in her sleep when she didn’t know anything about it.” Her lip curled with scorn.
This struck Phoebe as remarkably shrewd. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “Maybe Cato thinks I’m the same.”
“But you’re not?” It was clearly a question.
“
Portia’s jaw dropped slightly. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand the need, it just surprised her coming from Phoebe. “Are you saying you love Cato?”
“Love, lust, I don’t know!” Phoebe dropped the lid of the workbox with a clatter. “All I know is that when I hear his footstep, my stomach drops. When he pushes his hair back with his hand in the way he does, my thighs go all quivery, and when he touches me, even accidentally, I start to thrum like a plucked lute. I turn into a jelly. I want him… all of him.”
“Lord, that’s a powerful lust.” Portia cradled the now sleeping baby to her bosom, and reached with her free hand to stroke Evie’s pink curls. She was frowning, thinking of what torment it must be to feel what Phoebe had so graphically described and be unable to satisfy the hunger.
“But what am I to do?” Phoebe demanded. “There must be some way I can get his attention… some way I can show him how I feel without disgusting him.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’d be disgusted,” Phoebe said. “Flattered more like.”
“But women of my… our… breeding aren’t supposed to feel desire like that.”
“Your breeding, not mine,” Portia reminded her dryly. “I’m the bastard, remember. And anyway, breeding doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No,” Portia stated definitely. She regarded Phoebe thoughtfully for a minute. Then she said, “I think you have to do something dramatic.”
“Yes, but like what?” Phoebe perched on the end of the table. She had the feeling Portia was about to unlock the key to Pandora’s box. Would it let loose a plague or a swarm of heavenly secrets?
“Games,” Portia said. “Play.”
This was not making sense. Phoebe stared at her.
“Well, what I was saying earlier about Rufus’s preferences. Sometimes he likes me to dress in certain ways… or pretend to be some other kind of person… we play games. Sometimes I’ll surprise him by devising a play, a scene… oh, it’s hard to describe. But that’s what I think you have to do if you really want to get Cato’s attention. You have to surprise him. Show him another side of yourself.”
Phoebe’s eyes were very wide. She began to have an inkling of the possibilities. But supposing it didn’t work. Supposing Cato was horrified, disgusted. Supposing he found her so unappealing in any guise that…
“It might be a bit risky,” Portia said, reading her mind. “I don’t know how straitlaced Cato is. Anyone who’d marry Diana has to be pretty rigid, I would have thought.”
“He married Diana for the alliance with my father,” Phoebe pointed out. “Just as he married me. For that and an heir,” she added.
“Mmmm.” Portia nibbled her bottom lip, thinking. “I have an idea,” she said, swinging her legs off the window seat. “We’ll try something first, just to see how he reacts.”
“What?”
“Clothes,” Portia declared, heading for the door, carrying Alex. 'Bring Evie, will you? It’s time for her nap. And then I’ll show you what I mean.”
Phoebe scooped up Eve and followed Portia, agog to discover exactly what Portia had in mind. But Portia said nothing until both children had been handed over to the nursemaid and Phoebe and Portia were in Portia’s chamber with the door firmly closed.
“Now, do you have money?”
“Money?” Phoebe frowned. “What do I need money for?”
“To buy things with, of course. Rufus left me with some, but I don’t think it’s enough for what I have in mind.” Portia opened a small leather pouch and shook the contents onto the bedcover as she spoke. A shower of gold coins scattered over the green taffeta quilt.
“Five guineas. It might do.”
“I can’t use your money.” Phoebe was bewildered and growing impatient. “Even if I knew what it was for.”
Portia hitched herself onto the end of the bed. “New clothes,” she said distinctly. “What you’re wearing now must have been made for you when you had no bosom or something.”
“It was,” Phoebe agreed, unperturbed by this brutal truth. “My father didn’t believe in wasting money on
“Well, it won’t do,” Portia said firmly. She surveyed Phoebe with her head on one side. “You need gowns that make something of your figure.”
“No, I don’t,” Phoebe said with asperity. “I need to hide it. There’s too much of it.”
Portia shook her head. “That’s where you’re wrong, duckie. You have all the right curves in all the right places. You need to make the most of them, not cover them up. And you shouldn’t walk with your shoulders hunched as if you’re trying to hide your breasts. They’re beautiful and round and firm. I wish I had a bit more on offer… although,” she added, patting her own bosom with a speculative air, “they do seem bigger than usual these days because of feeding Alex.”
“Does Rufus like big breasts?” Phoebe asked, growing fascinated by this discussion.
“I expect so… most men do. But he has to put up with what he’s got,” Portia said cheerfully. “Anyway, we’re not talking about Rufus, we’re talking about Cato. If you want him to notice you, then you’re going to have to force yourself into his line of vision. Which brings us back to money.”
Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t have any. I’ve never needed any. When the peddler comes, Olivia and I buy what we need and Cato pays him. There aren’t any fairs because of the war. There’s nothing to spend money on.”
She frowned. “I suppose I could get the seamstress here to make me up a new gown. I don’t think Cato’s quite as parsimonious as my father.” She remembered his indifferent acceptance of the economical wedding dress and added a shade doubtfully, “Although I’m not certain.”
“That won’t do at all,” Portia declared. “You don’t want a homegrown gown. We want something exotic. And for that we need money. What about pawning something? Jewels or something?”
Phoebe thought. “There are some rings that belonged to my mother.” She knew she ought to find the idea of pawning her mother’s rings horrifying-wicked almost-but somehow she couldn’t summon up a shred of conscience.
“Good.” Portia jumped off the bed. “Now, where’s the nearest sizable town? I don’t know this area.”
“Bicester or Witney. But how do we get there?”
“Ride, of course. How else?”
Phoebe could think of several objections to this plan. She didn’t like to ride. They’d have to take a military escort; no one traveled the roads unarmed these days, and so Cato would have to be told of the excursion without being told its purpose. And he’d be bound to find that peculiar, and then things would get very complicated and she’d be bound to let something slip. But her imagination was fired, and the prospect of taking some kind of action was too heady to be given up for the sake of minor details.
“I’ll ride pillion with you, and we can take Decatur men as escort, so I don’t have to tell Cato. I’ll just tell the housekeeper that we’re going for a ride. The housekeeper’s used to me going out all the time anyway. No one will think anything of it, as long as we’re back by dark.”
Portia nodded her approval. “You fetch the rings and I’ll see if Olivia wants to come too.”
Olivia was as intrigued at the prospect of the excursion as Phoebe. Town visits had been very few and far between in her sixteen years. “I think you should get a velvet gown,” she announced. “B-black velvet. Or something really dark.”
“Since when have you been interested in such things?” Portia asked in surprise.
Olivia considered. “I don’t really know,” she said, sounding as surprised as Portia. “It just seemed to happen. But I’m sure I’m right.”
“Yes,” Portia agreed, surveying Phoebe with a speculative eye. “I think you are.”
Chapter 6
They rode into the small market town just after noon and left the horses and their Decatur escort in the stable yard of the Hand and Shears. Portia for once was wearing a riding skirt over her britches, but it did nothing to constrain her long, rangy stride as they set off in search of the golden balls that would denote a pawnbroker.
Phoebe was astonished to find herself behaving as if she did this kind of thing all the time. She seemed to be driven by a compulsion that had come from nowhere and was as exciting as it was irresistible. She marched into the gloom of the pawnbroker’s, unwrapped the silk scarf that contained the rings, and laid the small hoard on the cracked pine counter. “I want twenty guineas for them,” she heard herself say, bold as brass.
“Oh, do you now?” The pawnbroker peered at her through a monocle. He was wondering what straits could have brought three such young women of obvious breeding to his door. Most unlike his usual customers. They seemed very self-possessed, and not in the least supplicant. The dark girl was strolling around his shop examining his wares with an air of purposeful curiosity. The tall redhead merely stood against the door, arms folded, as coolly as if she owned the place.
He turned his attention to the rings. The settings were old-fashioned, but the rings were worth a deal more than twenty guineas. He wondered why the young woman hadn’t asked for more. She was tapping her fingers on the counter in obvious impatience as he made his examination, and he came to the odd conclusion that she’d fixed on the sum she wanted and wasn’t in the least interested in anything more. She couldn’t be in some kind of trouble, he thought. People in trouble behaved very differently. It was most intriguing.
However, after his inspection he merely nodded and unlocked a silver-bound chest. He extracted twenty guineas and gave them to her without a further word.
“My thanks.” Phoebe scooped the coins into her pocket. She turned to the door. “Come on, Olivia. We don’t have much time.”
“I was looking for a pair of c-compasses,” Olivia said. But she abandoned her search and followed Phoebe and Portia out of the shop.
They found a dressmaker’s shop halfway down the High Street. Phoebe peered in the window. “I’ve never bought a gown ready-made before,” she said, assailed by her first moment of doubt since the expedition had started, but Portia was already striding into the shop.
The dressmaker looked as if she’d found a treasure trove as she hurried out of a back room at the tinkle of the bell. “What can I do for you, my ladies?” It was very clear from dress and posture that they were ladies. Although it was strange that they should be unaccompanied.
“Lady Granville wishes to buy a gown,” Portia announced, indicating Phoebe with a wave of her hand. “She wishes to be able to take it home this afternoon, so perhaps you could show us what
