The Accidental Bride

collect his wife and children.

Phoebe forgot all about the events of the morning. She half fell off the stile in her eagerness to conceal herself before Rufus caught sight of her. She knew exactly how she intended to greet the earl of Rothbury, and it was not in her present guise.

She scrambled across the field, tugging her cloak loose when the hem caught on a thornbush. There was a harsh rending sound but Phoebe ignored it. She raced through the orchard and darted into the house through the kitchen.

Mistress Bisset gave her a startled look as she ran past the linen room, then shrugged and returned to her inventory of sheets. Lady Granville was still Lady Phoebe as far as the household was concerned.

In the bedchamber, Phoebe tore off her old gown, tossing it into a corner. There was water in the ewer and she splashed her face and hands. How long did she have before they arrived? She’d come cross-country, but they were a good mile away along the road, and then another half up the drive. And then there would be all the flurry of dismounting. She had twenty minutes.

She opened the linen press and took out the dark red silk. Cato had not seen this one. She had been going to spring it upon him at dinner, but how much better to show it off as she greeted her first real guests as lady of the manor. Not that Rufus Decatur would notice particularly. A man who preferred his wife in britches was not likely to appreciate the glories of the dark red silk. But then, Phoebe was not seeking to impress the earl of Rothbury.

She dropped the gown over her head and struggled desperately with the hooks at the back. Her arms ached as she twisted and turned, trying to see over her shoulder in the mirror as she fiddled with the tiny fastenings, but at last she had them done.

She smoothed the rich folds of silk. They felt wonderful, soft and caressing. Her hair was already in a thick plait hanging down her back. She twisted it against the nape of her neck and stuck some pins in it, hoping that the coil would hold rather more effectively than it had done the previous evening.

Her image in the mirror was most satisfactory. She patted the lace collar, making sure it lay flat, then hurried to the door. She could hear the sounds of commotion from the hall below, and at the head of the curving sweep of stair she paused to look down on the scene, gauging the moment for her entrance.

Rufus Decatur stood on the threshold. Cato Granville came forward to greet him. The two men were of much the same height and build, but Rufus’s red hair and beard, his plain jerkin and britches, the serviceable but dull leather of his boots and gloves were in startling contrast to the other man’s darkly aquiline looks, the elegant cut of his black velvet doublet, the fall of lace at his throat. But the same controlled power emanated from both men, and they both held themselves and moved with the sinuous assurance of those who were accustomed to command.

“I bid you welcome, Rothbury.” Cato extended his hand.

Rufus pulled off his glove and took the hand in a brief clasp. “I’ve come to relieve you of my brood, Granville. Not a moment too soon, I’ll be bound.”

Cato’s polite disclaimer was lost in a wild shriek as Luke and Toby tumbled through the front door. “We heard you… we knew you was here.” They grabbed for their father’s knees.

He ruffled their bright heads, but his eyes had found Portia, who came out of the parlor, Alex in her arms, Eve’s hand in hers.

Eve followed her brothers’ example, tugging her hand free of her mother’s and flinging herself upon Rufus, who caught her up and swung her through the air as she shrieked joyously.

“I give you good day, gosling,” Rufus said to his wife, as he settled his daughter on his hip and caught Portia’s chin on the tip of a finger, tilting her face for his kiss. He moved his mouth from her lips to the baby’s cheek in one smooth movement.

Cato watched the scene with a strange tug that he identified reluctantly as envy. His own small daughters, Diana’s babies, never greeted him with such unbridled joy as Decatur's children greeted their father. And the emotion that flowed between Portia and Rufus was a palpable current.

“I hope you’ll break your journey with us overnight, Rothbury.” Cato issued the invitation even though he was sure it would be declined.

“My thanks, Granville, but we’ll be on our way,” Rufus responded. “As soon as this gypsy caravan of mine can be assembled.”

He raised an eyebrow at Portia, who said swiftly, “Not more than an hour. I’ve been expecting you these last two days.”

Rufus nodded.

“Lord Rothbury.” Phoebe came slowly down the stairs. “I bid you welcome.”

“Ah, Phoebe.” The surprised flash in his eye was unmistakable, as was the instant of swift and approving appraisal. “Lady Granville,” he said, and bowed with grave deliberation.

Phoebe’s head lifted. She glanced at Portia, who was grinning wickedly. Olivia gave her an infinitesimal nod of encouragement even as her dark eyes shone with curiosity as she waited for her father’s reaction to Phoebe’s stunning entrance.

Cato turned slowly. Briefly he closed his eyes and his fingers fleetingly brushed his mouth, before he said, “I trust we can persuade Lord Rothbury to break bread with us before he resumes his journey, Phoebe.”

“Yes, indeed.” Phoebe, with regal grace, swept past Cato to curtsy to her guest.

Cato gazed at his wife’s back with astonishment. The hooks at the back of Phoebe’s latest revelation were missing several connections, and those they had made were not all correctly paired.

Cato slipped a casual arm around her. “If you’d excuse us for a minute, Rothbury…” He moved Phoebe away, his hand sliding to the small of her back as he steered her towards the library, concealing the middle of her back view from the occupants of the hall.

Phoebe shivered at the easy intimacy of his touch. She had no idea what he was about, but she was not complaining.

In the library, out of direct sight of the hall, Cato put his hands on her shoulders, keeping her back to him. “Why didn’t you get your maid to help you with these hooks?”

“Why? What’s the matter?” Phoebe peered over her shoulder.

“It’s more a question of what’s right,” he said, beginning to unhook the gown from the top.

Phoebe felt the air stir the thin cotton of her shift. “Oh dear, are they done up wrong?”

She stood on tiptoe as she continued to peer over her shoulder as if the extra height would enable her to see better. “I was afraid they might be,” she added dolefully. “It’s very difficult if you don’t have arms like an octopus.”

“Which is why you have a maid,” Cato pointed out.

“I was trying to hurry. I knew Lord Rothbury was coming; I saw him on the road when I was coming back from the village, and I wanted to be able to greet him dressed properly.”

“As against dressed for digging up cabbages,” Cato said sharply. “For God’s sake, girl, why can’t you find a happy medium? This gown is as inappropriate as the blue vel-that other one.”

“But it’s very elegant,” Phoebe pointed out.

“It depends who’s wearing it,” Cato said with a hint of savagery. He finished fastening the hooks and placed his hands on her hips as he checked that he hadn’t missed one.

Phoebe felt the imprint of his hands on her skin beneath the silk. Each finger seemed to burn against her flesh. She stood very still.

Cato’s hands dropped from her hips. “So,” he inquired, “how many more of these sartorial surprises am I to expect?” The sardonic edge was again in his voice.

“I don’t have any more money,” Phoebe said simply.

“On which subject.” Cato reached into the pocket of his britches and drew out the three rings. “If you ever visit a pawnbroker again, madam wife, you will rue the day.”

“You redeemed them?”

“Of course I did. You think I would permit some thief of a pawnbroker to hold my property?”

“I thought they were mine,” Phoebe said softly. “They belonged to my mother.”

“And neither will I permit a pawnbroker to hold your property,” Cato said acidly, tossing the three gem-studded silver circlets onto a sidetable. “If you let them out of your possession again, you will forfeit that possession. Understand that.”

He left the library and after a minute Phoebe scooped up the rings and dropped them into her bosom. It seemed she had her currency returned.

The Rothbury clan was ready to leave within the hour as Portia had promised. The countess of Rothbury was accustomed to military maneuvers and could marshal a brood of children and nursemaids as efficiently as she could a troop of soldiers.

Phoebe held her in a tight embrace and whispered urgently in her ear. It was her last chance for concrete advice.

Portia murmured, “If you can’t tell him what you want, duckie, you’re going to have to show him.”

“How?” Phoebe whispered with the same urgency as before.

“Use your poetic imagination,” Portia responded, her green eyes alight with mischief.

“Easier said than done.” Phoebe gave her one more convulsive hug, before stepping back to give Olivia room for her own farewells.

Chapter 8

“Are you working on your play, Phoebe?” Olivia looked up from her books at the table in the square parlor. She realized that Phoebe hadn’t spoken a word in a very long time, which was unusual.

The house seemed very flat in the wake of the Rothbury party’s departure. Ordinarily Phoebe, who had little patience with moping, would have made an effort to lighten things, but she was so absorbed in her work that she’d barely raised her eyes from the page for several hours.

“How far have you g-got?” Olivia persisted.

“It’s not a play anymore, it’s a pageant,” Phoebe said, nibbling the end of her quill. “It’s to be a midsummer pageant, I’ve decided.”

“What about?” Olivia closed Catullus over her finger.

“Gloriana. Scenes from her life.”

“Queen Elizabeth, you mean?”

“Mmm.” Phoebe’s voice grew more animated. “In verse, of course. I’d like to stage it on Midsummer Eve, if I can have it written by then,” she added, looking down at the scrawl of lines in front of her. “There are so many parts. But the three important ones are Elizabeth, Mary, Queen of Scots, and Elizabeth’s lover, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester.”

“Who’s to take them?” Olivia got up and came over to the window seat where Phoebe was sitting cross-legged, heedless of the creases in the red silk.

“Oh, all of us, of course, and for the minor parts members of the household and the village. I have it in mind to include as many people as possible. The village children and of course your little sisters. I hope it’ll cheer people up, give them something other than gloom and doom and war to think about. Oh, and you’re to be Mary, Queen of Scots, and…”

“Am I to lose my head?” Olivia clapped her hands to her head in mock horror. “Shall I g-go around with it under my arm?”

“You could, I suppose,” Phoebe said doubtfully. “But I hadn’t thought to stage the execution. It might be a bit too difficult to do convincingly.”

“Well, who’s to play Elizabeth? It had better be you, don’t you think?” Olivia sat on the window seat and picked up a sheet of vellum already covered in Phoebe’s black writing.

“Although Portia has the right c-color hair…Oh, I like this speech of Mary’s! You’re so talented, Phoebe.”

She was about to declaim when Phoebe snatched the paper from her.