His tongue snaked over the mounds of her breasts, licked down through the deep cleft between them. Phoebe threw back her head as sensation ripped through her, seeming to tear her apart, hurling her through space into star-shot oblivion.
Cato cried out with the strength of his own climax; his penis throbbed deep within her velvety sheath as her inner muscles closed around him with a life all of their own.
Phoebe fell forward, her head on his shoulder, her sweat-slick skin pressed to his. He laid a hand on her curved back as if to soothe her, and for a moment her eyes closed and she seemed to sleep. But it was only a moment. Then she felt his hands beneath her bottom, lifting her slightly as he slid from her body.
She raised her head from his shoulder and looked down into the dark eyes. A smile still lingered there but there was a question behind the smile.
“I think… yes, I really think you have to explain,” he said. “Just what is all this, Phoebe?”
Phoebe climbed from his lap. She stood looking down at him, the sweat cooling on her skin, her expression now uncertain. “I thought… Portia thought…”
“
“Well, I had to ask someone!” Phoebe said, stung. “I knew it wasn’t right, the way every night we did this…” She threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know what it was that we were doing, but it wasn’t making love. And I wanted to
Cato regarded her in frowning silence. He felt as if his entire world had turned upside down. The frigid girl he had believed he had taken to wife was no such thing. She was as lusty as any of the women of the night he had enjoyed, as uninhibited and, it seemed incredibly, as knowing. Yet he knew she’d been virgin on their wedding night. He didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t even know whether he liked it. Which was pure contrary ingratitude, he recognized, but it was such a shock to find a gently bred young woman possessed of such an earthy sensuality.
He saw her shiver and said swiftly, “You’re cold. Climb into bed now.” He drew back the bedcurtains and then stared at the hump of the bolster in the middle. “Phoebe, what on earth…”
“Well, I was afraid you might look in the bed before you undressed and if I wasn’t there…” She shrugged.
Cato shook his head, at a loss for words. He pulled out the bolster and turned down the covers. “In.”
Phoebe clambered into bed and nestled against the pillows. The deep feather mattress cradled her languid body and the crisp sheets were wonderfully cool and fresh against her still- overheated skin.
She watched as Cato turned away and kicked off his unfastened britches. The moment of unease disappeared as her eyes drank in every glorious inch of his back view. The long sweep of his back from the broad shoulders, the sinuous ripple of his shoulder blades beneath the muscled flesh. His backside was glorious. So different from a female bottom, Phoebe thought with a little hug of delight. It was smooth and taut rather than rounded, and startlingly white against the darker line at his waist. Obviously he had spent time shirtless in the sun. His thighs were long and hard; even the backs of his knees and the muscled swell of his calves delighted her.
And then he turned to come to the bed, and she gazed at the wide expanse of his chest, the points of his nipples nestled in the light dusting of dark hair, the narrow waist and the slim hips. Her eyes followed the trail of black hair that began at his navel. His quiescent sex now looked small and almost vulnerable, she thought, like a dormouse asleep in its nest of crisp curling black hair. A little tremor went through her as she remembered the feel of its thrusting hardness deep within her.
“Why didn’t you wish to make proper love with me?” The question spoke itself.
Cato paused, one hand resting on the bedpost. “I didn’t expect you to enjoy it,” he said after a minute.
“But… but why not?”
He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “In my experience, wives are not particularly…” He paused, searching for words. “Particularly lustful,” he said finally. “In truth I hadn’t expected you to be any different.”
“Is it inappropriate for a wife to feel lust?”
Cato considered the question. “You’re an exception to every rule in the book, Phoebe.”
Phoebe wasn’t quite sure how to take that. “What about love?” she asked, tentatively now.
Cato turned away and snuffed the candles on the mantel. “Love has nothing to do with such alliances.”
The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he climbed in beside her. After a minute he stretched out an arm and drew Phoebe against him, twining his fingers in her hair as he turned her face into his shoulder.
Cato Granville was going to learn to love her, Phoebe thought as sleep claimed her.
Chapter 9
He looked up at the house, with its mullioned windows and gabled snow-covered roof. It was a substantial pile of stone, and he wondered how much Cato had paid for it. Not that it would have been more than a bagatelle for the marquis of Granville, whose wealth was almost legendary.
A wealth that was within Brian Morse’s grasp.
He dismounted, tethered his horse to the hitching post beside the door, and banged the great brass knocker. A well-dressed retainer opened the door. He was not one of the servants from Castle Granville whom Brian would have recognized, and he regarded the stranger with an air of polite if aloof curiosity.
“Is Lord Granville within?” inquired Brian, stamping the snow off his boots against the edge of the step.
“May I say who’s asking for him, sir?”
“Who’s at the door, Bisset?” Cato’s voice came from behind the butler. He stepped out of the dimness of the hall. His dark eyes narrowed over a flash of disquiet when he saw his visitor. But he spoke pleasantly.
“Well, Brian, this is a surprise. Come in out of the cold.”
Bisset stepped aside and Brian entered Cato’s house, drawing off his gloves. “You must indeed be surprised,” he said in somewhat ruefully apologetic tones. “I trust it won’t be an unpleasant surprise though, when I’ve explained myself.”
He extended his hand to his stepfather, who took it in a firm, cool grasp.
“Bisset, have Mr. Morse’s horse taken to the stables. Have you breakfasted, Brian?”
“Not as yet, sir. I left Oxford before dawn. I had no wish to meet any patrols and thought to travel under cover of dark and snow.”
Cato raised an eyebrow. Only something of vital importance would have sent a man out alone, even armed, on horseback and in such foul weather. “Come.” He gestured towards his study at the rear of the hall. “Bring bread and meat and ale, Bisset.”
Olivia stood at the bend of the stair looking down into the hall, hardly breathing.
“Who’s that?” Phoebe murmured behind her. She didn’t know why she was whispering, but there was something about Olivia’s posture that seemed to encourage secrecy.
“The pig,” Olivia stated.
“Who?”
“The swine… the g-guttercrawler.” Olivia’s mouth was compressed, her dark eyes flaring. “Brian Morse,” she expanded. “My father’s stepson. He’s a loathsome, belly-c-crawling
Phoebe had heard the famous story of how Portia and Olivia had squashed this particular snake back in Castle Granville two years earlier. Cato’s stepson had had the malicious habit of making fun of Olivia’s stammer.
“I wonder what he wants. Isn’t he supposed to be for the king? I’m sure Cato said so.”
Olivia shrugged. “I don’t c-care what he wants, just so long as he doesn’t stay.” She turned and ran back upstairs.
Phoebe remained where she was for a minute, then she went down to the hall. She paused outside Cato’s office, trying to think of an excuse to go in. She was most curious to make the acquaintance of her husband’s stepson. Cato had told her that he had adopted Brian Morse as a small child and the man was at present his heir. He had sounded as if he found the prospect distasteful. It would be very interesting to discover why.
Resolutely she raised her hand and knocked.
“Come in.” Cato’s tawny voice as always brought the fine hairs on her nape to life. She hadn’t seen him this morning. Would he look any different… be any different… after the glories of last night?
She opened the door and put her head around. “Forgive me for intruding, but Bisset said we have a guest. I wondered if I should have a bedchamber prepared for him.” She addressed Cato but she was looking only at the visitor with unabashed curiosity.
“Why don’t you bring the rest of yourself in here,” Cato suggested in his cool way. “And allow me to present Mr. Brian Morse, my stepson.”
Phoebe didn’t need a second invitation. She stepped into the room and offered a curtsy as Cato presented her with punctilious formality. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone dressed in such extravagant style. Mr. Morse’s coat and doublet were of crimson cloth edged with silver lace, and his lace collar was an elaborate fall of pleated ruffles. His hat, which he’d cast onto a chair, sported a flamboyant plume of crimson dyed ostrich feathers.
“Lady Granville.” Brian bowed, his small brown eyes assessing her. She looked a little different from the last time he’d seen her, a dumpy unfashionably clad creature, hurrying through the village. In a fashionable gown of blue velvet, she was more voluptuous than plump, he amended. But there was still something awry about her appearance; he just couldn’t put his finger on it.
Cato, however, saw the problem immediately. The three-tiered lace ruffles on her right sleeve were all rucked up inside the bottom of the sleeve instead of falling smoothly over her forearms. She must have dressed in haste, thrusting her arms into the gown anyhow. He took her right arm and patiently released the lace, smoothing it down. “It’s all creased,” he said. “You had better take off the gown and…”
The vivid image of Phoebe’s naked body rose with stirring effect to his mind.
“Yes, my lord?” Phoebe prompted softly.
Cato blinked in an effort to dispel the image. “Tell your maid to use the flatiron on those ruffles,” he finished firmly.
“Yes, my lord.” Phoebe curtsied, her gaze turned up to him. “But maybe there won’t be time before church.”
Time to… His own gaze drifted to the seductive swell of her bosom and then back to her smiling countenance.
Dear God, her eyes were the most amazing color.
“Go,” he said. “The bells will be ringing soon.”
“Oh… yes… very well.” The radiance of her smile remained undimmed, her gaze unfaltering. For a minute she didn’t move. She was thinking that Cato, in his somber black velvet and pristine white shirt with its plain lace collar, was so much more elegant than Brian Morse for all his rich garments.
Cato went to the door and pointedly opened it for her.
