“It is.” He smiled again. “I hope you don’t consider me impertinent.”
“No,” Phoebe said after a second’s hesitation. “I need all the help I can get.”
“I will draw some sketches for you to give the seamstress, if you’ll permit. Styles that will look well in wool and linen.”
“Yes… yes, thank you.” Phoebe shook down her loosened hair again, feeling somewhat stunned. She hurried away, leaving Brian looking after her.
Chapter 11
“
Startled, Phoebe looked up from her perch on the linen shelf in the stillroom. She’d been so absorbed in her writing that the sound of a voice, even Cato’s voice, was for a moment almost an unpleasant surprise.
“Sometimes I like to write in the stillroom, my lord,” she explained, nibbling the tip of her quill pen. “It’s very quiet and the scent of the herbs seems to aid the muse. At the moment the meter keeps escaping from me. It’s not exactly classical to change meter in the middle, but iambic pentameter feels awkward…” She stopped. “But why should that interest you?”
“I certainly know little of poetry,” Cato agreed. It was fragrant and very warm in the stillroom, and tendrils of hair clung damply to Phoebe’s forehead. Cato was suddenly vividly aware of how desirable she was looking. She’d done something different with her hair, and her breasts were soft creamy mounds, bared almost to the nipples in that outrageously sensual blue gown. Pure seductive sophistication and her youthful innocence offered an irresistible paradox.
“It doesn’t go with soldiering, I suppose,” Phoebe said. Her gaze drifted back to the vellum. “I wonder if maybe hexameter or perhaps sapphic would work here,” she mused, scratching out a line and scribbling rapidly.
It seemed she had little time for her husband while in the throes of composition. The light in her round blue eyes, the light of pure desire and promise that he was growing accustomed to seeing whenever she looked at him, was conspicuous in its absence. Cato missed it.
“I would think it must be a more than daunting subject,” he suggested, leaning casually against the closed door. “A pageant of such scope.”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” Phoebe said with a sigh. She looked up. “I’m just beginning to think about costumes. Can you imagine what a headache they’re going to be?”
She shook her head mournfully. “I don’t know why I didn’t come up with something simpler. Something with the Greeks and the Romans… togas and laurel wreaths would be so much easier to contrive than ruffs and farthingales, don’t you think?”
“Without a doubt,” he agreed.
“Maybe Caesar and Pompey… or Tiberius, perhaps… but then he was such an unpleasant man; and of course if you do Rome you’d have to find lions from somewhere because you couldn’t ignore the Games, could you?”
“I suppose not.” Cato regarded her with fascination as she pursued her train of thought, a little frown drawing her eyebrows together over her smidgeon of a nose.
“And then, of course, you’d have the problem with the minnows, wouldn’t you?”
“Minnows?” He stared at her.
“Yes, Olivia and I were reading about it just the other day. Tiberius had these little boys trained to swim in the pool and pretend to be minnows. They had to nibble – ” Phoebe stopped short in confusion as she saw his astounded expression. “Well, you know what I mean.”
“Dear God!” Cato exclaimed. “You and Olivia have been reading about the depravities of the Roman empire!”
“Well, they’re hard to miss if you’re reading the classics,” Phoebe offered. “But there’s a lot more of it in Greek. They didn’t seem to think it was depraved, just part of normal life. But, I was wondering… what exactly did they do, sir? I can’t quite imagine how they…” She paused and shrugged, searching his expression for enlightenment.
“You can’t imagine
“What they did,” Phoebe said simply and when he merely stared at her, expanded, “how?”
Suddenly it was too much. Cato threw back his head and laughed.
“Get off that linen shelf and come here,” he commanded.
Phoebe did so somewhat hesitantly. He took her shoulders in a firm grasp. “I will answer your question. Don’t interrupt, and when I’m finished I want no further questions. Just hear it, accept it, and then it would very much please me if you would forget it. Understand?”
Phoebe nodded, her eyes wide. They grew wider as she listened to the explanation delivered in measured tones.
“Oh,” she said when he fell silent. “How uncomfortable it sounds.”
Cato’s lips twitched. “Each to his own,” he said.
Phoebe looked up at him and now the familiar little shiver of pleasure ran down her spine. He was dressed in leather britches and doublet, with a plain linen shirt and stock, sword and dagger at his belt. It was a gusty day and his hair was ruffled by the wind, and she noticed how even his strong dark eyebrows were askew, as if the wind had caught them too. She had the urge to lick her finger and smooth them down. He’d been to a horse fair in Bicester and had risen well before dawn, so she hadn’t seen him since the previous night. It was too long. All his absences were too long.
“Did you want me for something, my lord?” she asked as her thoughts took her along a pleasant road.
“Oh, yes, I did.” Cato remembered what he’d come for. “I’d like you to accompany me to the stables.”
“The stables!” Phoebe exclaimed. “Why would I wish to go there?”
“Because I have bought you a horse. A very quiet, docile little mare.” Cato was pleased with his purchase and it showed. Phoebe, however, was horrified.
“I don’t wish for a horse.”
“I am going to teach you to ride, Phoebe.”
Phoebe shook her head and said firmly, “No thank you. Indeed, I’m sure it’s very kind of you, but no thank you, I really don’t wish to do any such thing.”
Cato sighed. “I promise you that the mare is as well mannered and as gentle as a horse could be. You will enjoy riding her.”
“No,” Phoebe said. “No, I will not. I know I will not.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Cato grew impatient. “It’s absurd to be afeared. How can you get about without being able to ride?”
“I walk,” Phoebe said simply. “I like to walk.”
Cato surveyed her in some frustration. “You’ve never been taught properly… if at all,” he said. “I assure you that when you know how, you’ll find it as easy as writing your poetry.”
Phoebe’s eyes flashed. “Writing poetry is not easy, my lord,” she stated. “I am no mere rhymester.”
“Your pardon,” Cato apologized with a careless gesture. “But you have nothing to fear, Phoebe. I’ll not let you come to harm. And it’s a beautiful day,” he added.
“I have no clothes for riding,” Phoebe pointed out with an air of finality, as if that would put an end to the matter.
“The dressmaker in Witney could perhaps be persuaded to make up a riding habit… a fashionable riding habit,” he added deliberately. “I believe such a garment might suit you well.”
“Oh!” Phoebe cried. “I take leave to tell you that that is the most devious, shameless trick, sir. Just because you know-that I’ve discovered high fashion, it’s most dishonorable to use it to try to manipulate me.”
Cato couldn’t help chuckling. “Come, a riding habit for a riding lesson. How’s that for a bargain?”
“A truly fashionable riding habit?”
“The most fashionable that can be found in the whole Thames valley,” he declared extravagantly.
“Well, I suppose I could try,” she muttered but still doubtfully.
Cato turned to open the door. “Come. I will show you that you have nothing to fear.”
Phoebe reluctantly gathered up her quill and paper. “If I don’t like it, you will not insist I go on?”
“I will undertake to ensure that you do like it,” he said with conviction, ushering her into the corridor. “Go and change that gown to something a little less suited to a palace drawing room… oh, and don’t forget britches. You cannot ride astride without them. Borrow Olivia’s if you have none of your own.”
“Olivia’s a different shape,” Phoebe pointed out. “Her legs are longer and she has no hips.”
Cato dismissed this irrelevance with a wave, and Phoebe went off in search of Olivia with something less than enthusiasm.
Cato was waiting for her in the hall, tapping his riding whip against his boots, when she trailed downstairs again twenty minutes later, her expression martyred. Olivia’s britches were a disaster; she’d had to roll them up at the waist and leave all the buttons undone. The muddle wasn’t visible beneath her old gown, but she felt like a particularly ill wrapped parcel nevertheless.
“What took you so long?” Cato turned to the front door impatiently.
Phoebe ignored the question. She tugged uncomfortably at her bunched-up waist. “Why must I do this? I’ve managed perfectly well until now.” She hesitated on the bottom step. “I ride pillion if I must ride.”
“Trust me.” Cato turned back and took her hand. He led her firmly to the stable.
Phoebe was relieved to see that the mare was quite small and had a reassuringly broad back. The horse stood docilely at the mounting block, her bridle held by a groom. She turned her head in an incurious stare as Phoebe, still firmly led by her husband, approached across the straw-strewn cobbles.
“Touch her nose,” Cato instructed.
Obediently Phoebe darted a finger, brushed the velvety tip of the mare’s nose, and then retracted her hand with the air of one who has done a job well.
“Stroke her neck… here.” In demonstration, Cato drew his hand down the hollow of the mare’s neck. The animal raised her head and whickered.
Phoebe jumped back.
“Don’t be silly, Phoebe!” Cato took her hand and placed it on the hollow. “Now, she’s called Sorrel. Just speak to her. Call her by name so she gets to know your voice.”
“I don’t see any point talking to horses. It isn’t as if they can talk back,” Phoebe said, trying to pull her hand free. Cato’s fingers closed more tightly over her wrist and kept her hand where it was. Phoebe eyed the little ripples running along the mare’s withers. The smell of horseflesh filled her nostrils and Phoebe’s nose wrinkled. She was very conscious of the heat of the mare’s skin beneath her hand. She tried again to pull it free and this time Cato released his hold.
But the reprieve was only momentary.
“Mount up now,” Cato instructed. “Use the block.”
There seemed nothing for it. Phoebe lifted her leg onto the block and stepped onto the hem of her full skirt. There was a rending sound as the hem tore.
“Now look what’s happened!” She glared at Cato. “It’s ruined. I can’t do this in an ordinary gown. Why don’t I wait until I have a proper habit?”
The hopeful suggestion fell on stony ground. “You go around looking like a scarecrow most of the time as it is,” he said without a flicker of sympathy. “Just get on with it, we don’t have all day.” He put both hands beneath her rear and shoved her unceremoniously upward onto the mounting block.
