Page 69 of The Work of Art

“Yes. I thought you looked excessively handsome…” Philly’s words dissolved as Arthur’s mouth closed over hers in a slow, lingering kiss.

He was gently insistent, expecting to be met with the same maidenish timidity as when they had kissed in the stable yard. Instead, Philly was warm and soft, returning his kiss with a wholehearted urgency that set his blood aflame.

“My darling,” he murmured to her. “My sweet, beautiful darling.”

She blushed rosily at his caressing words, and when, after enfolding her in a crushing embrace and kissing her deeply once more, he might have relented in his attentions, she threaded her fingers through his hair and coaxed him back to her lips, compelling him to kiss her again.

Arthur was sorely tempted to consign Crofton and the men from Devonshire to the devil. Indeed, he came very close to doing so. But after a few more heated kisses, and several whispered endearments, he recovered his senses enough to recall the circumstances that had brought him to Philly’s room in the first place.

He slid his mouth from hers, pressing a final kiss to her cheek before at last pulling away from her. “Philly, I must ask something of you.”

Her gaze slowly sharpened. “What is it?”

“I want you to promise me that you won’t take your mare out unless a groom is with you.”

She stroked his cheek, looking at him with an expression of affectionate indulgence. “If that’s what you wish.”

“And I don’t want you to go on any more walks alone.”

Her hand stilled on his face. “No more walks?” Her brows drew together. “But why? Surely it’s not unsafe if I stay on the grounds?”

Arthur thought of the woods surrounding Heywood House. He could well imagine some henchman of the duke’s hiding himself amongst the trees, lying in wait for Philly on her afternoon ramble. And what about the pond in the clearing? Philly could drown there just as easily as Molly Cartwright had drowned in Moreland’s fountain. There were dangers everywhere. “Not unsafe, no,” he said, not wishing to alarm her. “Merely ill-advised. You’re my wife now. It would be better if you had a proper escort.”

“My dogs are always with me.”

He counseled himself not to overreact. Philly was right. She had her dogs with her every time she left the house. Surely she’d be safe if Basil accompanied her. He was as good a guard dog as any Arthur had ever come across, and the scar on Philly’s leg was evidence of his power. If he’d done that when near death, what might he do when at full strength? Such a dog could easily fell any man who attempted to harm her.

Unless that man had a pistol.

“A human escort,” Arthur said firmly.

Philly gave him a searching look. “I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about such things after leaving London. I was so looking forward to my freedom.” She frowned. “Of course, I wouldn’t like to do anything that reflected poorly on you. If you think it advisable to have someone with me… Well, I suppose I shall have to have Violet accompany me until I hire a lady’s maid.”

“I’d rather you take one of the footmen with you.”

“A footman? I don’t understand, Arthur. Even in London, a maid was sufficient. And London is surely more dangerous than Heycombe.”

“In many respects, yes, but…” Arthur was loathe to exert his will over her without giving her a reason for it. “There may be poachers or others who might disturb you,” he said at last. “The grounds of the estate are vast, and even my gamekeeper can’t guarantee there are no trespassers. It would put my mind at ease if I knew you had someone with you in case of trouble.”

Her frown deepened. “I hadn’t thought of trespassers and poachers. And I certainly don’t wish you to become anxious every time I go for a walk.”

“Then you’ll do as I ask? Every time you go out?”

“If you think it best.” She touched his cheek again. “Naturally, I’d much rather walk with you than one of the footmen, but I suppose you’ll be too busy.”

“I won’t be that busy,” he said gruffly. “I daresay if you can bear my slow pace—”

“Slow pace? What nonsense. We’re perfectly suited.” She drew his face close to hers, and after kissing him lightly on the edge of the jaw, settled into his embrace once more.

Arthur held her for just a few moments more before taking his leave. “There are one or two additional matters I must address with the men who delivered your horse. It shouldn’t take long. Will you wait for me here in your room? You can finish unpacking, and when I’ve done with my business, I’ll come and fetch you myself.”

Philly gave him another long, searching look, but acceded to his request just as she had all the others. It was only as he shut the door to her room that he caught a glimpse of the same sad and grave expression he’d seen on her face so many times in London.

He was locking her away just as Edgar Townsend had, and Arthur had no doubt that she knew it.

Arthur questioned the two men from Devonshire himself, and wasn’t at all surprised when they forswore knowledge of the anonymous letter. He tended to believe them. They were unassuming country farmers with open, rather simple expressions. If they’d been lying, he’d have read it on their faces.

Crofton’s face had been more difficult to read. The elderly butler had spent decades concealing his emotions behind a mask of slightly disdainful deference. After a brief inquisition, however, Arthur was convinced that Crofton knew just as little as the men from Devonshire did.