Page 90

Philippa trotted along behind, her heart pounding. She was having trouble remembering her lines, just like an actress about to enter the stage. What should she say? What should she—should she . . .

In the end, she said nothing, because—the baby having been tucked in his bed—Wick pinned her against the wall and kissed her until she was melting against him, and instead of carefully crafted questions designed to make him realize that he should marry her . . . well, he seemed to like those soft sounds she made when he kissed her, which was good because the way he kissed her, put together with the way he touched her, made her intoxicated. Even more intoxicated than old Fettle, when he was lying in the road singing.

The next night was the same, and the night after that. All during the daylight hours, she mulled over ways to make Wick marry her. Somehow. Because if he didn’t ask her soon—well, she really did have to write her father. She had begun to feel horribly guilty, certain that he was worried to death about what had become of her.

But when the nighttimes came, and Wick found her in the portrait gallery, their eyes would meet, and all those anxieties would fly from her mind. The world would shrink to fit that room. She would shiver if his arm touched hers, bite her lip at the look in his eyes.

And then, when Jonas was in his cradle, she would slip into Wick’s arms as naturally as the baby had settled down to sleep. Once she was there, the world disappeared entirely, and the only thought in her mind was a dazed wish to know more of him. Wick was like the best present she’d ever received, a gift wrapped in hundreds of different layers. Every night she learned something new, something that the rest of the world didn’t know.

He kept vital parts of himself secret, even from his own brother. Yet she’d found the magic key that shook him free of that enormous reserve: she kissed him and kissed him. Slowly, his face would change, move from its implacable cheer into something wilder and fiercer. A look that was for her alone. A look that came close—very close—to revealing a Wick who was no longer in control.

But every time she tried to coax him over that final barrier, allowing her hand (scandalously) to brush his thighs, or even, one night, arching against him like the worst kind of Jezebel . . .

He never broke. She could feel him tremble, hear the groan in his voice, but his self-control held.

And every time she tried to bring up the subject of their relationship, he withdrew. In a second his face would change to that of a calm and unmoved butler. He would bid her a polite good-bye and leave, closing the door politely, and quietly, behind him. Still . . . he came back the next night, as if he couldn’t stay away.

It drove her mad. The only way Philippa could imagine changing Wick’s mind was to seduce him. True, she didn’t know much about seduction. Rodney had thrown himself in the straw at her feet, after all, and even the memory of him scrabbling at her ankles made her shudder.

One day when Kate took the baby off to nurse, Philippa drifted around the castle until she found Wick inspecting the work of three footmen as they polished some silver. Gathering her resolve, she poked her head in, and said as calmly as she could, “Mr. Berwick, Her Highness would like to speak to you in the nursery.”

But when he emerged from the door, she pulled him into the small sitting room next door. They didn’t say a word, just came together with a giddiness that made them both shake with silent laughter until the glitter in Wick’s eyes became something else, something hotter and more private than mirth.

She kissed him until they were both shaking, until her blood raced, until she could feel him, hard and rigid against her.

And yet, after a few minutes he put her away, looking down into her face with that impenetrable expression that she was growing to hate. There was a frown in his eyes.

“You mustn’t do this,” he whispered, rubbing his thumb over her lip.

“Why not?”

“I’m not worth it. I’m not worth you. This cannot—we cannot—be together.”

“We are together,” she said. “I lo—”

His hand slipped over her mouth. “Don’t say it. You must not. I am not a gentleman.”

“I love you,” she said, pulling her head sharply from his hand. “I will tell my father that; I will tell anyone: your brother, Kate, the footmen, the cook.”

She could see him swallow. “I could not bear it if you did that.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“I would not wish that on my worst enemy.”

“What wouldn’t you wish?” she asked, genuinely bewildered.

“To ruin the woman he loves,” he said.

“I’m already ruined.”

He ran one finger down her cheek, and then let his hand drop. “You were not ruined by the loutish Rodney, no matter what you think. There’s many a lady who anticipated the marriage bed. But make no mistake, you would be ruined by marrying a servant.” He turned and withdrew, leaving her there.

Wick walked straight out of the castle, down the great marble stairs, and to the lake. He moved blindly, seeing nothing but the disappointment in Philippa’s eyes. He felt a queer ache in his heart at the thought of it.

Yet what could he do? He loved her—God, he loved her the way he never imagined was possible. He would step before a raging bull, he would throw himself in—

But he couldn’t do what she wanted. Marry her? Make her into the wife of a butler? Never. Never.