Having goaded her into such an outburst put Neville in a better humor. “There, there, old girl, I share a measure of your disappointment. True, I didn’t expect to outlive Drake with his monastic regimen, but I could have lived like a king on my expectations.”
The port in Phyllipa’s glass gleamed like liquid rubies in the flickering firelight She tipped it toward him in a mock toast. “Here’s to the death of expectations.”
“Don’t bury the corpse unless you’re certain it’s past revival,” quipped Neville.
The glass to her lips, Phylipa hesitated. “What drunken foolishness are you talking now?”
He’d managed to stop her from consuming the last of the port. Neville congratulated himself. “What if the bride is barren? She didn’t look robustly healthy to me. What if she miscarries? Stillbirth? Maybe she’ll bear him a daughter?”
“Even a fool like you wouldn’t pin your hopes on that.” Phyllipa gave him a sour look. “There hasn’t been a female born in the Silverthorne line since the Norman Conquest. Clarence reminded me of the fact every day while I was carrying Reggie.”
“Must you be so literal?” Neville smelled that last drop of port luring him from the bottom of her glass. “I’m only saying—a lot can go wrong.”
“Yes?” Phyllipa stared at him with intense expectancy.
“I’m sure if we put our heads together, we can shipwreck this ‘honest business arrangement’ of Drake’s before it produces any troublesome progeny.”
A hopeful smile spread across her long, pasty face. The port in Neville’s stomach sloshed around menacingly. Gad, the woman looked positively gruesome when she smiled.
“What must I do?” she asked eagerly.
Neville marshaled his wits for several moments of intense concentration. He hadn’t had an actual plan in mind, but surely he could devise one. After all, mischief was on his list of favorite pastimes, second only to drinking.
“You must stay on at Silverthorne and ingratiate yourself with the bride.”
Phyllipa’s thin upper lip curled in distaste.
“It won’t be so difficult,” said Neville. “You’ve been ingratiating yourself with somebody or other for as long as I’ve known you. And this is in a worthy cause. Sow seeds of discord between the newlyweds and get them to come down to London.”
“London? Whatever for? What is your part in all this?”
“Patience, my dear.” Neville beamed in admiration of his own genius. “While you are chipping away at the foundations of Drake’s marriage, like a good little sapper, I shall be mounting a marvelous ambush to topple it completely.”
“What sort of ambush?” Phyllipa sounded dubious.
Neville fumbled for his monocle, then screwed it up to his eye. He thought it gave his face a look of wisdom and mystery. “Never you mind. Suffice it to say, it will send our disaffected young bride bolting for the Continent like a hare with a greyhound on its tail.”
Phyllipa let out a high-pitched giggle that sent shivers down his spine. The port was obviously working on her. “Then if Drake wants to remarry, he’ll have to endure the public disgrace of a divorce. After that, no respectable woman will have him. Oh, Neville, you are too clever!”
He gave a wan smile in return. Her flirtatious glance made him distinctly nervous. He desperately needed another drink. “Shall we toast our alliance, then?”
“By all means.” Weaving over to Neville’s chair, she dribbled a generous splash of her remaining port into his glass.
“Here’s to the restoration of my expectations and Reggie’s inheritance.” Neville savored the rich body of the port on his tongue for a reverent moment before swallowing. Phyllipa settled on the floor beside him and rested her head against his knee. As he recalled a saying about necessity making strange bedfellows, Neville felt the wine in his stomach begin to curdle.
The fire in Lucy’s bedchamber had subsided into a handful of glowing embers. By the sound of her deep, even breathing, Drake judged her to be sound asleep at last. He had one final prop to plant in their little charade. With any luck it would fuel all the right sort of rumours, so no one would be suspicious when Lucy’s baby arrived “early.”
By rights he should have done it before she got into bed, but he hadn’t been anxious for her to strike him again. Drake reached up and touched his cheek gingerly. Contrary to his earlier protestations, it stung like the very devil. The little spitfire could muster considerable strength when roused.
Not that he could blame her, after his churlish remark. Drake had no idea what had compelled him to say such a thing, or why he hadn’t warned Lucy he would be coming here tonight. This whole marriage business had propelled him into territory he’d never expected or wanted to tread. Deliberately throwing her off balance helped him to regain some of his own equilibrium. Drake refused to consider that he might have provoked Lucy in the hope that he would feel her touch, however untender.
From his dressing gown pocket, he drew a small flask and uncorked it. Stealthily he approached the bed, reaching under the blankets to deposit the flask’s contents. Warm from the heat of his body, she would probably not even notice it. Until tomorrow morning, at which time he hoped she would play along with the ruse. Drake felt his hand brush her flesh.
Before he had an instant to savor the sensation, she sat bolt upright, throwing off the bedclothes and letting out a piercing scream. Dropping the flask, he managed to arrest her hand within inches of his face.
“Once a night is my limit for that kind of abuse, madam.”
“You deserve it for frightening me near to death. What are you doing? As if I need ask.”
Drake released her hand. He trembled with the effort to suppress his raging urges. He smelled her hair and the faint tantalizing musk of a woman’s body roused from sleep. For the first time in his life, Drake felt overwhelmed by powerful impulses beyond his control. It scared the hell out of him.
“Get it through your head, woman, that I am not racked with lust for the dubious pleasures of your body,” he lied, in what he desperately hoped was a convincing manner.
“Eeeuu! What have you got all over the sheets and my nightgown?”
“Keep your voice down,” Drake snapped. “It’s a few drops of pig’s blood. To convince the servants that I have relieved you of your virginity.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Drake rescued the flask and shoved it back in his pocket. “I have learned to pay attention to details.” Retaining a tenuous grip on his self-control, he backed away from the bed. “The way you have splashed it about will likely cause talk of my enthusiastic performance.”
“You might have warned me and done the deed before I lapsed into a sound sleep.” Lucy pulled the bedclothes up around her.
“Let’s just say I was not eager to feel the sting of your wrath again so soon.” Drake prayed she would attribute the breathlessness of his voice to anger.
“Have you any other nasty surprises in store for me tonight, your lordship?”
“None.” Drake did not trust himself to say more.
“In that case, I’ll thank you to leave.”
“With pleasure.” He stalked from the room.
In the gallery he could hear the muted sounds of celebration rising from the butler’s pantry. At least someone was getting a bit of pleasure out of his