"Come here, my sweet." Gabriel reached for her, anxious to rekindle the desire that always flared so easily between them. He needed to know that she would respond to him tonight as she always had in the past.
A deep sense of relief shot through Gabriel as Phoebe's arms went slowly around him. He touched the soft swell of her breast, willing himself to take his time with her, wanting her to become as aroused as he was.
It was hopeless. The frantic urge to possess her overwhelmed all Gabriel's intentions. His willpower collapsed under the storm of driving need that was exploding inside him. He had to know that she was still his.
"Phoebe, I cannot wait."
"Yes. I know. It's all right."
He was on fire. The blood was roaring in his veins as Gabriel parted Phoebe's legs and lowered himself between her silken thighs. He used his hand to fit himself to her and then, with a husky, wordless exclamation, he surged into her.
Phoebe sucked in her breath, her body instinctively tightening around him. Gabriel looked down into her face and saw that her eyes were closed. He wanted her to look at him, but he could not find the words to ask her to do so. Nor was there any time to search for them. All that mattered now was slaking this overpowering need that raged within him.
He began to move quickly, driving again and again into Phoebe's snug warmth. She took him into her, wrapping him close, making him a part of herself. He reached down to find the small, sensitive bud of delicate female flesh.
"Gabriel!"
Her soft cry put him over the brink. Every muscle in his body tightened in the penultimate moment. He arched his back and gritted his teeth and then he was pouring himself endlessly into her.
She accepted all that he gave her, holding him close as he shuddered above her. He felt her tiny convulsions ripple through her and then he was lost.
Gabriel lay awake for a long while afterward. He gazed into the shadows and put his mind to the task of figuring out how best to protect Phoebe from Baxter.
Phoebe arrived at her parents' town house promptly at eleven o'clock the following morning. She knew her father's habits well. She was certain she would find him hard at work on his latest mathematical device.
He was exactly where she thought he would be. When she was ushered into the study, she found him fussing over a large mechanical contraption composed of wheels, gears, and weights.
"Good morning, Papa." Phoebe untied her bonnet strings. "How is your mechanical calculation machine coming along?"
"Very nicely indeed." Clarington glanced at her over his shoulder. "I have hit upon a way of using punched cards to supply the instructions for the various calculations."
"Punched cards?"
"Very similar to the ones used by the Jacquard looms to establish weaving pattern."
"I see." Phoebe walked over and gave him a quick hug. "That is all very interesting, Papa. But you know I was never much good with sums and calculations."
"Probably just as well." Clarington snorted. "Got enough of that sort of talent in the family as it is. I wonder if Wylde would find this engine useful in his shipping business."
"I would not be surprised. Papa, I must talk to you." Phoebe sat down. "I have come to ask you a very important question."
Clarington looked wary. "I say, now, if this is a question about married life and your duties as a wife and that sort of thing, you will have to talk to your Mama. Not my field, if you see what I mean."
Phoebe waved that aside impatiently. "I am adjusting tolerably well to married life. That is not what I wished to discuss with you."
Clarington relaxed. "Well, then, what was it you wanted to ask me?"
Phoebe leaned forward determinedly. "Papa, did Neil Baxter leave England three years ago because you paid him to go? Did you buy him off because you did not want him making an offer for me?"
Clarington's bushy brows bunched together in irritation. "I say, who the devil told you that?"
"Wylde told me that."
"I see." Clarington sighed. "I suppose he had a good reason."
"That is not the point. Papa, I demand to know the truth."
"Why?" Clarington asked, his gaze turning shrewd. "Because Baxter is back in England?"
"Partly. And partly because I felt very guilty for a long time after I learned of his death. I told myself that if he had not gone off to make his fortune so that he would be able to ask for my hand, he would not have been killed."
Clarington gazed at her in astonishment. "Good God. What rubbish. I had no notion you were harboring such thoughts."
"Well, I was."
"Utter nonsense. My only regret is that the bloody bastard didn't have the decency to stay dead," Clarington muttered. "But that's Baxter for you. Went out of his way to be difficult."
"Papa, I must know if it's true that you gave him money to stay away from me."
Clarington shifted uncomfortably and tinkered with a mechanical wheel. "Sorry, my dear, but it's true." He glowered at her. "Not that it matters now. You're safely married to Wylde, and that's that, eh?"
"Why didn't you tell me?" Phoebe demanded.
"About bribing Baxter to get out of the country? Because I didn't want you to know."
"Why not?" Phoebe asked tightly.
"Because I thought you'd be hurt," Clarington snapped. "Not very pleasant for a romantical young female to learn that a man has only been toying with her affections in order to blackmail her father. You've always been the sentimental type, Phoebe. You saw Baxter as a young Sir Galahad or some such nonsense."
"Lancelot," Phoebe said softly. "I always thought of him as Lancelot."
Clarington scowled. "Beg pardon?"
"Never mind." Phoebe sat rigidly in the chair, her shoulders very straight. "You should have told me the truth, Papa."
"Didn't want to upset you."
"Well, it would not have been very pleasant to learn the truth, I'll grant you that," Phoebe said, "but at least I would not have spent the past year feeling guilty."
"Now, see here. How was I to know you'd been feeling guilty? You never mentioned the fact to me."
Phoebe tapped her gloved fingers on the edge of the chair. She frowned, thinking of what Neil had said the previous evening. "Did you pay him off directly?"
"Good God, no." Clarington looked offended. "A gentleman doesn't dirty his hands with that sort of thing. I had my solicitor handle it."
"Neil says he does not know who paid his passage to the South Seas. He was told a mysterious benefactor arranged matters."
Clarington's scowl darkened. "Nonsense. The man knows full well who paid his passage, and a good bit more besides. We made a deal. I agreed to give the bounder enough to set himself up very nicely on condition he got out of England."
Phoebe sighed. "It's rather difficult to know exactly what to believe."
Clarington was affronted. "Are you saying I'm not telling you the truth?"
"No, Papa, of course not." Phoebe smiled placat-ingly. "I do not think you are lying. But I cannot help but wonder if different people in this little play may have interpreted matters in somewhat different ways."
"Damnation, Phoebe, there was nothing to misinterpret. When my solicitor offered Baxter a small fortune to leave the country, the man grabbed it with both hands. That was all there was to it."
"Perhaps." Phoebe hesitated uncertainly. "Perhaps not. I wish I knew what to believe."
Clarington's thick brows twitched. "You will believe your papa. And your husband, by God. That's whom you will believe."
Phoebe smiled sadly. "Do you know what the problem is, Papa? The problem is that everyone spends entirely too much time and effort trying to protect me. I am left with bits and pieces of the truth, not the whole truth."