Phoebe and Olivia rarely saw him. They lived their own lives in the comfortable manor house that Cato had acquired in Woodstock, eight miles from Oxford, when the theatre of war had moved from the north of England to the south and west. He had not wanted to leave his family unprotected in Yorkshire and had brought them with him. Diana’s death had made little or no difference to his life, it seemed to Phoebe.
It had, however, made a significant difference to Phoebe’s and Olivia’s. Freed of Diana’s tyranny, they’d been able to pursue their own interests without hindrance, and until two days ago… or rather until just before Christmas, Phoebe amended… nothing had occurred to disturb their peace.
Now she was condemned to marry a man who would as soon marry a healthy sow if she came with the right dowry and the right breeding potential. Not even Dante’s inferno had created such a fiendish torment. She was to be compelled to spend the rest of her life with a man whom she loved and lusted after to the point of obsession, and who barely acknowledged her existence.
And the unkindest cut of all-there was no one in whom she could confide. It was impossible to explain any of it to Olivia. There were no words… or at least none that Phoebe could think of.
Portia would understand, but Portia was in Yorkshire. Ecstatically happy with Rufus Decatur. And if Cato Granville hadn’t been up and about at three in the morning, Phoebe would be on her way to Yorkshire.
With something resembling a groan, Phoebe flung herself onto her side and closed her eyes.
Downstairs, Cato snuffed the candles in his study, all but a carrying candle, and bent to poke a slipping log to the rear of the grate. He straightened and stood absently staring down at the fire. The full impact of Phoebe’s crazy intention was only just hitting him. What kind of woman would hurl herself out into the freezing night, without the slightest regard for the obvious dangers? Where had she been going, for God’s sake?
And for what a reason! A young woman of Phoebe’s wealth-and lineage not wishing to marry… actually prepared to reject the suit of a marquis! The girl had windmills in her head.
He could perhaps understand it if her father was compelling her into marriage with some monster. If he was proposing to wed her to some repulsive ancient…
Surely Phoebe couldn’t see him in such a light?
The thought brought his head up. Of course that was an absurdity. He was in his prime, a man of five and thirty. True, he’d had ill luck with his wives-or they had had ill luck with their husband, he amended wryly. While it was hardly unusual for a man to have lost three wives before his thirty-fourth summer, it could perhaps strike an ominous note for an impressionable young woman preparing to become the fourth.
But Phoebe had claimed to have no personal objections to him, only to the state of matrimony. And that, of course, was ridiculous.
So was she perhaps unstable? Maybe he should think again. An hysterical wife given to irrational impulses was hardly a comfortable prospect. What kind of mother would she make?
And that, after all, was the crux of the matter. He needed an heir of his own blood. Daughters were all very well, but they could not inherit the title or the estates.
If he did not produce a male heir, then the Granville estates would pass to his stepson, his first wife’s child, whom he’d adopted as an infant because it had seemed the generous thing to do. It had never occurred to Cato in his own exuberant youth that he would fail to produce a son of his own loins to inherit his family name. By adopting the child, he had thought he was merely ensuring the boy’s future.
A foolhardy gesture it had turned out to be.
Cato’s mouth thinned as he thought of his first wife’s child. He would not trust Brian Morse further than he could throw him. He was plausible, charming, but his small eyes were shifty, his tongue too smooth for truth. There was something about him that set Cato’s teeth on edge, and had done since the boy was little more than a child. And for the crowning touch, Brian Morse was on the wrong side in the civil war raging through the land. He supported the king.
Cato had long decided that the king must bow to the dictates of his subjects. He could no longer be permitted to lay waste the country’s resources for his own ends. He could no longer be permitted to ignore the will of the people. King Charles must be compelled to enact the reforms that Parliament had laid before him. Sooner than do that, the king had gone to war with his people. And even those who, like Cato, were reluctant to take up arms against their sovereign had met his challenge.
The king’s cause was all but lost, in Cato’s informed opinion. The Parliamentarians had reformed their armies under Oliver Cromwell, and the New Model Army, disciplined and well paid unlike its royalist opponents, was sweeping victoriously through the country.
Which brought Cato back to Brian Morse.
In these dangerous times it would take very little-a skirmish, a stray musket ball, a sweeping sword cut, a fall from his horse-to leave Brian Morse as head of the Granville clan. So, Cato would marry Phoebe. She was at hand and he was in a hurry. For all practical purposes the alliance could not be bettered.
At eighteen the girl was still young enough to be influenced by her husband. He would be able to control any skittish tendencies.
He pursed his lips, considering Phoebe with cool dispassion. She had a robust air, a sturdy figure with generous hips. A good childbearing figure. Much stronger, much less fragile seeming than her sister. She looked like a woman who would bear sons.
No, she would make him a good wife. He would make, sure of it. Cato went to the door, his carrying candle throwing a soft light ahead of him.
Phoebe was awakened at first light by Olivia’s hand on her shoulder. “Phoebe, why are your clothes all over the floor?”
“Wh… what?” Phoebe struggled onto an elbow. She blinked blearily at Olivia. She felt horrible, as if she hadn’t slept a wink. “What’s the time? It’s the middle of the night!” she protested. It certainly felt like the middle of the night.
“No, it’s not. It’s nearly six o’clock,” Olivia stated. Her black eyes were sharply appraising in the pale oval of her face. She took a deep breath, concentrating on controlling the stammer that had plagued her from childhood.
“Your clothes. They’re in the middle of the floor. They weren’t when we went to b-bed.”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk,” Phoebe said.
“Out of the house!” Olivia stared in patent disbelief.
Phoebe shook her head. “No… I was going to but then it seemed too cold and dark, so I came back to bed again.” Which was not exactly a lie, she thought.
Olivia was not convinced. “You’re fibbing,” she declared.
Phoebe flopped back on the pillows again. Her eyes felt gritty, filled with sand, and she rubbed them with the heels of her palms.
Olivia sat up, hugging her knees to her narrow chest. She frowned fiercely, her thick dark brows meeting over the bridge of the long Granville nose. “I suppose you really don’t wish to marry my father,” she said matter-of-factly.
If only it were that simple! But Phoebe couldn’t see how to explain the complexities of her present dilemma to Cato’s daughter. “I don’t wish to get married at all. You know that,” she replied. “We agreed we wouldn’t ever marry… that day in the boathouse, with Portia.”
“I know, b-but that was a long time ago,” Olivia said. “Things change. Look at Portia. Would you ever have believed Portia, of all of us, would have married?”
“Portia’s a law unto herself,” Phoebe said. “She married because she chose to. I’m being made to.”
Olivia contemplated this melancholy truth. “I know,” she said simply. “B-but at least it means we’ll always be able to live together.”