Though she’d been speaking solely to her husband, Mr. Kirk and Mr. Coulter followed Mrs. Norcroft’s lead, and Phoebe called for Molly to bring their things. In quick (and silent) succession, the guests were dressed for their journeys home, though Mr. and Mrs. Coulter paused long enough to give Phoebe broad smiles, their eyes conveying something significant, though she couldn’t sort out what they thought was pleasing about this moment.
Once the door was closed behind them, Phoebe whirled on her husband. “What were you thinking? What does it matter what he says about my family or my card playing?”
Straightening, Samuel crossed his arms, but he did not meet her eyes. “Mr. Norcroft was no more disposed to think well of us after my outburst than he was before he arrived. The man is determined to despise me.”
“But your ‘outburst’ hardly helped matters,” she said, huffing as she strode back into the parlor. The cards remained abandoned on the table, and Phoebe scooped them up.
“I will not allow anyone to speak to you in that manner,” he said. “Not now. Not ever.”
Smacking the stack on the tabletop, Phoebe whirled to face him. “You are happy to set aside your pride and allow others to treat you poorly, so what does it matter? Did you not think of the consequences?”
“Hang the consequences!” he said, striding across the parlor to her. “And my pride doesn’t matter one bit, but yours does, and I will not allow another to attack you. His words pained you greatly. Do not deny it!”
The words hung between them, too large, too forceful to be taken in at once. They echoed against the walls of the parlor, ringing through her soul. Phoebe knew she ought to speak, yet her thoughts scattered the instant she reached for them, leaving her with nothing but the steady, inescapable awareness of what he’d said.
Samuel had seen it and acted. Not with haste but heat, ready to accept whatever followed. For her.
Without conscious thought, Phoebe’s hand drifted to the pendant at her throat, her fingers brushing the familiar shape there. He had seen that, too. Not merely the object itself, but the meaning behind it. The importance of it. The quiet comfort itprovided. Samuel had noticed and acted without expectation of thanks or recognition.
And now this fierce, uncompromising refusal to see her diminished.
Phoebe’s breath caught, tightening in her chest as awareness wove through her like the blood in her veins. Cheeks flushing, her pulse quickened until it crowded out every other sensation, thrumming through her in a manner that was unfamiliar yet undeniably right. And before she knew what she intended to do, Phoebe stepped into him, her arms wrapping around his neck as she brought her lips to his.
Jerking her head back at almost the same moment, Phoebe’s eyes widened as warmth swept through her (and not the pleasant sort). What had she done? Her action had certainly been motivated both by heatandhaste, and now, she was pressed up against her husband as he stared back at her.
Samuel remained utterly still, his arms hanging limply as his eyes searched her face, and the quiet stretched, fragile and uncertain. Inching forward, he leaned in and brushed her lips with a tentative touch. There was no urgency or demand. The kiss deepened by degrees, exploring the feel of the other as though this were their first embrace. And though it wasn’t some desperate, burning moment, it consumed her all the same.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” she whispered, her fingers running through the hair at his nape.
Samuel’s eyes drifted across her face as though seeing her features anew. “Neither did I.”
Whether he meant the outburst or the kiss, Phoebe didn’t know. She suspected he didn’t either. And she didn’t know if it mattered.
“Oh,” she breathed, her lips brushing his.
“Oh,” he repeated, the corner of his mouth twisting into a smile.
And Samuel held her gaze as he closed the distance once more—
The soft click of the door latch cut through the moment like newly sharpened scissors, and Phoebe jerked back, her hands flying to her lips as Molly stepped into the parlor with a basket tucked against her hip. The maid halted at once, eyes widening as she took in the interrupted moment.
“Oh—” Molly stammered, color rushing to her cheeks. “I beg your pardon, madam, sir. I thought you had gone up—”
Phoebe smoothed the front of her gown as though that might erase the embarrassment.
“No, no,” she said at once, the words tumbling over one another. “It is quite all right. We were only—” She faltered, then rallied. “Please see to your work. There is much to be done before the morning.”
Samuel cleared his throat and stepped away, and the maid bobbed a staccato curtsy, murmured another apology, and set about gathering teacups and glasses with singular focus, her movements brisk and determined.
But Phoebe did not trust herself to linger.
“I need to speak with Mrs. Johns about wrapping up the dinner remnants for the charity baskets,” said Phoebe, her voice far too tremulous for her well-being as she crossed the room, snatching up the deck of cards as she passed.
“I have some time in the morning,” said Samuel. “We can deliver them then.”
“We?” Phoebe spun to face him, the cards nearly slipping from her grasp.
Samuel didn’t answer. He stood there, her gaze trapped in his as the humor faded from his expression. His eyes drifted across her face and figure, the blazing warmth of their embrace undimmed by the interruption, and it held the unmistakable promise of something merelypaused, not concluded.
