Impoverished Miss, Convenient Wife. Michelle Styles

wondered if Mr Clare had been true to his word. Robert could be alone in there or with someone as unfeeling as that miserable maid. She refused to let that happen. The boy needed help.

      In the moonlight, Phoebe fumbled for her shawl and wrapped it around her body. She lit a candle and held it aloft as she tiptoed over to the door that separated her from Robert. She opened the door slightly, but kept to the shadows.

      Robert appeared to be asleep, but a figure knelt at the side of the bed, head bowed, one arm stretched out on the coverlet.

      She raised the candle higher, trying to discern who was there. The too-long hair and finely moulded shoulders could only belong to one man. Simon Clare. For confirmation, she spied the cane lying by the side of the bed. She started to tiptoe out when she heard a hoarse whisper.

      ‘Let me take his place. Please…I will do anything. Punish me, not him.’

      Phoebe put her hand to her mouth. She had inadvertently intruded on this man’s grief. How she could have thought him heartless? A sudden fear gripped her. ‘Is everything all right, Mr Clare? Is Robert…?’

      At the sound of her voice, the quiet groans ceased. He lifted his head. His white shirt was open at the throat, revealing his golden skin. In the darkness, his face had become all shadows and planes, but she could clearly see how handsome he was. He was no monster, but the personification of masculinity.

      ‘Robert is asleep. All is well, Miss Benedict.’ His voice held a singular raw note.

      ‘That is good to hear. I…I heard a noise.’

      ‘I regret having disturbed you.’

      ‘You…that is…Iamalightsleeper. Years of practice with my stepbrothers, I am afraid.’ She gave a small shrug and felt the shawl starting to slip off her shoulder. Her hand clutched it tighter about her.

      ‘You looked after them.’

      Phoebe wet her lips. ‘Someone had to. My stepmother was not maternal and the maids were unreliable, even before my father died.’

      ‘How good it is that someone cared.’

      He stood up, seeming to fill the room. His gaze slowly travelled down her body, then back up to her face. She clung on to the thin shawl, aware suddenly that she was dressed only in her nightgown; her hair flowed over her shoulders and her bare toes peeped out. Hurriedly she smoothed her gown, and covered her feet. She wished that she had thought to wear a cap. Her hand shook slightly, causing the wax to drip on her wrist. She stifled a cry.

      ‘You should be more careful, Miss Benedict. Wax burns.’

      ‘I will be fine.’ Phoebe attempted to ignore the searing pain.

      He took a step towards her. ‘Let me inspect it. There is little that I do not know about candles and burns. My father was a tallow merchant to begin with.’

      She stayed still.

      ‘Surely you are not afraid? Not the brave Miss Benedict.’ His voice mocked her.

      Phoebe held out her arm. ‘It is but a small burn.’

      ‘Let me be the judge.’ His fingers encircled her wrist, lightly touching the spot. They were cool against her skin, but sent a strange trembling ache through her. Then abruptly he let go. ‘You will live.’

      ‘Hardly anything in the grand scheme of things, you see.’ Phoebe tried to keep her gaze away from his face and the way the candlelight turned his skin golden.

      ‘I know you think me unfeeling, Miss Benedict, but I do want what is best for the boy. I want him to get well.’ His voice rippled over her like smooth thick velvet.

      ‘There are other ways.’ She breathed and took a step backwards. ‘Ways that are kinder. Ways that treat the patient like a human and not an animal.’

      ‘I realise that now. I wanted my boy back. I want him well and whole again. You do not know how much it pains me, Miss Benedict, to see him like that.’

      ‘He will get better, but you need to look after yourself as well.’ Phoebe made a small gesture. She hated to think about how he had sacrificed his own bed to sit there. And how she had condemned him before without understanding. ‘Your injuries must pain you. Night air will not be good for them. I will sit here if you like. I have had my sleep and feel refreshed.’

      ‘Goodnight, Miss Benedict,’ Mr Clare said, turning back to the bed, settling down once again. ‘Your watch will begin in the morning.’

      She had been wrong. Wrong about so many things. Mr Clare was complicated. He did care about his son, but why did he wish to pretend otherwise?

      Phoebe lowered the candle and closed the door, trembling. The bed creaked slightly as she pulled the covers up to her chin. She willed her body to relax, but thoughts kept racing through her brain. The image of him standing there holding her wrist, shirt open at the neck, appeared to be scorched on her eyelids. She screwed up her eyes tight and bid the vision to be banished but her wrist continued to tingle from his touch for a long time.