Page 93 of The Work of Art

“There will never be anyone else,” he vowed. “Not so long as I live.”

“I don’t care about the jewelry.”

“I know.”

“But when Lady Eliot described my bedroom… And when she said…”

“Hush, love. You needn’t waste anymore words on her.”

Philly tightened her arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry.”

He held her fast in his arms, moving his hand soothingly along her back. “My silly little sweetheart, what the devil do you have to be sorry for?”

“I’ve enacted you a proper domestic tragedy.”

“Is that what this was?”

“Yes,” she said. “You must wish you’d never come to fetch me for dinner.”

“My love, don’t deceive yourself. I’m precisely where I want to be.” He nuzzled her damp cheek in silent entreaty, and when she answered by turning her lips to his, he kissed her with such painstaking tenderness that she seemed to melt into his arms.

The moments that followed passed without a word between them. Arthur was vaguely conscious of Philly unknotting his cravat, and at some point, he must have divested her of her hairpins—a fact of which he became achingly aware when her hair tumbled down around her shoulders.

Only then did he pause to catch his breath, resting his forehead gently against hers for several heated seconds. “Come,” he said at last, easing her away from him. “It’s past time for dinner.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “Surely you don’t mean us to go back downstairs to the dining room.”

“No, I’m going to have our dinner brought up on a tray. We’re going to eat together in my bedroom. And then I’m going to take you to my bed and make love to you.”

Philly flushed pink. “Oh my,” she breathed.

Arthur felt the inexplicable urge to grin. “Oh my, indeed.”

“It can all be done quite easily,” Mrs. Ogilvy assured. “New beds, of course, with the Parisian silk bed-hangings as I described. New window curtains, new carpets, and new paper-hangings, as well.”

Philly looked up from her notebook, her pencil poised in her hand. “Perhaps damask would be preferable for the bed-hangings?”

“It’s your choice, my dear.” Mrs. Ogilvy walked around the bedroom, looking upon the décor with a critical eye. “Shades of amber. Yes. It will be very beautiful for your room. But what of Captain Heywood’s bedchamber? Have you consulted him about colors? Or does he not care about such things?”

“He’s requested his room be done in shades of blue.”

Mrs. Ogilvy raised a winged brow. “Blue and amber? I wonder what’s given the Captain that idea.”

Philly’s mouth curved into a smile. “I can’t begin to guess.”

“And has he advised you on how much you’re allowed to spend?”

“He said I may spend what I like.”

“How very obliging of him.”

“Oh, but I don’t intend to go to any great expense. Indeed, I think that if I’m reasonably careful, I can contrive the whole for a very modest sum. I’ve been jotting down some estimated figures, and—”

“Don’t trouble your head with accounting, my dear one,” Mrs. Ogilvy interrupted with a twinkle in her eye. “You may leave it to me. I’m acquainted with all of the best furniture warehouses in London, and you can trust that the widow of a tradesman knows something about driving a bargain.”

Philly laughed in spite of herself.

“Beg pardon, Mrs. Heywood.” Violet entered the room. “Two ladies have come calling. Miss Abigail Townsend, and Lady Eliot, ma’am.”