Suddenly, the presence of this innocent girl and her bright eyes—Phoebe’s eyes—and this blasted house and the extent of his deceit, were too much. The young lady opened her mouth as though she wished to say more, but he cut into those words with a short bow. “If you will excuse me, I—”
“Rutland, my dear friend.”
…am destined to be trapped here with Phoebe’s siblings as a penance for my sins. He turned to greet the smiling Andrew Barrett. Of course. Tamping down impatience, he inclined his head. “Barrett, I was just—”
“I was just heading to my clubs,” the man said tugging at his lapels. “Congratulations are in order, I understand.” He’d wager a sum Phoebe would likely disagree with those felicitations.
He grunted as Andrew Barrett slapped him on the back. Men didn’t slap him on the back and certainly not foppish dandies just out of university. Even if it was the man he’d now call brother-in-law. Alas, just like the Barrett girls, the male Barrett didn’t know to be properly wary or fearful of Edmund, Marquess of Rutland.
“When is to be the happy occasion?”
Nor did they put insolent questions to him that required he share the details of his life.
Justina Barrett clapped her hands. “Oh, how splendid! A grand wedding. It shall be—”
“Justina, go abovestairs now.”
They turned their heads in unison to the harsh command uttered from the entrance of the corridor. Phoebe stood with her shoulders proudly squared and glared at him with a host of loathing and fury within her blue depths.
Agony lanced at his heart and twisted the blackened organ, mocking him with the truth of some small life that resided there. He unwittingly raised his hand to his chest to rub the dull ache there. So, this was pain.
Justina’s smile dipped, as she looked back and forth between Edmund and her sister. “I—I was merely congratulating the marquess on your upcoming nuptials.” She wrinkled her nose. “Surely, you’d not have me be rude.”
Andrew Barrett cut in before his sister could speak. “Yes, surely you’d not have her be rude. The chap,” another slap on Edmund’s back, “is to be our brother, after all.”
A brother? Good God. Edmund dissolved into a fit of choking. Who were these people who’d welcome the devil into their fold? How, with their own father’s black soul, could they not see his like soul? Phoebe narrowed her gaze on Edmund. She knew. The look in her eyes said as much. And he detested that truth with every fiber of his rotten being. “The marquess has matters of business to attend. We are to be married within the sennight.”
Within the next day. By the hatred teeming from her eyes, it was wise not to point out as much.
“A sennight?” the younger Barrett’s exclaimed in unison.
“Oh, well this, indeed, calls for a celebration,” Phoebe’s brother said and flung an arm around his shoulders.
“Andrew—” Phoebe called out.
“Isn’t that right, Rutland? It only seems right as future brothers we have a celebratory drink at the clubs.”
It was Phoebe’s turn to dissolve into a paroxysm of coughing. The shock stamped in the lines of her face far preferable to the hatred from moments earlier and he welcomed that crack in her veneer. He held her stare. “A trip to our clubs, then.” Her gasp was lost to her brother’s eager response. Knowing her need to protect her sister and brother from the truth of her own circumstances, Edmund took a bold, calculated step closer, and another, until he stopped before her.
“What—?”
He captured her hands, silencing her with that subtle movement. “A pleasure, as always, Phoebe,” he whispered.
If a single look could kill, he’d have been a dead heap at her furious feet. He raised her fingers to his lips and dropped a kiss atop her knuckles. A faint tremor shook her frame and he delighted in that slight quake that hinted at her awareness of him still. He dropped his lashes and studied her, wanting her, reveling in the knowledge that soon she would belong to him. What had come to pass between them could never be forgiven, but there would still be passion, and her body’s desire for him, and that would be enough. His gut clenched. It had to be.
Edmund released her hand. She blinked several times and then snapped her hands to her side and buried those long fingers in the folds of her skirts. With a knowing smile that only sparked a glint of outrage in her eyes, he bowed his head and with an unwanted shadow at his side, took his leave of Phoebe.
As he exited the viscount’s home, Andrew Barrett prattled on and on at his side until his ears ached. The young man accepted the reins for his mount and looked to Edmund as he swung his leg over his horse, Lucifer. “I daresay a visit to Forbidden Pleasures is in order.”
He said nothing but merely nudged his horse into forward motion and rode alongside Phoebe’s brother. Who was still prattling. A lot. On and on until he allowed his mind to move away from the incessant noise about the cut of his collar and tie of his cravat and instead fix upon his circumstances with Phoebe. Her profession of hate was not inconsistent with anyone else’s opinion of him and that antipathy had never before mattered when the sentiments had been expressed by others. In fact, he’d quite reveled in the disdain for it kept people away. It protected him from hurt and feeling, because as a boy he’d once felt and he’d decided early on he didn’t like what went with that. Her disdain, however, mattered. He guided his horse onward. Andrew Barrett fell quiet, having either run out of discourse on his garments or at last taken hint of Edmund’s total lack of interest.
The crowded streets grew more and more sparse as they continued along the cobbled roads to the less fashionable end of London. They reached the front of Forbidden Pleasures and dismounted, tossing their reins to waiting servants.
Barrett rushed forward with an eagerness Edmund had never felt about any aspect of life. He started for the same five damned steps he’d climbed too many times over the years. Had he always been bored by these senseless amusements? A servant opened the door of the famed hell and he moved forward. Suddenly, a tiredness with the depravity of it all consumed him. He cast a glance back at his mount, filled with a desire to return to his own, empty home which, for the first time, was preferable to the familiarity of his clubs, when from the corner of his eye his gaze collided with two statues adorning the small brick columns framing the opposite side of the entrance. He stared unblinking at two adornments he’d passed many, many times before. Not once had he given them much notice—until now. Of their own will, his legs carried him over and he paused beside one of the ghastly pair. The hideous creature sat atop a skull and a collection of bones. His heart started.
“…On the outside, you are correct, they really appear quite fearsome. But they’re not really. When you know them, when you learn all those pieces about them that you’d not ordinarily know…”
The world tilted and swayed beneath him and he gripped the edge of the column.
“Rutland?” Phoebe’s brother’s concerned question came as though down a distant corridor.
Instead, Edmund stood while the strong, secure walls he’d constructed about himself proved how ineffectual they’d truly been these years, cascading into a heap of useless stones about his uneven feet. Phoebe’s disdain mattered because she mattered. He wanted to be more…because of her; more worthy, more honest, more…everything. Not the material anything, over the years that had never filled the emptiness within.
“I say, Rutland, are you all right? You have a ghastly pall about you.”
He blinked back the haze of madness that clouded his vision and glanced about. Wide-eyed patrons hurriedly stepped around him. Amidst all those cowering dandies rushing by stood Andrew. Concern etched the planes of the young man’s face.
He’d be concerned about him. The man who’d broken his whimsical sister’s heart and illusions. It was not every day that Edmund found himself humbled by his own unworthiness. “Fine,” he managed on smooth, modulated tones that could only come from years of perfecting that apathy. Relinquishing h
is grip upon the stone pillar, he started up the steps and entered his clubs, somehow not the same man he’d been before.
*
Phoebe paced before the hearth wishing she’d donned something other than blasted slippers so there might be some kind of furious, frustrated rhythm to match the turbulent emotions swirling through her. “To the blasted clubs,” she muttered to herself. “With my brother.”
The audacity of him. She growled. Then, an unrepentant blackguard like Edmund, the Marquess of Rutland, was guiltier of far worse crimes than making friendly with her impressionable brother, after he’d shattered her heart and hopes. For them. Of them. She clung to the outrage of him going off with her brother, to one of those notorious hells, for it kept her from dissolving into a crumpled heap of despair over his betrayal. She fed the rage, gave it life, allowed it to become her breath. Otherwise, drawing any other air with ragged pain would be impossible and she’d cease to be.
“Why should he not be with Andrew?”
Her sister’s befuddled question rang a startled shriek from her and she spun around. “Justina.” I forgot you were here. “I—” She scrambled in search of a response other than the truth. How could she impart the truth of Edmund’s deception without also destroying her sister’s illusions of life? “I don’t want Andrew at those hells,” she easily amended. No, Edmund had stolen her innocent hope. He’d not take her sister’s, too. She firmed her jaw. Just as she’d not allow him to sully her brother with his rakish ways.
From her seat upon the ivory sofa, with her knees pulled up to her chest, Justina appeared girl-like in her artless pose. “I daresay it’s not the marquess’ fault Andrew seeks out those clubs. He is quite scandalous in his pursuits.”
Phoebe frowned. Her sister’s pronouncement provided a momentary, welcomed distraction from the sting of Edmund’s behavior. “Not Andrew.” Her brother was good and honorable and—
Her sister snorted and swung her legs over the edge of the sofa. “Come.” The fabric of her white muslin dress settled noisily at her feet. “Never tell me you’d be as trusting as Mama to fail and see the truth about Andrew.” The truth about Andrew? “He really has become quite the scapegrace.”
“Justina!” The exclamation burst from her. Andrew was but eighteen and just out of university. He was not one of those gentlemen to create gossip and break hearts and care about nothing more than his own pleasures. And yet…she chewed her lower lip. There was the garish attire and his mention of seeing Edmund at their clubs and… She widened her eyes. How could she have been so very blind? Over the years, her brother had become someone she didn’t recognize. She turned away from her sister’s sunny smile and stared down into the empty hearth. Then, as evidenced by Edmund in his scheming had made a total mockery of her feelings and love, thus showing Phoebe had a remarkable lack of insight where anyone was concerned.
She started as her sister patted her on the back. “It is all right. It does not mean he is a bad person. It just means he is a…person who enjoys things he should not enjoy,” Justina finished with another one of her patent grins.
Regret pulled at her. In listening to Justina, it was much like glimpsing back at the hopelessly hopeful woman she herself had been. With that humbling thought came the aching reminder of Edmund’s treachery. She ran a tired hand over her face. She’d made him out to be more than he was. The actuality of Edmund, the Marquess of Rutland, was that he was just a man broken and ruined beyond repair by life. A life she didn’t truly know anything of. But how I wanted to… The hole where her heart had been could never be healed. She expected to always feel this knife-like agony cutting through her, mocking her for the innocence that had clouded her vision to the warnings leveled at her by Honoria.
Justina lightly squeezed Phoebe’s shoulders, forcing her attention back around. “You…you do not seem unabashedly joyous at your marriage to the marquess,” she put forth tentatively. “I do not understand. Why do you seem so sad if you are to wed a gentleman you very much love?”
She was so sad because she was to wed a gentleman she very much loved but knew not at all. He was someone as real as a mere wisp of a dream. Mustering a smile for her sister’s benefit, Phoebe said, “I am happy.” She was happy Justina would be spared from wedding one such as Edmund. Happy she would have the funds for her and her future children’s freedom—if he did not merely lie to her once again with that promise. Her heart tugged with the thought of a tiny, trusting babe, born to her and Edmund’s cold, empty marriage. The muscles of Phoebe’s face hurt from the false smile on her lips. “I am abundantly happy,” she said turning around and taking Justina’s hands in hers. She shook them back and forth the way she had when playing rhyming songs in the nursery with her younger sister. “I am merely sad about leaving you.” Which was not altogether untrue. Her sister, mother, and brother completed the part of her heart that had not been broken this day.
“Don’t be sad about that, Phoebe. Think of it as a grand adventure!”
A pang struck her chest. How very much alike she and Justina were in that regard—both dreaming of life beyond the one that existed for them. Only now with Edmund’s betrayal, the absolute naiveté of that dream mocked her. There was nothing grand about this journey she’d embark on as Marchioness of Rutland. But then, the great Odysseus’ journey had proven that not all grand adventures were good ones.
A knock sounded at the door. They looked to the door as the butler appeared. “Miss Honoria Fairfax and Lady Gillian,” he announced the young women and then backed out of the room.
Phoebe stared at her two friends—one ever cautious, the other always of sunny disposition—and a lump swelled in her throat. On this agonizing day, with her world ripped asunder, she needed the honesty of her emotions, of confessing all without fear of recrimination or smiling when her heart was broken.
“Hullo, Justina. Phoe—,” Gillian’s words trailed off as she glanced at Phoebe. She looked quickly to Honoria. The intensity of that young woman’s friend’s stare hinted at a jaded knowing. How much wiser and intuitive Honoria had proven to be. Not like the fanciful fool Phoebe had been.
“Hello,” Justina said and dropped a curtsy. She waved to Phoebe’s friends.
“Dear, will you allow me to share the splendid news with Honoria and Gillian?” she asked softly, that great lie of a request spoken for her ears.
“Of course,” she said cheerily. She skipped past the young ladies and then closed the door behind her.
With her sister gone, Phoebe’s shoulders sagged at the relief in not having to fake a smile or construct lies to spare her sister’s sentiments. Tears welled once more.
“Oh, dear,” Gillian whispered and raced over. “What is it?”
Fury flashed in Honoria’s eyes. “It is the marquess,” she hissed. Could there be another reason? “What did he do?”
Phoebe opened her mouth to let forth the words she needed to share, but they would not come. She pressed steepled fingers to her lips and wandered over to the window, then offered the shortest piece of the truth. “You were, indeed, correct about the marquess,” she whispered.
A black curse escaped Honoria’s lips; words no lady should know, and words no gentleman should even hear, and for a moment amusement warred with her inner agony. She braced for the “I-told-you-so” Honoria was entitled to…that did not come.
Her friends drifted over, but hesitated, hovering just beyond her shoulder and for that she was grateful. If they touched her or said even the wrong word she’d dissolve into another round of hopeless, useless tears.
“What happened?” Gillian prodded.
Phoebe pulled back the edge of the curtain and stared down distractedly into the busy streets below. “It was all a lie,” she whispered. “All of it.” The chance meetings, the moments shared, the love of Captain Cook. Had any of it been real? She quickly recounted the conversation she’d heard between her father and Edmund, every black, vile piece, only withholding that once beautiful, now shameful, act in Lord
Essex’s gardens. When she finished, silence met her recounting.
Honoria was the first to break the quiet. “You do not have to wed him.”
She drew in a shuddery breath. “My father will allow him to wed Justina if I do not.”
“That bloody bastard.” This from the usually mild-mannered Gillian. There was not a friend in the world for Edmund, the Marquess of Rutland, and with good reason.
Phoebe wiped a tired hand over her face. “It is my own fault. I was properly warned.” She looked to Honoria, who slid her gaze away.
With an aggravated sound, Gillian slapped her fingers into her opposite palm, making a loud thwack. “What was your fault? That you loved him? That you believed in him when the world said not to?” She gave her head a hard, swift shake. “No, that is not your fault. That is the marquess’ and it is a crime he will have to live with.”
“A man such as he doesn’t feel regret for those sins he adds to his collection like a lady with too many fans,” Honoria said gently. “He wanted what he wanted and he’s acted.” Her jaw hardened. “And now Phoebe is to pay the price.”
Except…Phoebe looked out to the street once more. A black lacquer carriage rumbled past, even with the distance noisy in its forward journey. Except, there had been a momentary flash of emotion in his eyes. If she didn’t know the blackness of his soul, she’d believed it was pain, regret, and shame. She scoffed, immediately shoving back such foolish musings. “You are right, Honoria,” she said, suffusing steel into her words. “He doesn’t feel any regrets. But it is done.” Their fates would be forever sealed.
Odd, how just yesterday the thought of an eternal union with him had flooded her with a heady happiness and now felt like a death knell made by an executioner. She squared her jaw. “I will be his wife, but he will never control me.” Not again. Not more control than she’d already given him. He’d deceived her and that was a sin she could never, would never, forgive.
The Heart of a Scoundrel Page 21