Mother and youngest daughter looked back and forth between each other as though in a desperate bid to make sense of his words. Andrew Barrett’s faltering smile conveyed his disappointment. The viscount’s fleshy jowls communicated relief. Only Phoebe’s newly cynical eyes hinted at a woman not at all surprised that the man she’d just wed hadn’t the decency to coordinate a celebratory feast with her family.
By their recriminating silence, he’d achieved the very goal he’d set out in through the avoidance of that meal. He never hated himself more than he did in that moment.
“Come along then,” the viscount ordered his family. When no one immediately moved, he gave his wife a sharp look that propelled her into movement. The woman dropped a curtsy and a murmur of polite felicitations and then started toward her husband.
“But I don’t understand.” Of course the unabashed Justina Barrett would voice the very words thought by all—including Edmund himself.
A soft smile so pure and still unsullied turned Phoebe’s lips as she looked on at her sister. That gentle tilt of her lips, as potent and powerful as it had been from their meeting on the Delenworth’s terrace, froze him. And with it went all logical thought. His wife crossed over to her sister and took her hands. “There is nothing to understand,” she said, while he stood there in silent torment over her masterful hold upon him. “The wedding breakfast is a mere formality and ours was a hastily thrown together affair. There was no time for those small details.”
“Just like your gown,” Justina Barrett complained.
Phoebe nodded. “Just like my gown.”
Just like her gown. And the breakfast. And the whole bloody day. One more mark upon his soul. What was a missing wedding breakfast and denying a woman her wedding trousseau and the lavish affair dreamed of by most? Guilt knifed at him. Why did this fault seem the most egregious of all the other sins against him?
“Oh, very well,” the younger Barrett sister said with a sigh. She gave Edmund a disappointed look and then made her way over to her parents. All but his wife and Andrew Barrett took their leave.
The younger man rocked on his heels, more hesitant than he’d proven in all their exchanges. Then, he walked over. He stuck his hand out again. “My congratulations.” He cleared his throat. “My sister is a good person. An honorable one.” In short, everything that Edmund was not.
He eyed it a moment and then took the offering.
“Take care of my sister,” the young man finished.
“Indeed,” he drawled, infusing as much bored nonchalance into those words, all the while panic churned through him. It was far easier having wed a woman whose body he craved and whose presence he wanted when he’d not stopped to think on what she meant to him. He let go of Andrew Barrett’s hand swiftly and then clenched and unclenched his fingers into a fist. The other man turned to his sister and then, much like the boy he was, wrapped his arms about her and held tight. She returned that innocent embrace and patted him on the back.
She looked around her brother’s shoulder. “I will be all right,” she spoke quietly, those words reached over to Edmund, spoken just as much for his benefit as Andrew Barrett’s. The lady had learned the skill of lying at his hands. He should be proud of that one gift he’d given her. So why did agony rip through his chest?
As though embarrassed by his show of emotion, the young man quickly released her. With flushed cheeks, he beat a hasty retreat.
And just like that, Edmund and Phoebe were alone, married—until death did part them.
The room filled with the harsh drawn breaths of his bride; the first indication she’d given of her unease. She ticked her chin up a notch and glared at him. “Now what?”
Edmund quietly pressed the door closed, leaned against the wood panel, and folded his arms at his chest. He smiled slowly. She might despise him, but he would give her more pleasure than she’d ever known possible. “And now, the wedding night, Phoebe.”
Chapter 18
Phoebe widened her eyes and stared unblinkingly at the terrifying dark, tawny stranger she’d bound herself to. “The wedding night,” she repeated blankly. On the heel of that came rushing forth charges made by Honoria, who’d been so very skeptical of his intentions from the moment of their first meeting. Honoria’s concerns had proven right in this. What if she’d also be proven correct about the whole tying ladies up business? In Lord Essex’s gardens, he’d sought to seduce Phoebe’s mind and body. Now, there were no longer pretenses for him to keep up. “With you?” Of course with him, you goose.
“With me,” he spoke on a smooth, dangerous whisper. His feral grin widened and he shoved away from the door, stalking over to her. “Certainly not another.” He stopped before her, so she was forced to either crane her head back to meet his gaze or retreat.
Overwhelmed by the sheer masculinity of his broad, powerful frame, Phoebe made to edge around him. He propped his hip on the arm of the sofa and effectively killed her retreat. She wet her lips. Not in any part of his offer, nay threat, that forced her into this marriage did she ever believe theirs would be a union in name only. Most especially not after their passionate joining under the stars. “But it is not n-night.” She’d naively expected the wedding night, would come…well, at night.
He brushed his knuckles along her cheek and involuntarily, her lashes fluttered. Warmth shot through her at his touch and she detested her body’s weakness to him, despite his betrayal and the lies between them. “No, it is not.” He lowered his mouth to hers.
A startled squeak escaped her and she ducked down and scooted past him. “I…” She searched her mind for some plausible reason to delay the consummation of their vows. This intimate act would bind them in ways far deeper than mere words alone and even more than their tryst in Lord Essex’s—this represented the consummation of their marital vows. It would be a tangible linking of two beings that bound them forever in ways that moved beyond any sexual joining.
Edmund moved toward her with the lethal, predatory grace of a sleek panther. She knocked against a side table and the delicate mahogany piece tipped and swayed. Phoebe shot her hands out to steady the table and then rooted her feet to the floor. She’d not be cowed by him or unnerved by this nonsensical hold he had upon her. She would however delay…this. He was not the man in Lord Essex’s gardens. And she was no longer the innocent miss who’d come to him trusting with stars in her eyes, desperate for his kisses and more.
“Surely not now. There is…” She searched the room. “Breakfast,” she blurted. The ceremonial meal he’d not even deigned to have her family attend. Not that she necessarily wanted her family here on this sham of a union.
He paused. “Breakfast.”
Even so, a twinge of regret pulled somewhere inside that their marriage should begin in this cold, lonely way. Why should it matter how little he cared about their wedding? After all she’d not truly given a single thought about this special day. And yet, he’d been so very insistent upon having her for his wife. She cleared her throat. “Breakfast. A slight repast to begin one’s day.” Then their marriage had begun the day more than anything. Still, there was something a good deal less terrifying in eggs and cold breakfast meats than in lying with this man whose expert touch had robbed her of her senses and awakened yearnings she’d never known a person could feel. Phoebe folded her hands together in front of her. He continued to eye her through thick, curled lashes no man had a right to, and then with a veiled look, spun and started for the door.
He was leaving? Where was the sense of victory at his rapid departure? Why should she want to spend a moment with the heartless fiend who’d forced her into marriage…and who would have just as easily taken Justina to wife? Edmund strode over to the bell pull and tugged once.
He was not leaving, then.
No, he turned around and started back in her direction.
Her belly fluttered with nervousness. “What are you doing?”
A knock sounded at the door and she gave silent thanks for the momen
tary interruption. “Enter,” he called out.
The door opened and a servant stepped inside. The young maid dropped a curtsy and cast a curious gaze momentarily in her mistress’ direction before then turning her attention to her employer. “My lord?”
“A tray of breakfast,” he put in coolly. A meaningless gesture from a man who did for none. This simple request was nothing more than a chore. A useless bother. “For my wife.” For his wife.
The woman gave a quick nod and then backed out of the room.
He respected her so little he’d not even introduce her to his staff. Then he turned back to her and her body burned at the powerfully hot stare he trained upon her. And the matter of his staff and her breakfast and their wedding really was quite secondary to the wedding night business. For this stranger was a man who liked his ladies bound. Not the man who’d laid her down gently amidst the roses and made gentle love to her. She gulped.
Edmund took another step toward her and she held her palms up. “Stop.”
Surprisingly, he did.
In an attempt to right her racing heart, Phoebe drew in a breath between her lips, filling her lungs and released it slowly. He winged an expectant black eyebrow upward. “I will not let you tie me up.”
Edmund stilled.
“I-I am c-certain those are merely rumors,” she stammered in a bid to fill the quiet. Phoebe cast a glance about, searching the room for those whispered about ropes, and then swiftly returned her attention to his implacable face. “I do not see. Ropes, that is.” She bit her cheek at that silliness. Of course he’d keep those wicked cords in his chambers. “But I’ve…heard the rumors and I will not let you tie me up.”
The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, softening him in ways that were mere illusory in nature. There was nothing gentle about him. “They are not rumors.” Except his silken whisper. That was smooth and washed over her like a hot sun on a midsummer’s day. And then she registered his words.
Involuntarily, her eyes flew wide, but she was saved from responding as he pulled the door open and allowed the servant entry with a silver tray. Breakfast. She swallowed hard. As though she could entertain thoughts of food with that shocking admission. The maid averted her gaze and then quickly rushed out, pulling the door closed behind her.
Edmund turned the lock and they two were alone—again.
Suddenly, this effort he made of going through the world terrifying all—men, women, children—and her, grated on her already frayed nerves. She settled her hands on her hips and glared at him. “I will not be afraid of your lies.”
“It is not a lie—”
“Or your angry whispers and hard stares and surly disposition. I—” It is not a lie. As in Honoria had, in fact, been correct and Edmund, the Marquess of Rutland, did, in fact, tie up women. “Oh.” In light of all the treachery he’d practiced upon her, should she truly be surprised by that admission? And yet, disappointment stabbed at her. Her arms trembled and she swiftly lowered them back to her side, lest he see the effect his words had on her and take some unnatural delight in disapproval.
So lost in her thoughts, she failed to notice his approach. She stiffened as he ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. “Those women wanted it.” The flesh quivered at his caress. He brushed his lips over hers once. “And you will, too.”
That is what he’d say? He’d speak of the scandalous ladies who’d occupied a place in his bed, on their wedding night, no less? She glanced at the long-case clock tick-tocking away. Rather, their wedding night morning. Bitterness swelled deep inside. It churned in her belly and turned her insides in knots until pain melded with regret and anger. How had her mother managed to smile all these years? Phoebe wrenched away. His hand fell back to his side. “Then you should have wed one of those women, Edmund, for I am not one of those who will delight in your dark deeds and shameful acts. The man I’d want is good and does not want me bound in any way, but free and strong and happy.” She gave her head a shake. “And that man is not,” nor will ever be, “you.” With stiff legs, she stalked past him, turned the lock, and slipped from the room. She’d been wrong. It appeared there were more parts of her heart to break. For with his casual talk of others on her wedding day, he had managed to break the rest of that foolishly hopeful organ.
*
Edmund stared at the door his wife had disappeared through. He’d hurt her. Again. He scrubbed his hands over his face and cursed roundly.
This, the seduction of his wife, was to have been the easy part. He was bloody rot with all the warm endearments and gentleness she both desired and craved, but the matter of her body—that he knew. He knew how to make a woman scream with pleasure, knew just how much pressure to apply to each crevice until she pleaded for more. The memory of Phoebe’s breathless cries and whispery moans were testament to his mastery of her body. And yet… I am not one of those who will delight in your dark deeds and shameful acts… Such would never be enough for Phoebe. Edmund dropped his hands to his side. Then, with this shiftless, shapeless, amorphous world she’d thrust him into, there was nothing easy anymore in his life. He no longer knew up from down or left from right.
She’d cared that he’d spoken of other women on their wedding night. Even if it was to have been a matter of assurance. Each one of those scandalous ladies had begged to be tied and bound and then ultimately pleasured…and not a single one of them had minded he’d been with any others. In fact, they’d seemed to delight in taking the feared Marquess of Rutland to their beds.
Phoebe, however, had clearly minded. That damned hurt had glowed in her eyes so that he would have gladly removed his own right arm if it would have spared her from the pain bleeding through the fathomless blue irises. Before her, he would have said the worst thing was caring whether or not he’d hurt her. That no longer held true. Now, the worst thing was not knowing how to stop her from hurting.
Footsteps shuffled in the hall and he looked up expectantly. Disappointment settled like a stone in his belly. He’d welcomed the prospect of Phoebe returning, spitting mad and her finger wagging…than not at all. “Wallace,” he greeted his stubbornly loyal butler with wooden tones.
“My lord,” the older man said and inclined his head. “I have taken the liberty of having one of the maids show Her Ladyship to her chambers.”
He stared blankly at Wallace. The man tilted his head forward and gave him a direct look. His butler expected something of him where Phoebe was concerned. Short of reversing time, there was little he could do regarding his mention of previous lovers. On his and Phoebe’s wedding day. Wallace wagged his bushy brows. Edmund shook his head.
A rheumy smile twinkled the older servant’s eyes. “Perhaps Her Ladyship would care for her morning meal.”
He gave a tired sigh. “I will have a servant bring it up.”
Wallace coughed into his hand. “My lord, I think it is best if you bring Her Ladyship her meal.”
He cocked his head. “Me?” Aside from his miserable company, the last thing or person his wife cared for was the morning meal.
The servant nodded. “You.”
Edmund looked to the tray and then to the door and then back to the old butler. The man was loyal and faithful and really the closest person he had to a friend in this world, but he was going mad in his advancing years if he suspected Phoebe wanted to share the same room with him. Then, Wallace hadn’t overheard the exchange involving bondage and mention of previous lovers. He cringed. Yes, in retrospect that really wasn’t a matter fit for a lady’s ears—on her wedding day. From her husband, no less.
Determined as he was faithful, Wallace reached for the tray. Edmund sighed and intercepted the man’s slow movements. “I have it,” he muttered. With the burden in his hands, he started for the door.
“And perhaps, if I might be so bold,” Wallace called after him, staying his movements. “A wedding gift, my lord, perhaps?”
A wedding gift. Of course, women adored baubles and trinkets and would expect glittering gemst
ones as some kind of token. Then you should have wed one of those women, Edmund, for I am not one of those…Wallace quietly took his leave.
Tray in hand, Phoebe’s words churned around his mind, Edmund scanned his gaze over the library. Practically a room unused during his parents’ living years, it was free of memories of his youth and for that he came here often for silence and the privacy of his thoughts. He shifted the burden in his hands and eyed the room. Edmund set down the tray; a tray of rapidly cooling food and eyed the floor-length walls of leather bound volumes. He started over to one shelf and perused the titles. A collection of blue leather tomes etched in gold lettering brought him to an immediate stop. Edmund pulled the book from the shelf and flipped it open to read the author’s note at the front. His heart started in a peculiar way. Over a blasted book. “You are driving me, mad, Phoebe Barrett,” he muttered. Nay, not Barrett. Deering. He snapped the book closed, and then with his meager offering set, it down upon the tray and resumed his march to her chambers.
With each footfall that brought him closer, the blasted uncertainty and indecision grew. He gritted his teeth. How much simpler his life had been when he didn’t feel or worry about anyone but his own pleasures. But now he cared and that could not be undone. Edmund drew to a stop beside his wife’s chamber doors, recalling back to another time he’d come to a halt outside the guest chambers. His father at his side, his strong, commanding hand on his smallish shoulder. He’d looked up at his sire, who’d stared at the wood panel, and hadn’t understood the vitriol, the loathing which burned from his eyes. Until he opened the door. And then Edmund had known. From then on, he had known all—about his parents and love and innocence and, more importantly, the ugliness of life. Violently thrusting aside those musings he’d kept buried for the better part of his life, he pressed the handle. Surprise shot through him when the handle easily turned.
The Heart of a Scoundrel Page 23