She made a slight, frantic shake of her head in her chaperone’s direction. Unfortunately, Mrs. Tanner’s attention was directed entirely at Major Stanton. “I wonder why thee would need to see my friend alone, sir.”
The contours of Major Stanton’s face remained unchanged, but Phoebe sensed impatience in every line of his muscular physique.
“I mean no disrespect, Mrs. Tanner. I give you my word that your charge is safe with me. But my uncle left private instructions for Miss Linville and I’m loath to discuss them with anyone but her.”
His compelling gaze locked with Mrs. Tanner’s as they took each other’s measure, not as enemies but surely not as friends. Then he seemed to let go of some troubling notion that had stood like a bulwark in his mind, and his face relaxed into a smile. A charming smile, Phoebe noted with surprise, one so engaging and warm she felt something inside her give way, too.
Mrs. Tanner, as mature as she was, was obviously not immune to such masculine charm, either. She cast a glance at Phoebe and then inclined her head in a surprisingly gracious nod. “Very well. I see no harm in leaving thee alone with Miss Linville for a few minutes. But I would ask thee to remember that she has suffered a terrible shock. Nor has she recovered completely from the illness that struck her on the crossing.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes. They had all suffered on board the ship, and Mrs. Tanner even worse than the rest of them. In fact, Phoebe had nursed her and several other women and children through the depths of the sickness before falling ill herself. Still, Mrs. Tanner, like most of the people in Phoebe’s life, too often insisted on treating her as little better than a helpless child.
Major Stanton placed his hand over his heart, as if making a vow. “You have my word that I will do my best not to upset Miss Linville. Her well-being is more important to me than anything else.”
“But, surely—” Phoebe began.
His intent gaze shifted to her again, silencing the protest on her lips. Some invisible force arced between them, and Phoebe’s breath snagged in her throat. How could eyes that studied her with such cool regard make her feel so . . . hot? As if he wanted something from her that was both unknown and forbidden.
That he did want something she felt certain. And some inner sense told her that even if she was not prepared to give it, Major Stanton was the kind of man who would take it anyway.
Chapter 2
The door closed, leaving Phoebe alone with her newly found relative. She supposed they were cousins of a sort, although she could hardly think of him that way. A cousin was a comfortable sort of creature—family, but without all the loving complications and tender hardships imposed by mothers and fathers, or even half brothers and sisters-in-law.
But there was nothing easy about Major Stanton. Too big and too worldly, he had an arrogant cast to his handsome face and soldier’s body. And despite his polished manners and fine clothes, she sensed a restless temper in him—one tightly leashed, but never far from the surface.
She recognized that restless temper because it lived inside her, too. It was a feeling she had fought all her life to repress. But she suspected the major had it in abundance, and it unnerved her.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak privately,” he said, not sounding intimidating at the moment.
Her fluttering nerves settled a bit. “You left me little choice, Major. I am surprised Mrs. Tanner succumbed so readily to your town manners and worldly charm.”
His jaw slackened, and she felt a guilty tingle of satisfaction. Then his eyes sparked with amusement. “You surprise me, Miss Linville. And here I was thinking you nothing more than a meek little Quaker from the country.”
She bit the inside of her lip, resisting the temptation to bristle at his playful jab. “I may have been raised in a Quaker household,” she finally said, “but you will find I am no rustic from New Jersey. My father was a well-educated man, and my mother had several Seasons in London before she married. Between them, I believe my education to be as accomplished as that of any English girl of good family.”
“Probably better,” he said, his eyes retaining a hint of laughter. “But I stand corrected. I will not make the same mistake twice.”
She nodded, then asked him the question that had been preying on her mind for some minutes. “Major, before you tell me what my grandfather wished me to hear, could you explain why he asked you to impart this information? What is your exact relation to him, and to me?”
He looked rueful. “It seems I owe you yet another apology. I should have explained that right off.”
Phoebe liked that he apologized to her so freely, unlike many men—even some Quakers. Major Stanton appeared not to have any such false pride, and it made him seem less overwhelming, at least for now.
“I am your cousin, Miss Linville, although removed by several degrees. Our grandfathers share a grandfather on the Stanton side.”
He paused, and a black scowl fleetingly crossed his features. She shivered as the engaging man who sat before her became once more the grim, hard-eyed stranger of their initial encounter. What had caused the change?
“As you know,” he continued in a carefully neutral voice, “your grandfather, Lord Merritt, had only two children, your mother and her brother, Robert. Your Uncle Robert died two years ago, leaving your grandfather without a direct heir.”
She nodded. “He wrote several months after that sad event, asking me to travel to England. I was all that remained of his immediate family, and he believed it was right to return home to him.”
Home. The word floated through her mind, teasing her with its elusive promise of security.
She clamped her lips shut, holding back the swell of grief. If only she had ignored her brother’s attempts to hold her back, which had delayed her departure for months. She should have taken the packet to England as soon as she received her grandfather’s first letter.
Major Stanton nodded. “He told me that. He also told me he regretted nothing more than his estrangement from your mother, which he blamed entirely on himself. His greatest wish was to see you before he died, and your name was the last word he spoke on this earth.”
A confusing tangle of emotions welled up in Phoebe’s chest, squeezing so hard she hunched her shoulders against it. She fought it, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths. When a few unwelcome tears leaked from her eyes, Major Stanton rose from his seat and moved to sit next to her. Startled, she edged away until she hit the arm of the sofa. It could not be appropriate for him to sit so close with no companion or chaperone in the room.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured in a kind voice. “I regret distressing you, but I thought you would want to know exactly how Lord Merritt felt about you, and about your mother.”
He extracted a handkerchief from some mysterious inner pocket and handed it to her. She took it with a grateful, half-suppressed sob and carefully blotted her cheeks. The snowy white fabric felt soft against her skin, and so much finer than the prosaic cotton squares she usually carried in her pocket. His had a cool, silky texture, and it reminded her of a beautiful old scarf her mother had once owned.
She dabbed her cheeks one more time but when she tried to return his handkerchief, he pressed it into her hands.
“I thank you for telling me,” she said, touched by his compassion. “You must excuse me. It is simply the effects of that wretched voyage that make me act so foolishly.”
He reached over and took her hand. She jumped at the contact.
“I don’t think you’re foolish, Miss Linville,” he said. “What you did in leaving the only home you have ever known took fortitude and courage, and I honor you for it.”
She stared at him, her limbs fighting a strange weakness. Not weakness from illness, but weak from the touch of his calloused hand and from the way his large frame loomed over her. Sitting next to him, only inches apart, made her feel as delicate as a hummingbird. She felt drawn to him, as if she could rely on him to solve all her problems. It was not a feeling she liked.
> “I thank you,” she said, extracting her hand. “Please continue. You were about to tell me the exact nature of your relationship with my grandfather.”
That amused gleam returned to his eye. She silently vowed to ignore it.
Ignore it but for the fact that her cheeks flamed with heat. His ability to unsettle her made no sense. It could not possibly have anything to do with his powerful body and handsome face, or the way he studied her so intently. She was immune to that, and had always been. A man like Major Stanton could not be attractive to her. He was a soldier and she had been raised as a Quaker. Despite his kindness, he was a hard man who earned his living in the hardest of ways.
“I am your grandfather’s heir,” he finally said. “I am the eighth Earl of Merritt through the next direct line of male heirs in the Stanton family.”
She blinked, momentarily confused, and then realized he must have introduced himself as Major Stanton so as to mitigate the shock of Grandfather’s death. “That was kind of you to think of me with such compassion, Major . . . Lord Merritt.” She dredged up a grateful smile.
He did not return it. In fact, he looked like a man about to deliver more bad news.
“What else?” she asked in a hollow voice.
He grimaced, enough to make her heart sink. Dear Father in heaven. How much worse would this day get?
She straightened her spine. Whatever it was, she would confront it directly and do her best to accept it with good faith. Unfortunately, faith had a nasty habit of abandoning her, and her grandfather’s death might just have delivered it a mortal blow.
“You must tell me,” she said, clenching her fists within the folds of her gown.
He cast her another of his assessing looks before pulling a letter from his inner pocket.
“Lord Merritt wrote this on his deathbed. I thought to speak with you about his wishes before showing it to you, but perhaps there’s no point in attempting to blunt the impact of his words.”
He wore a look of grim resignation as he handed over the envelope, and it struck her how unpleasant this duty must be for him. He was trying to be gentle with her, even though that particular quality did not seem to come easily.
With shaking fingers, Phoebe unfolded the letter and spread it in her lap. The spidery crawl of words proved difficult to read, so she brought the thick piece of vellum close to her face. As she absorbed the words, the air grew heavy in her lungs and the blood in her veins surged in a sickening rush. Aghast, she read it three times. But each time the meaning refused to change, no matter how hard she tried to wrestle the words into another, less bizarre import.
Now she understood the tension that lay over the major like an ill-fitting coat.
“Why would my grandfather want me to marry you?” she exclaimed. “I never even knew you existed before today.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, and she belatedly realized how horrified she sounded, as if she could imagine nothing worse than marriage to him. She realized with a start that she was shrinking away from him, as if frightened.
Hastily, she jerked back to an upright position. Unfortunately, her correction came a moment too late.
“Miss Linville,” he said in a carefully controlled voice, “I promise you there’s no need to cower from me. I’m not some ogre come to snatch you away from your friends.”
She closed her eyes, humiliated. But keeping her eyes closed would not lessen her embarrassment or make the situation disappear. “I know.” She opened her eyes to meet his probing gaze. “It is just that—”
“I understand. And I will try to explain Lord Merritt’s wishes as best I can. You must believe he had only your best interests at heart.”
Her mind reeled from one frantic thought to the other. “You must realize the entire notion is ridiculous. Was my grandfather still in his right mind when he wrote this?”
One of his brows flew up into a haughty arch she was beginning to recognize. She had offended him, and how could she blame him? He was a man who likely had women throwing themselves at his feet, not reacting with horror to the very idea of marriage to him. Not to mention the fact that she was questioning her grandfather’s sanity.
“I can assure you,” he answered with a little growl that sent a shiver down her spine, “Lord Merritt was indeed in his right mind. I watched him write this, and his intent could not be clearer. In fact, we discussed it at length, and came to some conclusions as to what would be best for you when Lord Merritt was gone.”
They had discussed it? Two men she had never met, deciding the entire course of her life? The very reason she had left America was to escape the restraint her half brother and her community had tried to impose on her. She would not be dictated to.
She waved the paper at him. “This letter is beyond anything! It is . . .”
“Insistent?” he cut in dryly.
More like desperate. As if only the prospect of her accepting Major Stanton’s hand could ease the torments of the old man’s deathbed. Her grandfather’s letter verily begged her to marry him.
The major returned her gaze with eyes the color of the Atlantic after a northern gale, and just as turbulent. His attitude, however, remained cool and controlled. Phoebe wondered what could make this powerful man lose his impressive control.
She had the idea she did not want to find out.
He finally answered her in the patient kind of voice one might use with a slow-witted child. “Your grandfather believed you needed the protection of your family. Your real family. He was greatly distressed by the circumstances of your life in America. It was apparent to him through your letters that you were unhappy. Lord Merritt could not tolerate the idea of his only grandchild living a life of dreary obscurity as a dependent.”
Phoebe bit her lip, irritated she had revealed so much of her unhappiness to Grandfather. But he had been so open in his own letters and had encouraged her to be equally frank.
Major Stanton leaned forward to capture her attention. “As the new Earl of Merritt and as a member of your family, I agreed with your grandfather’s assessment. Nothing you have said today changes my opinion. It would be best for you to remain in England, with us.”
Still clutching his handkerchief, Phoebe raised a hand to her mouth as she wracked her brain for an appropriate response. A whisper of exotic spices drifted up her nostrils, bracing and utterly masculine. The square of fabric she clutched carried the scent of the man looming over her, and she found it oddly comforting.
Then she met his hard gaze again and humiliation came rushing back. That she hated her life in her brother’s household was partly her own fault. If she were a better person—a better Quaker—she would no doubt accept her lot in life with a cheerful heart. But Phoebe was rebellious like her mother, as George had so often reminded her. That her grandfather had exposed her moral weakness to a perfect stranger stung her to the quick.
“Forgive me, sir. But I fail to see what business it is of yours. You have never met me before today, and surely our connection is too remote to make an appreciable difference.”
“I disagree. In any event, I gave Lord Merritt my solemn word that I would provide for you and protect you, whether you wished to marry me or not.”
What did he expect her to say to that astonishing statement? She struggled to answer. “That is not necessary, nor would it be right. Surely, you must see the best solution is for me to return to America.”
His brow furrowed in a scowl, and Phoebe held back a sigh. She was heartily sick of the men in her life—she supposed the major now counted as being in her life—disapproving of her decisions. And she was weary of other people rearranging her life as if she were nothing more than a table setting.
Even if this particular arrangement coincided with her wish to remain in England. “Major, I—”
As he reached out and took her hand, she spluttered into silence. Carefully, he pried her fingers apart and removed his handkerchief, folding it back into a tidy square and placing it in her lap before recap
turing her hand.
She stared at him, dumbfounded. The aggressive cast of his face had gentled. He cradled her hand in his, resting them both on his knee. Heat seemed to arc from his palm into hers, and she could hardly breathe.
“Miss Linville, I will not try to force you to do anything contrary to your wishes, nor will anyone else in the family. But I made a promise to a dying man, and I intend to honor that promise. I would also ask you to remember that he had only your safekeeping at heart. He loved you very much, and wanted only the best for you.”
He leveled an engaging smile at her, one so enticing she could do nothing for a few moments but blink at him.
“And having finally met you,” he continued, “I can understand why he felt so protective of you.”
She frowned, not sure of his meaning. “But, surely, you do not wish to marry me, do you? The very notion is . . . is absurd.”
He shrugged, as if it were of little consequence. “Not to a dying man riddled with guilt and fear for his granddaughter. You cannot cavalierly disregard his wishes.”
Phoebe had the sensation someone had cast her adrift in a bubble, and she could no longer fathom which way was down or up. “Major Stanton, do you actually wish to marry me?”
His eyes gleamed with a teasing calculation. “I don’t frighten you, do I? Yes, I look like a grizzled old soldier, but I promise I’m actually a very mild fellow.”
Startled, she stared at him. How could he make a joke of it? “I suspect that is not true,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. Carefully, she pulled her hand from his grip.
His answering laugh, low and masculine, wrapped around her, deflecting her anger in some inexplicable way. “You needn’t worry. I’m not asking you to marry me. I simply suggest you consider the wishes of a fine man who desired your happiness more than anything on earth.”
She eyed him with suspicion. Her grandfather’s instructions left little room for doubt as to what those wishes entailed. “Then what do you wish of me?”
His Mistletoe Bride Page 3