Grinding one fist against his palm, Edward paced from window to window, cursing his grandfather for concocting such a scheme to begin with.
There simply hadn't been enough time, he decided. Not for proper courting and most especially not for winning a lady's heart. With more time, he might have been able to woo her. With more time, perhaps he could have won her confidence. With more time, he might have gently seduced her, and then, having won her body, perhaps he could have won her heart.
Instead, she had promised it to another and now every man of his acquaintance, no matter how brief or insignificant, became subjects of his suspicion. Who had claimed her love? While he had been kept busy with trying to help save her good-for-naught brother, and thus her deepest admiration, to whom, precisely, had she given her love?
Disgusted by the accusatory bend of his thoughts, Edward shoved his hands into his pockets and immediately his fist closed over the ring she had returned to him mere hours ago—the ring which was meant to remain on her finger until her death, when it would then be passed on to their firstborn son … only now there would be no wedding, no son, for Phoebe had rejected him.
Leaning against the door, he rocked his head back once, again, and again, as if he were attempting to pound away the injustice of her withdrawal from the agreement and even the way she had presented the matter; somehow, she had made her retraction seem as if she did it as a favor to him. Not that it mattered, who had rejected whom. The whole idea of a marriage to unite the Rothwyn and Vykhurst families had been his grandfather's idea. Edward certainly hadn't wanted to get married when his grandfather had presented his grand plan and clearly, now that her brother was safe, neither did Phoebe.
Why, then, was her final-hour defection bothering him so? From the beginning, he had made it clear his emotions, his affections were not engaged. Their marriage was to have been nothing more than a beneficial arrangement between their two families. He had expected no less and there was no reason for him to have desired more.
Phoebe's dowry would have restored the Vykhurst wealth, but so could the dowry of any other daughter of the aristocracy. Phoebe was young enough to give him sons to inherit the legacy he would leave behind and comely enough that the begetting of those sons would not have been a chore.
The same could be said for any number of eligible females enjoying the London Season even now. Everything that was expected of him as the earl's heir could still easily be accomplished, even through an arranged marriage, but it was not those accomplishments or the lack thereof which continued to torture him even now when he knew it was too late.
He wanted Phoebe.
He wanted her but he did not understand how doing so had come to matter so much to him, just as he still did not comprehend why he had become so angry over the way she had told him she no longer wanted him in her life.
Perhaps it was the way in which she had withdrawn herself from the agreement? The quietly simple yet somehow vitriolically-laced tone behind the words she had used? I release you, she had said. You are free. Like one of the damned dainty butterflies in his paintings his grandfather often complained about. Delicate and fragile and easily crushed, the hapless creatures were not worthy of having been committed to canvas.
His grandfather was right, he decided. All his mother's coddling and praise had turned him missish. Affronted by the realization, Edward scoffed at his own maudlin reaction to Phoebe's easy dismissal of him from her life and pushed himself away from the door to search for a tinder to light the lamps.
Tonight, he would lose his anger and frustration in the only way he knew: he would paint.
Being framed with windows all about, the natural light nature afforded by day here in the tower was perfect, but tonight he would work within the fiery, brilliant glow of a score or more lamps, each strategically hung between the glass panes whose polished surfaces would reflect the light back into the center of the room where his easel waited.
On low tables both to the left and right of the easel, a vast array of pots filled with costly pigments, each carefully ground, measured, and mixed to his own preference, were arranged alongside the precious few fine-haired brushes he had attained over the years.
Striding forward, he chose one and made a bold stroke across the center of the stark canvas in front of him, letting the bright slash of color distract him from his troubled thoughts and draw him into the painting.
As his brush moved across the canvas, he thought of his mother and of the many hours she had spent here in the tower with him when he became upset with some facet of his life. His gaze never left the canvas, but in his thoughts, he could see here there, sitting quietly in her rocking chair, her fingers nimbly stitching while he wiped away his frustrations with paint.
Despite his grandfather's blatant disdain for Edward's passion, his mother had often praised his talent and encouraged him to continue his efforts in spite of his grandfather's disapproval. It was her support and encouragement that had kept his ambition alive and allowed his talent to grow until this very day.
Were it not for her, Edward very much doubted his painting would have continued, much less become works of such high quality that many of them now held positions of honor within the great halls and drawing rooms across all of London as well as within a number of England's grand museums of art.
Today, his skill with a brush was lauded throughout the countryside, though few actually knew the man behind the name upon whom they lavished their praise. E. C. Vyk was the appellation Edward always took great care to inscribe along the bottom of his completed works, but he could count on one hand the number of people who were aware that behind the anonym stood the very real and apparently very vulnerable Mister Edward Claybourne of Vykhurst.
It was a secret he longed to share—one he had thought to share with Phoebe once they were married. He had believed she would be one of the few people in his life who, like his mother, would understand why he did it.
There was a passion inside of her so like his own he had been certain she would know exactly how it felt to lose himself within the many swirls and strokes, the wide arcs and tiny lines that, together, made up the whole of each new creation.
There was also her understanding of commitment in the face of utter opposition and her unswerving determination to follow through once she had set herself upon a course of action. Simply by being herself she complimented him in so many ways. She was brilliant and beautiful and so damned loving …
His brush slowed and then fell still while he struggled to sort the dawning inside his heart and his head until, finally, he laid it aside and lowered his head in silent submission to the truth he had discovered too late.
Phoebe, he realized at last, was the other half of his soul.
19
“You look positively stunning, Claire,” Phoebe assured her soon-to-be sister by marriage as she adjusted the long length of delicately embroidered ivory silk spilling out behind her, a note of wistfulness in her tone, “Lucien will be beaming with pride when he sees you.”
“And most eager to have her to himself where he can claim her as his own, I'll dare say,” Alaina teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief even as she ducked the scolding swat her sister aimed her way.
“What?” she insisted, her tone utterly unapologetic. “He already looks at her as if he might devour her at any moment. One glimpse of her in this dress and he may well find his hunger pushed beyond the bounds of his endurance and make a meal of her, at last.”
“Let us hope he waits at least until after the ceremony, for propriety's sake,” Emily drolly replied.
“Hang propriety. When love is at stake, the rules can all go to the devil. In matters of the heart, passion should always win...and you can say nothing to the contrary, Phoebe,” Alaina warned her sister with a narrow-eyed glare the minute she opened her mouth to protest. “Many times I've seen Mister Claybourne look at you in the exact same way.”
“Alaina,” Phoebe heard Claire caution quietly after a quick
, covert glance in her direction, but the eldest St. Daine twin was either completely blind and deaf when it came to hints regarding a need to hold her tongue about certain people in the presence of certain other people or she simply did not care.
“He wants you,” Alaina insisted, “just as Lucien wants Claire.”
Flushing hotly even as she cast a sidelong glance at Phoebe, Claire asked, “Are you saying you think Phoebe made a mistake by granting Mister Claybourne his freedom?”
Alaina shook her head. “I am saying I know Phoebe thinks Mister Claybourne doesn't love her but even she cannot deny the desire we all have plainly seen in his eyes when he looks at her.” Turning to Phoebe, she said, “You can build a life from that, Phoebe. You can grow love from that. It simply takes time—”
“Speaking of time,” Emily tilted her head toward the ornate clock upon the mantle. “If we do not prepare to leave for the cathedral soon, Lucien will think Claire has opted to grant him his freedom as well, only somehow I do not think he will be as complacent about it as Mister Claybourne apparently was.”
A knock at the door drew the ladies' attention and Phoebe hurried to answer it, pretending she was needed for such tasks. Straightening gowns and answering doors gave her something with which to occupy herself and helped keep her mind from drifting pensively to maudlin thoughts of Edward.
Melisande and Chelsea swept into the room with Amelia and Claire's mother, Clarisse following directly behind them. Amelia took one look at Claire and said, “Your daughter makes a beautiful bride, my dear, but then, I knew she would from the first moment I saw her. We are all very proud to welcome her into our family.”
With everyone's attention centered on the bride, Phoebe used the moment of distraction to try and slip quietly from the room. Today was supposed to be a happy day for Lucien and Claire and she had done her utmost best to honor the moment, taking care to hide her own unhappiness, and she thought she had done a right swell job of it, too, until Alaina decided to disregard all sense of sensibility and callously remind her of all that she had given up.
Now, all she wanted to do was escape to her room to nurse her pain in private. She hadn't quite made it to the door when her grandmother's clear voice forced her to a reluctant halt. “We are still awaiting word from Claybourne or Vykhurst, Phoebe.”
A quick nod in answer was all that was needed, and she gave it along with a shaky smile before hurrying from the room in search of a quiet corner of solitude where she might regain some semblance of control over her wayward emotions.
Though she had explained to Tristan, and then later to Lucien once she was able to contain her emotions well enough to do so that she had released Edward from their promise, neither Lucien nor the earl had made a public announcement regarding the dissolution of Phoebe and Edward's betrothal. Lucien seemed to think Edward only needed a bit of time to realize Phoebe was, indeed, in love with him but Phoebe knew better.
Lucien had not been there. He had not seen the absolute calm in which Edward had received her news. If her withdrawal would have affected him even the tiniest bit, she would have poured out her heart to him and begged him to give them a chance. But he had been utterly silent. He had even smiled when he bade her goodbye.
During the past several days, Phoebe had fallen into the loneliest depths of despair of her entire life. Each morning she woke to an emptiness she was unable to define and every night she wept silently into her pillow. For Edward. For all that was lost to her. For every moment she knew she would miss and would long for until the end of her days. She had thought she knew well the bitter ache of hopeless despair before, when Tristan could not be found and then again when she thought he would hang, but no amount of angst thus far compared to knowing all she had to look forward to was the bleak emptiness of an eternity of days without Edward beside her to share them.
Hastening her footsteps lest yet another member of her family or soon-to-be family catch her weeping upon the stairs and try yet again to cheer her on this utterly cheerless day, Phoebe hurried down the remaining stairs and ducked into an alcove for a moment of badly needed privacy.
Wiping away the sting of tears with the back of her hand, Phoebe sniffed and tried to will away her sadness. So preoccupied was she with disbursing the watery evidence of the pain she felt inside, she did not hear Chelsea's quiet footfalls on the stairs nor did she realize the lady had come up behind her just outside the alcove until she spoke.
“I heard what your sister said about your betrothed up there.”
Jerking her head around in surprise, Phoebe straightened and did her best to pretend she had not just been indulging in a weepy moment. Still, she feared the raspy sound of her voice when she spoke would give her away. “Mister Claybourne is no longer my betrothed. Alas, Alaina has always been the dreamer of the family and often sees only that which she wishes to see.”
Chelsea's head tilted to the side and her expression grew pensive, as if she were considering Phoebe's words at length and weighing them for truth. Then, her eyes cleared and a smile appeared both on her lips and in the depths of her gaze. “I spent only a brief time here in your Mister Claybourne's company after Tristan's appearance before the magistrate, and Phoebe, I must say I am inclined to agree with Alaina.”
Shaking her head no, Phoebe drew in a breath to calm the shakiness in her voice and said, “You are wrong. If Edward cared for me as you all seem to think he does, he would have said something—”
Chelsea laid a hand against her arm, quieting her. “Men rarely speak of what lies in their hearts, Phoebe.”
Phoebe was still wont to protest but her new sister-in-law would not allow it. “Your brother told me about the visit Mister Claybourne paid to him while he was in Newgate, of how he demanded that Tristan straighten and present himself long enough to calm your fears.”
Despite the warm feelings Chelsea's words brought, Phoebe scoffed. Their visit to Newgate was an outing that both she and Lucien had attended. If Edward had hoped she would see it as his attempt to do something nice for her... “We all visited Tristan that day. Lucien, Edward, and myself. Tristan was terribly ill. In his delirium, he thought I was you—”
Chelsea sighed. “Even had I not been here to see with my own eyes the way your betrothed beamed with pride at being able to see your fondest wish—Tristan's freedom—granted you at last, I would still believe the man is in love with you. Phoebe, you may not be aware of it, but you were all able to visit Tristan while he was in Newgate because Edward made it so. Why would a man who cares naught a whit for you or your happiness do such a thing?”
“He what?” Phoebe's mind reeled. What Chelsea claimed was not possible. Only days before their visit to the prison, Edward had made it more than clear to her he held no particular emotional attachment to the bride he had been forced to choose—her. Surely what Chelsea said could not possibly be true. And if it were...
When she glanced back at Chelsea, she saw compassion filling her gaze. “I suppose you did not know that. You were distraught over the thought of losing your brother, after all but your Mister Claybourne, he went to the earl—his grandfather—and demanded he find a way to get the duke inside the prison to see Tristan. When the earl refused, Edward threatened to renege on the agreement between his grandfather and the duke if a meeting was not immediately arranged.”
Phoebe was shocked. Hurriedly squashing down the hope she felt rising within her, she asked, “Are you certain? How did you—?”
Motioning for silence with a finger to her lips, Chelsea glanced back over her shoulder to see if anyone else were within hearing but apparently changed her mind about speaking the name aloud because, turning back to Phoebe, she mouthed a single name.
Tony.
Her lips turned upward in a wry twist and she shrugged as if to say she did not understand how he knew so much about so many things, either. “That man has ways of finding out anything he wants to know, Phoebe. He told Tristan and I about it a few days ago when he visited us at Greeding.
”
A wobbly, sad little smile pursed her lips. “Edward did it for you, Phoebe. He did it because he cares for you. A great deal, I think. A man who has no interest in a woman would not do the things he has done for you. Do you love him?”
Phoebe nodded.
“Tell him,” Chelsea insisted, her smile taking on a somewhat rueful bent as she leaned close to embrace her new sister. After a moment, she moved away and headed toward the stairs to rejoin the others, but then she halted and turned back to Phoebe to add, “Men like Edward Claybourne are rare, indeed, and being gifted with the love of such a man deserves all the love you could possibly give him in return.”
Phoebe struggled to find her voice, to force the few words she might have said past the tight knot suddenly restricting her throat, but nothing came out. How could she explain the surge of gladness at knowing Edward had ensured she was able to reassure herself about Tristan's well-being was still overshadowed by the terrible knowledge that, even if he had come to care for her, he would not be waiting for her at the church as Lucien would be for Claire today. She had given him his freedom, and he had left her with a smile.
Chelsea merely nodded her understanding. “Just trust me. He clearly has feelings for you. True, he has chosen not to express them and for reasons we may never understand, but please do not allow his hesitance to cost you future happiness, Phoebe. Let it be enough that your sisters and I are aware of his love for you—even if you do not yet see the truth of it yourself.”
Across town, Edward regarded the painting he had propped against the wall with a jaundiced eye. The couple depicted upon his canvas over a background of muted colors were brilliantly vibrant in their detail, their features and expressions as accurately drawn as the limits of his recall would allow. Everything he had hoped to bring forth within the scene was there—but his delight at being able to offer it had waned.
An Unexpected Passion (Unexpected Series Book 2) Page 16