A Midwinter's Scandal - A Novella Duet

by Erin Knightley

  Two young misses came around the corner, starting when they noticed him. He gave them a brief nod as they scurried past, casting furtive glances at him as they continued down the hall. They reached the retiring room and pushed their way in. The door shut after them and stayed that way.

  Long minutes later, Malcolm frowned. Was Phoebe even in there? She could have fixed an entire wardrobe’s worth of flounces by now. Had she only said she was going to the retiring room, but instead slipped away home?

  And how long should he wait in this hallway like some ogler of young ladies? He was beginning to feel rather awkward, to tell the truth.

  Finally, the door opened and Phoebe stepped out. She colored when she saw him.

  “I was hoping you’d gone back to the ballroom by now,” she said, her gaze flitting away.

  “You knew I was out here?”

  “Of course. An eligible gentleman loitering about in the hallway isn’t something any self-respecting young gossip keeps to herself. You’ve been the talk of the retiring room.”

  Malcolm felt himself color now. He cleared his throat. “I was concerned for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said as she reached him, continuing along without stopping. He fell into step beside her. “I am fine. I just became a bit overset, is all. It is kind of you to care.”

  Kind of him to care?

  Phoebe wasn’t acting herself. She wasn’t precisely frosty towards him, but she was certainly remote. A far cry from how she’d been most of the evening.

  She had much on her mind, he knew. He’d gotten just enough out of Updike to piece together what Phoebe must be planning. He admired her pluck. He didn’t know if he’d be brave enough to leave everything he’d ever known, were he in her position.

  But now, none of that was necessary. Of course she hadn’t wanted to marry that merchant her father had chosen for her, but surely she’d have no objection to marrying him. As his wife, she’d never have to worry again.

  He’d tell her now.

  It wasn’t exactly how he’d planned to broach the subject, but alleviating Phoebe’s mind took precedence over any romantic notions. He wanted to see that joyous smile she’d had on the dance floor back upon her face, post haste.

  “Come with me,” he said, steering her down a diverging hallway. If memory served, Davenport had a small study in this direction that should afford them privacy. There it was, at the far end on the right.

  After assuring that no one else already occupied the study, he held the door open for Phoebe. A slight V appeared between her brows, but she moved past him into the room at his nod. Her scent reached him as she brushed by—not flowery, as he might have expected, but clean and fresh, like morning dew on a clear spring day. Like the woman herself, it promised both new beginnings and adventures to come. An aching eagerness gripped him. He was more than ready for all of it.

  Phoebe turned when she reached the wall of mullioned windows. Moonlight flooded the room, bathing her in a silvery glow which caressed her form and features.

  Like the Queen of the Night he’d given her, Phoebe was both rare and precious. And soon, she’d be his.

  Holding her in his arms tonight as they waltzed had been exquisite torture. His hands itched to touch her again.

  Perhaps romantic notions were in order, after all. The corner of his mouth lifted as he turned the lock to keep unwanted guests from discovering them. His smile deepened as he imagined the moments to come. Her happiness at his proposal. His pleasure at her acceptance.

  A kiss to start their life together.

  Malcolm’s lips tingled with anticipation.

  But first, he needed to ask her. He pressed his lips together. Hell. Now that the moment was so suddenly upon him, he wasn’t sure exactly what to say. Marry me, Pheebs, without segue wouldn’t do. Good news! You don’t have to beggar yourself to avoid becoming a merchant’s wife! didn’t fit, either. Perhaps—

  “Thank you for tonight,” Phoebe said before he’d settled on a strategy. She looked very like an angel in the moon’s gleam. “For coming to my rescue with Harvey. Or to his rescue, as it were. I was mere seconds away from giving his ears a blistering he wouldn’t soon forget.” She laughed then, a wholly un-angelic chuckle that matched the mettlesome glint now in her eyes.

  Malcolm couldn’t help but laugh with her. “I would have enjoyed seeing that. Had I but known, I would have waited an extra moment or two before asking you to dance.”

  As their laughter died down companionably, Phoebe dropped her gaze. “It was a lovely dance.”

  Her voice had gone husky, but also wistful and tinged with an underlying blush that warmed him.

  She looked back up at him. Yes, that was definite color in her cheeks, though the moonlight made it seem more a shadow.

  Malcolm took a slow step towards her. Blushing was good. It meant she likely felt something for him. That she was affected by him, as he was by her. He had no doubt she would accept his suit, given her circumstances, but he wanted her to want him for himself, as well.

  “You were born to waltz, Phoebe,” he murmured. Malcolm slowly reached for her, taking one hand in his and placing his other on her waist, as he’d done earlier. Then he pulled her into a turn, but one much slower and more intimate than would ever be decent in a ballroom.

  He thrilled as her breath caught. He almost kissed her right then and there, the desire was so strong. But instead he turned her again. “The dance’s very nature suits you—at once both exhilarating and hypnotic in its constant twirling.”

  “I-I must admit,” she said, her voice now breathy, “I did enjoy it greatly. ’Twas my first waltz, you know.”

  He was ridiculously pleased to have been the one to introduce her to it. He hoped to introduce her to many things. “It shan’t be your last,” he promised.

  Marry me, and we’ll waltz every night.

  Bloody hell, he couldn’t say that. Even if the entendre escaped her—

  “But it shall be my last.” Phoebe took a deep breath, then neatly stepped out of his hold before he grasped her intent. She moved several arms-lengths away and smoothed her skirts before looking back at him. “Our charade was a success, and for that I will always be grateful to you, Malcolm. But my plan to avoid being shackled to Mr. Jones is firmly in motion, so there’s no need for this to continue.”

  “This...” Malcolm blinked at how quickly their conversation had turned. “No more fwoo-age, you mean?” He couldn’t help the smile that came every time her silly made-up word passed his lips.

  There was no answering smile from Phoebe. She simply nodded. “Precisely.”

  They’d come to it, then. It was time to ask the question, perfect words or no. “How do you feel about marriage, then?”

  Phoebe blinked at him, her chestnut eyes owlish in the moonlight. The silent blinking went on so long that his palms started to sweat.

  Finally, she answered, “As an institution?”

  Malcolm huffed out the breath he’d been holding. “No. As a natural extension of fwoo-age.” He shook his head, a smile once again threatening. That word. “Well, I suppose mawwiage would be the natural extension of fwoo-age, but I digress.”

  He grinned at Phoebe, but for once she didn’t smile back.

  “What are you saying?”

  Christ, he was making a hash of things, wasn’t he? He took a fortifying breath. “I’m asking you to marry me.”

  “What?” Her voice rang with genuine shock.

  Malcolm stood still, watching as she absorbed his proposal, doing his best to silently convey the earnest veracity of it.

  Phoebe’s face was an ever-changing canvas of emotion—first of widening eyes, then of flushing cheeks, until finally her expression settled into that curious mix of hope and cynicism he’d seen on the night their bargain had been struck. “Why?” she asked simply.

  Yet it wasn’t a simple question, was it? He knew quite well that tiny word was fraught with danger. The answer wasn’t simple either. He hadn’t t
he words to express the bone-deep need he felt for her, nor to convey the absolute certainty that his life would be so much less without her in it. Hell, he didn’t understand it all himself yet. He only knew it to be true.

  He’d go with the practical, then. After they were married there would be plenty of time to explore the softer side of what might grow between them. “Because you’re in need of a husband. Surely I am a better choice than Mr. Jones.”

  Phoebe’s shoulders dropped. Just a little, but he noticed. Still, she laughed. “Most assuredly, on the latter. However, you’re wrong about the first. I need no husband.”

  Malcolm snorted. “Every woman needs a husband.” Particularly Phoebe. He knew she’d told herself she was happier alone, but she deserved to share her life with someone. To have a family.

  Phoebe stiffened at his words, her back now ramrod straight. “Have you been talking to my father, then? You sound just like him.”

  Malcolm frowned. Her voice had a coolness to it he’d never heard before. “Well, yes, of course. I spoke to him this afternoon when I asked him for your hand.”

  Her gasp echoed in the darkened study. “That was a rhetorical question!” Phoebe burst into a flurry of motion which she quickly contained into a pace in front of the windows. “You actually spoke to my father about this? Before talking to me?” She blew out a disgusted breath. “I knew something was amiss. He was in much too high spirits this afternoon. But I never suspected you would do such a thing.”

  “It’s what a gentleman of honor does when he wishes to marry a man’s daughter,” he shot back. Why was she so angry? He’d never known Phoebe to be short-tempered. “And I might have spoken to you about it first, but you’re never there when I call. Too busy off making plans to run away and illustrate books under another name, Mr. Ellison.”

  Phoebe stopped mid-stride and glared at him accusingly. “How did you know about that?”

  “I made it my business to know.” Malcolm returned her glare with one of his own, but after a moment he sighed. Returning her anger would get them nowhere. “I care about you, Phoebe. I knew you were planning something, and I couldn’t stand by and let you put yourself at risk if I could help it.”

  She shook her head. “Did you tell my father?”

  “No.” He raked a hand through his hair. This entire proposal was going terribly wrong, and damned if he knew how to stop the downhill slide.

  “Well, at least there’s that,” she said, resuming her pacing. “I wouldn’t put it past him to commit me to Bedlam before I could leave. I’m certain to him—and perhaps even to you—what I’m doing is madness.”

  “Not madness, Phoebe,” he said softly. “But certainly not wise.”

  She stopped again and turned to face him. Her cheeks darkened. “Not wise?”

  “I’m not saying you’re not wise.” He suppressed the urge to growl his frustration. “You’re one of the brightest people I know, of either sex. But this plan of yours is not. Not smart. Not safe. Not even realistic.”

  “Because I’m a woman?”

  “Yes!” he said. “And a bloody infuriating one, at that.”

  That startled a laugh out of her. “Tell me how you really feel about me,” she said wryly.

  Hell, now she had him cursing. Malcolm shook his head. At least she was smiling.

  For the moment. This entire subject was a trap, he knew. Still, he must forge on. He took a deep breath before marching back into it.

  “Not because you’re a woman. Because you’d be a woman alone. Right or wrong, fair or not, the world can be cruel to those most vulnerable.”

  Phoebe looked away, not arguing what she must know to be true. But when her gaze returned to him, the determined set of her jaw told him that though he’d won that point, he may still very well lose the match.

  “You’re right. There are no guarantees. But even tomorrow is promised to no one. And though the world may be cruel, I’d rather take my chances in freedom than continue to live under another’s thumb. I shall be the only one to decide my own fate.”

  Her words echoed in his heart. Though his long-ago arguments with his own father were not exactly the same, he recognized that more lay between Phoebe and Lord Anson than he’d suspected, and that was a pain he knew all too well.

  “I understand.” He stepped toward her, much as he would a skittish horse. He reached out a hand, gently cupping her jaw in his palm. “But it wouldn’t be like that with us, Pheebs. I am not your father. Nor am I a man who is marrying you only to better my lot in life.” Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had no doubt Phoebe would make his life better in myriad ways. He brought his other hand up, now framing her face as he gazed down at her. “I could be your choice. Won’t you at least consider me over a life of uncertainty?”

  Her gaze held his. She was wavering. He could see it in the way she relaxed at his touch. “Marry me, Phoebe,” he whispered.

  Her lids fluttered closed, her lashes dark against skin made impossibly pale by the moonlight. “Why?” she asked again, this time on a whisper of her own.

  He’d gotten the answer wrong last time. He didn’t know what she needed to hear, exactly, so he gave her the most honest answer he could.

  “Because I want you,” he growled, and took her lips in a kiss.

  Chapter Nine

  He wanted her?

  It was the only thought Phoebe had time for before her entire being was swept into sensation. First, of warm soft lips, startling upon her own. Her eyes flew open, but closed again as she understood. Malcolm was kissing her. Her!

  She breathed in his comforting, earthy scent, making even her very lungs tingle from his nearness.

  Phoebe relaxed into his touch. Though she had no experience with kisses, Malcolm’s mouth moving on hers seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  Then she felt his tongue. Soft, yet rough, teasing and probing at the seam of her lips. His thumb pressed gently against her chin. Did he wish her to open her mouth? She let her lips part and oh my... Malcolm swept in, strength and warmth stroking against her. Who knew mouths could do this?

  The thrill that coursed through her body made every nerve sing. Everything inside her screamed for her to open to him, like a flower to the sun. This was more than natural. It was primal. It was what she was made for. And she wished it to go on forever.

  But just as she was about to try some strokes of her own, Malcolm withdrew, gentling the kiss until he was placing tiny nibbles at the corners of her lips.

  “Marry me,” he whispered again, this time against her mouth.

  She pulled back from him, searching his face. His eyes, normally such a vibrant green, were now dark and fathomless—she suspected due to the same sensual languor that turned her blood thick in her veins.

  Maybe he really did want her as his wife. Not because he thought her in desperate straits, but for some other reason. Even were it only desire, good marriages had been built on less.

  Her heart seemed to swell inside her chest. Could she be his late bloomer after all?

  But your freedom...an inner voice whispered.

  Yes. She’d become quite attached to the idea. She’d promised her mother she’d live the life she wanted to live. But it had been her friend, Miss Claremont, who’d given her confidence that she could make a life for herself on her own. Liliana had walked away from Society to pursue her love of chemistry and medicinal herbs last year, and she was happier than Phoebe had ever seen her. She envied her that.

  And she’d worked so hard for her chance to illustrate Mr. Updike’s book. She didn’t want to give that up, nor her dream of authoring books of her own. A husband could force her to his will.

  But Malcolm said it wouldn’t be like that between them. That he understood her need to have control over her own fate. Could she trust that?

  “All right, Malcolm,” she murmured. “I’ll marry you. On one condition.”

  He smiled at her answer, but one brow winged up in question. “Only one?”

/>   She tipped her head from side to side. “An ongoing one, I suppose. I ask that you don’t stand in my way of going on this expedition—or any further endeavors I choose to pursue.”

  Malcolm’s smile froze upon his face, and Phoebe felt a chill start low in her middle. His brows lowered slowly and her stomach clenched.

  “But as my wife, there’s no need for you to have to work for another.”

  Phoebe’s breathing tightened a bit. Still, Malcolm sounded confused, not forbidding. Perhaps she was just overly wary, given her sensitivity to the matter.

  “True,” she said slowly. “But it’s not about my having to. It’s about my wanting to.”

  His smile unfroze and melted into a frown. “Pheebs...” he said, then stopped, as if searching for words. As he started to shake his head, Phoebe’s throat constricted. “I don’t understand.”

  She held her judgment, though it was difficult. She took a deep breath and asked carefully, “Why I still want to go?”

  He gave her an indecisive nod. There was more he didn’t understand than that, then. Phoebe briefly closed her eyes. They were still talking, however. All was not necessarily lost.

  “Because I’ve worked hard for the opportunity, for one reason. Because it’s important work, for another. Farming techniques are advancing, but they are also wiping out vast populations of our wildflowers. More are disappearing from the English countryside every day.

  “And you said it yourself—I have a gift. I may not be able to preserve them, but I can record them so that others may be able to experience them, in a fashion. Before they’re gone forever.”

  She left the rest unsaid. She’d made it clear before that she’d accept no less than deciding her own fate.

  Malcolm listened intently, she knew. She’d felt his gaze like a living thing, but after waiting for a long minute for her to say more, it slid away. To the casual observer, it might appear something outside the window had caught his attention, but she knew he was lost in thought.

  Were he her father, he’d have just dismissed her condition out of hand. Phoebe held on to her hope during the long moments Malcolm contemplated her words.