When the Earl Met His Match

by Stacy Reid

  Phoebe had met the staff, and while they treated her with the utmost courtesy and respect, there was little for her to do outside of overlooking the menu as the large castle was run with impressive efficiency by an army of servants who seemed to adore their master. It charmed her that they extended the same courtesy to her, and the servants had happily enfolded Sarah and her beau into their family.

  Phoebe strolled down the hallway large enough to host a ball, toward the room she had commanded as her own. It was there she spent most of her days reading and oftentimes staring out the windows at the lawns and lake in the distance. By all accounts, she should be contented: her baby would not suffer the indignity of being labeled a bastard, her family and her reputation had been saved, she was not forced to marry a man older than Papa, and she was married to a future earl. She had been rescued from ruin and ignominy, yet there was a restlessness inside that saw her twisting and turning at nights.

  Why do I feel so out of sorts and unsettled?

  Phoebe would often lie on her side and stare at that connecting door. Sometimes she would hear her husband moving about in his room, and she would push from the bed and pad over to the door to stand before it. Sometimes she would even grasp the door handle, but she’d never worked up the courage to turn that handle or knock on the door. It frustrated Phoebe that she would do this several times, for she truly did not know what she required from the viscount.

  “I do not like his indifference to me,” she said softly. “Good heavens, but my impatient heart wants more.” The desire frightened her a bit, and she had to recall her vow to no longer be impetuous or to seek after tender sentiments. Phoebe hungered for more than this polite civility but was at a loss as to how to break that polite barrier.

  I must think about this carefully.

  Opening the door to her own private parlor, she entered and left the door ajar. Immediately, she felt soothed, and she walked over to the escritoire by the windows. It was one of her favorite things about the room. One of the walls was made up entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows. Sunlight poured in, bathing the room in a bright glow.

  Phoebe lowered into the chair by the writing desk, determined to complete her letters today. She had already written Richard, informing him of her marriage and to which family, assuring him that she was safe. It had been more difficult to compose a letter to the duke and duchess. Several times she had attempted it, to only give up and crumple the paper. Today she would send that letter. She withdrew a sheaf of paper, with the quill and inkwell.

  Dear Mama,

  I write to inform you that I am married, and—

  A breath shuddered from Phoebe, and she lowered the quill. And what? That pain and doubt she’d believed buried roiled deep in her heart. “And what, Mama? What do I say?” She crossed out the words, lowering her forehead to the desk.

  A soft noise had her jerking up and turning around. The viscount hovered in the doorway with Wolf faithfully by his side, and she realized he’d deliberately made that noise to alert her of his presence. Phoebe carefully stood and dipped into a quick curtsy.

  “Wolf,” she said softly, and he barked and bounded over to her.

  Phoebe laughed when he jumped up and licked her chin. “Up,” she said while using the hand sign to command him.

  It was a wonder she did not tumble back when he placed two of his paws on her shoulders. She hugged him quickly then released him so he could trot back to his master. There were days she missed him awfully. He had been her loyal friend for several months, and while he visited her often, he spent most of his time with Hugh. Sometimes she would stay in this very room and watch as they rough roused on the lawns. At those moments, it would astonish her to see the viscount smiling and so playful.

  That quick greeting with Wolf over, she observed Hugh had a note in his hand. He lifted it up so she could see it and then walked further in the room to rest it on the small walnut table between the sofas. A lump formed in her throat. He had only meant to deliver the note, and from his mode of dressing, he would call for his carriage soon and be away for the rest of the day.

  Where did he go when he left the manor? There would be nothing more mortifying if his affections were engaged otherwise and that attributed to his polite distance. She loathed the very idea of it, and she was painfully aware she was not able to demand he give up his lover should he have one. Even her father had a mistress, and the duchess turned a careful blind eye to it. Phoebe had always sworn she would never marry a gentleman unwilling to give up his chère amie.

  “Do you have a mistress, my lord?” she blurted. Every prudent consideration had been tossed to the winds; she simply had to know.

  His eyes flared wide, and Phoebe could see that she astonished him. “If you will forgive my boldness,” she said, some amusement curling through her, though she was careful to keep her composure. “I am curious to know if you are one of those gentlemen who keeps a chère amie along with a wife.” Then I can better understand my expectations.

  He shook his head slowly and canted his head left, staring at her. Then he lifted his hands and made a slashing motion. She knew that to mean no. Relief hit her and, with it, a lifting of spirits.

  “That is good, as I’m not the sort of lady who would tolerate such unfaithfulness in a marriage.” There, in the event the notion occurred to him in the future.

  It appeared again, that small twitch of his lips and the provoking humor in his brilliant gaze. Clearly, she had amused him. Phoebe took a step toward him. She wanted him to challenge her, maybe demand how she would dare to stop him if he decided to take a mistress. With a sense of startlement, she realized she wanted to cross witty swords with him…as they had in their letters.

  Phoebe could tell that he wanted to say more, and she saw the moment he changed his mind. Disappointment rushed through her. He dipped into a bow, and she hurriedly stepped forward.

  “Do not leave!” Good heavens, she was losing all sense of her promise to be a proper wife. Proper wives did not question their husbands about lovers, nor did they command them to stay in a room. Blast it!

  He regarded her with a slight crease between his brows.

  “I have papers,” she said, waving at the table. “If you wish for us to converse…I have papers.”

  His expression smoothed, he made his way over to her and looked down. With a frown, he took up the paper she had been writing on, and with a gasp she snatched it away from it. “Not this one!”

  He made a motion with his hand.

  Phoebe paused. The need to learn his language had blossomed through her so they could talk so much more freely. A few mornings she’d asked Caroline to teach her, but those lessons were brief and not enough for what she wanted with him. “Are you asking me why?”

  He nodded once. She peered up at him, wondering why she had asked him to stay. While she appreciated his kindness, there was a reserve about him, one that cloaked him like a dark shadow and appeared impenetrable. Phoebe wasn’t certain he was aware of it. Though he was pleasant, he exuded nothing else.

  Once again, her heart squeezed. She had chosen to marry this man. She did not expect love or any such nonsense, but they could be friends, if he was willing to try. “It is a letter I have been trying to write to my mother…and father. Every day I come here, and I start to write it, but I cannot seem to finish it.”

  An arrested look appeared in his eyes. He made the same sign as before, and she tentatively lifted her hands and mimicked him. “Why?”

  He formed another symbol.

  “I know that to mean yes,” she murmured.

  He nodded, his eyes unexpectedly warm and curious. At her silence, he reached for the quill and scratched on the paper.

  Will you share with me?

  The urge to brush aside his concern rushed through her. To indulge in witty and amusing banter was light conversation. A tremor went through her heart. Shari
ng her fears was different. It felt odd revealing the intimacies of her thoughts with another she had not known for so long.

  What do I truly want from you, Hugh?

  An unexpected agony of need swelled in her chest, constricting her throat. She wanted what she had always dreamed about, a husband who would hold her close in the night when she could not sleep, who would kiss her simply because he had to feel her lips against his. Phoebe wanted long walks and conversations; she wanted laughter. She wanted a real marriage…or what she had always envisioned a real, vibrant union to be like.

  A part of her wanted to scream at her silliness, but she suppressed the urge. I am married to this man, and there is no possibility of us separating. This…whatever we have between us is until death does part us. And a closer relationship could start with her sharing more. Perhaps it was just as disconcerting for him to be married to a lady he only met a couple weeks ago, even if he had advertised for a wife.

  It took several moments before the flurry in her heart subsided, and she said, “I failed to conduct myself with dignity and discretion.” The words felt as if they were dragged from her throat, they were so very painful to admit. “I failed to fulfil my parents’ hopes for me. Though I am happy I am not married to a man older than my father, there are times…there are times I ache with the knowledge of how much I hurt and have disappointed the duke and duchess, my parents. I also hurt deep inside that they did not care about hurting me or care that I might be unhappy in the marriage they arranged.”

  Phoebe clasped her hands together. “I hurt deeply that the wounds between us might never be mended and our family will forever be divided. I hurt that they might never forgive me for my reckless impetuosity, and I also fear I might never forgive my mother for what she was willing to do to my child…her grandchild.”

  She lowered one of her hands over the high mound of her belly. “I know how awful a baby farm is. My brother…Richard, he has the most wonderful little girl, Emily, and her mother had also given her to a baby farm to risk the cruelties and negligence that took place before my brother discovered his child. The duchess…Mama had the knowledge that many babies died in their first year…and she was still willing to consign my child to such a life. I find that when I try to write to her…I cannot,” she ended softly.

  He stared at her for a long time, and the dark beauty of his eyes expressed his understanding more eloquently than words ever could. He reached for a piece of paper and wrote. We shall meet outside by the cliffs in about an hour. I will be back for you.

  Confusion knitted her brows. “I…yes, of course.”

  She blew out a breath and settled into the sofa once he left. While she was careful to take her daily walk around the front lawns and by the lake, she hadn’t explored the side of the estate that faced the cliff and the oceans. It had seemed too far a journey for her to walk with her swollen feet. However, a cobbler had been summoned and made shoes that were large enough for her. She had a few pairs of practical shoes and slippers now, which while comfortable were not actually that fashionable.

  She glanced down at the note he’d placed on the table earlier.

  Phoebe, I’ve written to the duke and duchess of Salop informing them of our nuptials and have extended our apologies for the suddenness of our marriage, which has caused them to miss your wedding day. I have promised we shall call upon them as soon as we return to England, where I anticipate our warm reception. Let me reassure you we will only return to England after the child is born and you are recovered enough to travel. I have not requested your dowry but have left that decision to the duke. We do not need it. However, should he do his duty by you and send it, we shall set it up in a trust fund for our first child.

  Her heart ached so fiercely, she had to lower the note for several moments. Glancing down, she quickly read the rest.

  I’ve also sent notices to the local papers of our nuptials. By next week, all of Society will be aware of the alliance between the Maitlands and the Winthrops. When you are ready, we can place the announcement in the Gazette, Morning Chronicles in London.

  Phoebe tried to imagine what her mother’s reaction would be upon receiving the news. Relief? Were you even worried about me, Mama, when I fled? Or would the duchess feel pleased that her only daughter had married one of the Winthrops, a family reputed to have more wealth and properties than the Maitlands? Society would be curious, and she expected the invitations to come pouring in, but to where would they be sent? Phoebe was not even certain if the earl had a townhouse in London.

  Sarah appeared in the doorway. “Milady, I was told to help you prepare for an outing by the cliffside.”

  Phoebe tucked the note into the pocket of her day dress, braced her hands on each side of the sofa, and pushed upward with a soft grunt, then she stood and rang for her maidservant. Several minutes later, she was clothed in a warmer dress and comfortable slippers. Sarah assisted her outside, and Phoebe was pleased to see Hugh waiting for her in a landeau. He hopped down and assisted her inside, and then they were off, Wolf barking and running behind their equipage.

  Chapter Eight

  The horses moved at a slow speed, trotting over the lanes and toward the cliff. Phoebe cast him a sideway glance, but she remained silent as they traveled along the castle lanes. Then they were passing through swiftly opened gates, and the horses were cantering along deserted lanes through a verdant countryside. They sat in companionable silence, and Phoebe enjoyed the sharp breeze on her face, rustling the ribbons of her bonnet. The journey took a winding route, and in the passage of about ten minutes, they approached the cliffside.

  The sound of the sea and the crashing waves lingered in the air. Hugh drew back on the reins, and the horses slowed to a stop. He stepped down from the carriage and came around to her side to assist her down. The feel of his powerful arms around her waist as he steadied her was at once thrilling and comforting.

  He released her and guided the equipage several feet away, where he unharnessed the two horses with quick, efficient motions so that they could graze.

  “What are these?”

  Spread on the grass were dozens of large rectangular sheets of paper. Several blankets were strewn before the papers, along with a mound of cushions. And charcoals, paintbrushes, paints, and an ewer of water. Phoebe walked closer to the odd display. “You did this in such a short time?”

  “Yes.”

  She toed off her shoes, moaning at the relief in her feet. Then she stepped onto the blanket, which had a pile of neatly laid notes set to one side, at least more than a dozen. Holding her steady at the elbow, Hugh helped lower her onto the well-padded blankets on the thick, lush grass. He then grabbed several of the pillows and cushions and propped them behind her. She supposed they were to have a picnic of sorts, and she found the notion delightful. Hugh also sat on the blanket a couple feet from her.

  “Are we to have a picnic?”

  He rubbed his chin as if in deep contemplation and squinted at the notes. Then he pointed at the third note from the right. With a smile, Phoebe leaned over slightly and plucked it up.

  What you see before you are specially made papers. We are going to draw and write on them.

  “Why?”

  Another rub of his chin and then he pointed at another note.

  Phoebe plucked it up and opened it.

  Be patient and you will see.

  She smiled, oddly delighted with him. “Did you try to anticipate all of my questions?”

  When he pointed to another note, she could not help laughing. He reached for a paper and laid it before her. Then he set up a bowl with water, paintbrushes, and paint. The quality of the paper was different from what she used to write on, and it crinkled each time she shifted it.

  He gave her another note.

  Write down everything you worry about…write down every dream you have. Each fear and each hope and dream to a paper.


  A pounding ache went through her heart, and she stared at him helplessly. “What does happiness look like?”

  He selected a paper and a paintbrush and made a show of rolling his sleeves to his elbows before he started painting. Leaning over him, she watched the images take shape. He was no artist, for he drew stick figures. But they were stick figures of a man and woman dancing. She choked on a laugh when he attempted to draw a dress onto the woman. Then beneath it, he wrote, “One day I hope to dance the waltz the entire night with my wife.”

  Her viscount had a degree of charm that might prove dangerous to her heart.

  When she peered up at him, his countenance was admirably composed.

  “I believe I would like that as well,” she said, very aware of how furious her heart pounded.

  Following his direction, she selected a paper and drew a lady, a gentleman, and four children together, running and flying kites. Then at the bottom she wrote—happiness.

  He nodded approvingly, took it from her, and placed it to dry beside his. With a smile, Phoebe proceeded to pour out her varied hopes and fears into the form of drawings or words onto the paper. Hugh did the same, appearing, too, as if he needed this moment. To Phoebe’s mind, more than an hour passed, so immersed they were in their tasks. She lowered the paintbrush, aware of a cramp in her fingers, and leaned back against the cushions, gently rubbing her stomach.

  Hugh painted; his brows furrowed in fierce concentration. With a grin, she lifted the paintbrush, leaned over, and ran the brush gently over his nose. The comical expression on his face pulled a laugh from her throat.

  He stared at him, clearly bemused. Then his eyes dropped to her lips and darkened. He looked away from her to the sky, a quick grin flashing before it disappeared.

  “What did you think of just now?” she asked, wiggling her brow.

  Instead of attempting to sign, he reached over and lightly pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger before going back to his drawing. Phoebe scowled. That was how Richard often touched her. A bit playful yet also a reprimand. Did…did Hugh think of her in a sisterly manner? Was that why he made no effort to consummate their marriage?