Justina lightly squeezed Phoebe’s shoulders, forcing her attention back around. “You…you do not seem unabashedly joyous at your marriage to the marquess,” she put forth tentatively. “I do not understand. Why do you seem so sad if you are to wed a gentleman you very much love?”
She was so sad because she was to wed a gentleman she very much loved but knew not at all. He was someone as real as a mere wisp of a dream. Mustering a smile for her sister’s benefit, Phoebe said, “I am happy.” She was happy Justina would be spared from wedding one such as Edmund. Happy she would have the funds for her and her future children’s freedom—if he did not merely lie to her once again with that promise. Her heart tugged with the thought of a tiny, trusting babe, born to her and Edmund’s cold, empty marriage. The muscles of Phoebe’s face hurt from the false smile on her lips. “I am abundantly happy,” she said turning around and taking Justina’s hands in hers. She shook them back and forth the way she had when playing rhyming songs in the nursery with her younger sister. “I am merely sad about leaving you.” Which was not altogether untrue. Her sister, mother, and brother completed the part of her heart that had not been broken this day.
“Don’t be sad about that, Phoebe. Think of it as a grand adventure!”
A pang struck her chest. How very much alike she and Justina were in that regard—both dreaming of life beyond the one that existed for them. Only now with Edmund’s betrayal, the absolute naiveté of that dream mocked her. There was nothing grand about this journey she’d embark on as Marchioness of Rutland. But then, the great Odysseus’ journey had proven that not all grand adventures were good ones.
A knock sounded at the door. They looked to the door as the butler appeared. “Miss Honoria Fairfax and Lady Gillian,” he announced the young women and then backed out of the room.
Phoebe stared at her two friends—one ever cautious, the other always of sunny disposition—and a lump swelled in her throat. On this agonizing day, with her world ripped asunder, she needed the honesty of her emotions, of confessing all without fear of recrimination or smiling when her heart was broken.
“Hullo, Justina. Phoe—,” Gillian’s words trailed off as she glanced at Phoebe. She looked quickly to Honoria. The intensity of that young woman’s friend’s stare hinted at a jaded knowing. How much wiser and intuitive Honoria had proven to be. Not like the fanciful fool Phoebe had been.
“Hello,” Justina said and dropped a curtsy. She waved to Phoebe’s friends.
“Dear, will you allow me to share the splendid news with Honoria and Gillian?” she asked softly, that great lie of a request spoken for her ears.
“Of course,” she said cheerily. She skipped past the young ladies and then closed the door behind her.
With her sister gone, Phoebe’s shoulders sagged at the relief in not having to fake a smile or construct lies to spare her sister’s sentiments. Tears welled once more.
“Oh, dear,” Gillian whispered and raced over. “What is it?”
Fury flashed in Honoria’s eyes. “It is the marquess,” she hissed. Could there be another reason? “What did he do?”
Phoebe opened her mouth to let forth the words she needed to share, but they would not come. She pressed steepled fingers to her lips and wandered over to the window, then offered the shortest piece of the truth. “You were, indeed, correct about the marquess,” she whispered.
A black curse escaped Honoria’s lips; words no lady should know, and words no gentleman should even hear, and for a moment amusement warred with her inner agony. She braced for the “I-told-you-so” Honoria was entitled to…that did not come.
Her friends drifted over, but hesitated, hovering just beyond her shoulder and for that she was grateful. If they touched her or said even the wrong word she’d dissolve into another round of hopeless, useless tears.
“What happened?” Gillian prodded.
Phoebe pulled back the edge of the curtain and stared down distractedly into the busy streets below. “It was all a lie,” she whispered. “All of it.” The chance meetings, the moments shared, the love of Captain Cook. Had any of it been real? She quickly recounted the conversation she’d heard between her father and Edmund, every black, vile piece, only withholding that once beautiful, now shameful, act in Lord Essex’s gardens. When she finished, silence met her recounting.
Honoria was the first to break the quiet. “You do not have to wed him.”
She drew in a shuddery breath. “My father will allow him to wed Justina if I do not.”
“That bloody bastard.” This from the usually mild-mannered Gillian. There was not a friend in the world for Edmund, the Marquess of Rutland, and with good reason.
Phoebe wiped a tired hand over her face. “It is my own fault. I was properly warned.” She looked to Honoria, who slid her gaze away.
With an aggravated sound, Gillian slapped her fingers into her opposite palm, making a loud thwack. “What was your fault? That you loved him? That you believed in him when the world said not to?” She gave her head a hard, swift shake. “No, that is not your fault. That is the marquess’ and it is a crime he will have to live with.”
“A man such as he doesn’t feel regret for those sins he adds to his collection like a lady with too many fans,” Honoria said gently. “He wanted what he wanted and he’s acted.” Her jaw hardened. “And now Phoebe is to pay the price.”
Except…Phoebe looked out to the street once more. A black lacquer carriage rumbled past, even with the distance noisy in its forward journey. Except, there had been a momentary flash of emotion in his eyes. If she didn’t know the blackness of his soul, she’d believed it was pain, regret, and shame. She scoffed, immediately shoving back such foolish musings. “You are right, Honoria,” she said, suffusing steel into her words. “He doesn’t feel any regrets. But it is done.” Their fates would be forever sealed.
Odd, how just yesterday the thought of an eternal union with him had flooded her with a heady happiness and now felt like a death knell made by an executioner. She squared her jaw. “I will be his wife, but he will never control me.” Not again. Not more control than she’d already given him. He’d deceived her and that was a sin she could never, would never, forgive.
Gillian gave a pleased nod. “That is the spirit you should possess. Not this weepy, broken figure we came in to see.”
Honoria nodded in agreement. “That is correct.” She moved over and claimed the windowseat. “He demanded you wed him, but he also promised you your freedom should you wish it. And do you know what you will do now, Phoebe?”
She shook her head slowly and looked down at her friend.
“You will deny him any more pieces of you. Live your life. Travel, attend whatever events you wish to attend. All of them. None of them.” Her friend meant to convey the greatness at Phoebe’s fingertips—a freedom often denied to young ladies. But oh, how very lonely she made it all sound. “Let him have his mistresses.” Oh, God. Her heart wrenched. Why did her heart wrench in this agonizing way if she did not care?
“I’ll not take a lover.” Not even for revenge.
Honoria grimaced. “Egads, no. We don’t require anything of a gentleman. You don’t want a lover.”
“No,” she murmured in agreement.
As the trio sat in silence, she considered Honoria’s accurately spoken words. No, she didn’t want a lover.
She’d only wanted love.
Chapter 17
The following morning, the carriage rocked to a halt before the Marquess of Rutland’s townhouse—soon to be her new home. Phoebe’s stomach turned over as she peered out the window at the white façade. Two statues, vicious lions reared on their legs, framed the entrance of the townhouse. Those same, snarling beasts adorned the knocker. A panicky laugh bubbled up her throat. Even his blasted townhouse was menacing.
“I still do not see why the marquess would not allow the marriage to take place at our home,” her mother’s vocalized musings drew her attention. “Highly unusual the marriage ta
king place so quickly and at the bridegroom’s residence, no less.” She wrung her hands together. “The gossips will talk.”
Alas, courtesy of the viscountess’ philandering husband, the gossips spoke about the Barrett family with a regular frequency. “They are already talking, Mama,” Phoebe said tiredly. And they’d been since the Marquess of Rutland and his whirlwind attentions to a proper lady had earned curious stares and questions. Her gut clenched. Oh, why hadn’t she paid attention to those warning hints?
“Nevertheless,” her mother frowned. “The gossips will speak even more.” Phoebe looked out the window once again, a hollow shell of the person she’d been. “What does it matter what they say?” Just as her mistakes could not be undone, those whispers would never be silenced as long as the ruthless Marquess of Rutland roamed amidst polite Society.
“Stop asking questions, woman,” her father snapped. He dabbed his sweating brow.
She recalled the traces of the conversation she’d overheard between her father and the marquess. The tremble in her father’s words, the pleading in his tone…an inherent fear of the marquess likely accounted for the perspiration now.
Her mother frowned and folded her hands primly on her lap. “I was merely asking why—”
“The marquess wants what he wants and it’s not your place to question it.”
From the corner of her eye, Phoebe detected the widening of her sister’s shocked eyes. Fury burned in her heart for the humiliation and shame her mother had endured these years. She balled her hands into fists, so tight her nails left crescents upon her palms through the thin fabric of her gloves. Her patience snapped. “No, it is yours.”
Three pairs of eyes swung to Phoebe. Her father opened and closed his mouth several times like a trout floundering on the shore.
She glared at him, willing him to see all the loathing, all the resentment, disappointment, and outrage she’d carried over the years for the useless sire he’d been. “It is your place to question,” she taunted. “And your place to know all the things that matter about your family.”
“Phoebe,” her mother said, shock in her tone. “Do not speak to your father so.”
Which only added to her fury. How dare her mother be this weak-willed, spineless figure she was. Where was her pride? Phoebe jabbed a finger out at her father’s hateful face. “You have an obligation to care for us. All of us.” And you failed. The words tumbled out of her, freeing after years of being kept buried just under the surface. “It is your place to know whether someone’s intentions are honorable and to care whether those intentions are dishonorable because you care for, nay, love your children.” But where had been the love in any of his dealings with Edmund?
“Put your finger down, gel,” her father boomed.
A servant rapped on the carriage door. “Just a moment,” Phoebe called out and her father’s flushed cheeks turned all the more red at her highhanded dismissal of the driver. “I am not through with you, Father.” Her marriage to Edmund represented an eternal prison, binding them and yet, there was something cathartic in knowing she would be free of her father. “You have an obligation to protect all of us. And you failed.” Her mother’s shocked gasp rang through the carriage. “But I will not see you fail Justina.” Her dowry was to be protected. Not as he’d squandered hers on a man who had no heart and only black intentions.
Father and daughter stared at one another in silent mutiny. At one time, his withering glare would have riddled her with fear. Not any longer. For as much as Edmund’s betrayal had destroyed her, it had, in other ways, strengthened her.
Justina looked between her silently fuming father and Phoebe. She furrowed her brow in confusion. “I don’t understand. Don’t you want to wed the marquess?”
That innocently spoken question snapped her from her furious reverie. Phoebe nodded, praying the subtle gesture was convincing enough to her ingenuous sister. “I do.” Or I did at one time. That was close enough to add some truth to the lie.
Another rap sounded at the door, more tentative than the previous. With a dark curse, the viscount leaned over and tossed the door open. He didn’t wait for the assistance of the servant but leapt from the carriage with a surprising agility for such a cumbersome man. Her mother lingered. She continued to wring her hands together, her face twisted with unease. She looked as though she wished to say something, but then avoiding Phoebe’s eyes she accepted the servant’s assistance and allowed him to hand her down from the carriage.
She made to follow her mother down when her sister quietly called out. “I will miss you, you know.” Phoebe paused. A sad smile formed on her sister’s lips. “Our house is really quite dreary when you are not in it and I dearly wish you didn’t have to go, but certainly understand you must and envy you more than a little,” she finished, speaking more to herself with those last handful of words.
Phoebe’s heart wrenched. “I will always be here.”
“No, no you won’t,” Justina said with that calm practicality that hinted at the woman she was becoming. “You will be here.” She motioned to the menacing townhouse. “But that is fine. It is time for you to live your life free of us.” She held Phoebe’s gaze. “We are not yours to protect and care for.” She leaned across the carriage and placed a kiss on Phoebe’s cheek. “But I will love you forever for always trying.” Tears flooded Phoebe’s eyes. God, she was turning into a veritable watering pot. “Bah, no tears. Now, go.” With a flick of her hand, she motioned to the open doorway. “It is your wedding day. Mustn’t keep the marquess waiting. I suspect a man such as he is unaccustomed to being made to wait.”
A man such as he…
How often were those same words uttered about Edmund? A man such as he… Society, the ton, her friends, her family, even Phoebe carried so many conceptions of who he was. None of them favorable. But who was he really?
She slowly disembarked from the carriage and lifted her gaze up the tall shadow of his home. The faintest flutter at the top right window caught her notice. Bold, unrepentant and unashamed Edmund stood at the floor-length crystal pane with his hands clasped at his back, his possessive gaze trained on her. A shiver ran along her spine at the coldness that was so a part of him, evident even with the space between them. She made her way toward the handful of stairs framed between those snarling lions. She’d wager her very soul that no one would ever truly know who Edmund, the Marquess of Rutland, was.
“Well, come along,” her father wheedled from the opened doorway.
Squaring her shoulders, she continued her same, sedate pace, refusing to allow her father, or any man, to have one aspect of control of her decisions.
The irony of that was not lost on her as she climbed the steps and was permitted entry by the ancient butler. In a matter of moments, she would, by English law, belong to a man in every aspect that her mother belonged to her father. Her insides twisted into pained knots as she shrugged out of her cloak and scanned the expansive foyer. Phoebe studied the black marble floor flecked with white, the gilt handrail, and then she raised her gaze to the sweeping ceiling with a crystal chandelier at the center. How did anyone dare light the candles upon such a place? She swallowed hard at the dark opulence of Edmund’s world.
Her skin pricked with the feel of someone’s eyes upon her and she lowered her stare.
The wizened butler, with his shock of white hair and wrinkles that marked his face with the age of time, looked at her with a surprising gentleness. She fisted her skirts. Then, this man of advanced years in the marquess’ household likely knew she entered the devil’s lair. “If you will follow me,” he spoke in even tones, conveying no hint of his thoughts or feelings. Much like his employer.
Wordlessly, her family followed along behind the butler, down corridor after corridor, turning right and then left, until she was spun around. Would she ever find her place in such a dark mausoleum? For all the ugliness that came in being the daughter of the Viscount Waters, her home had been a happy one. She peeked at the row of portrai
ts she passed of ancestors with chiseled cheeks and aquiline noses that marked them as ancestors to the current marquess. All equally cold and unfeeling on the canvas, captured by an artist from long ago. How could there ever be happiness here with this man who would have her at all costs but for no reasons that were beautiful or, at the very least, good or honorable. His had been a matter of revenge and possession and now…ownership.
With each footfall, the panic pounded harder and harder in her breast until her feet twitched with an involuntary need to flee. The butler drew to a stop before an open door. And they arrived. Phoebe passed her gaze around the massive library. She located her brother who’d arrived earlier by horseback. Andrew grinned widely like a madman who’d just found his way out of Bedlam. Her throat tightened at the trusting innocence of even her brother who believed in the worthiness of Edmund. Unable to meet Andrew’s smiling visage, she looked to the gentleman beside him who stood with a book in his hands. The vicar. The man who would say the words to forever link her to Edmund, the man whom she’d given her heart to and had only been fed lies and deception for that gift. Her panic redoubled and she looked quickly away from the bespectacled man of God. Her gaze collided with Edmund’s. The butler opened his mouth to announce her family, but then dissolved into a fit of coughing. His wizened face turned red from the force of his efforts.
From where he stood, at the window with his arms still folded, Edmund gazed at Phoebe with a hard, inscrutable stare. He shifted to the servant struggling to breathe. “That will be all,” he said with a harshness that brought a frown to her lips.
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