With a last small smile for the servant who represented a tie to her past, she made her way through the quiet townhouse, onward to the Pink Parlor. She came to a stop at the open doorway. Her mother sat at the edge of a mahogany shell chair. Head bent over an embroidery frame, she attended the stitchery in her hand, pulling the needle through the stark white fabric.
“I did not expect a visit so soon after you’d been married,” her mother welcomed, not picking her head up from her work.
“Mother,” she greeted. Phoebe stepped into the room, hesitated, and then pulled the door closed behind her. That soft click brought the viscountess’ attention up and her wide smile withered and died on her lips.
“What is it?” She tossed aside her frame, work forgotten, and climbed to her feet.
There was such a gentle, maternal concern in that inquiry that if Phoebe hadn’t already cried every last possible tear for Edmund and their future, she would have dissolved into an empty puddle of weepy nothingness at her mother’s feet. Phoebe gave her a shake and motioned to the chair she’d just vacated. Wordlessly, she claimed the seat opposite her mother. She drummed her fingertips on the arm of her chair, examining this woman who’d smiled through so much darkness. “How did you do it?”
Her mother angled her head.
Phoebe ceased the distracted tapping. “Marriage to Father. How did you do it all these years and smile? Why aren’t you…?” She closed her mouth.
The viscountess picked up her embroidery frame. “Why aren’t I…?” she prodded, setting her stitch work on her lap.
“Unhappy? Bitter? Angry?” Everything Phoebe herself was this moment.
Her mother furrowed her brow. “What do I have to be unhappy about?”
“Come, Mama,” Phoebe chided. “Surely you know what I speak of?” She glanced at the silver needle dangling from the frame. “You can’t possibly be happy wedded to Father.”
A dawning understanding lit the other woman’s eyes. “Ahh,” she said, settling back in her chair. She sighed and glanced over at the closed door as though ascertaining there was no one at the entrance, before then returning her attention to Phoebe. “No,” she said softly. “My marriage has not been a happy one, but my life has been a great one.”
Phoebe wrinkled her brow. “That seems a contradiction,” she scoffed. How could one not preclude the other?
Light danced in her mother’s blue eyes. “Does it? Is my marriage to your father a happy one?” She shook her head once. “No, it isn’t,” she said with more candor than Phoebe ever recalled. “It is not the marriage I imagined for myself.” Those words an echo of Phoebe’s earlier thoughts ran through her, tightening the pain. Yet there was no spiteful resentment deserving one such as her mother. Her mother began tugging her needle through the frame once more. “My life is a happy one, Phoebe, and I’d have it no other way.” She glanced up and must have seen the disbelief on her daughter’s face, for she smiled. “You think I lie?”
Phoebe shifted. “No…I…” At the knowing look, she settled back in her seat with a sigh. “Yes,” she mumbled, feeling like a recalcitrant child. “Surely there must be a lie.”
“Oh, there is no lie,” her mother said instantly. “Perhaps regret, yes. But not a lie. My life is a happy one.”
Filled with a restive energy, Phoebe jumped to her feet and began to pace. “How did you do it? How do you go through life with a smile and laughter?” When Phoebe herself thought she could never smile again. She spun back, pleading with her eyes for an answer.
Her mother set aside her frame again and then came to her feet. She came over and took Phoebe gently by her shoulders. “How can you not know why I smile and laugh? I have you and Justina and Andrew. My heart is full because of you three and someday, when you are a mother, you will understand that,” she said giving her shoulders another slight squeeze.
Phoebe’s throat worked spasmodically. “That cannot be the same as having a husband’s love.”
“No, no it is not.” Her mother brushed a kiss on her forehead. “I would be lying if I didn’t say there was a void, but you and your brother and sister, you fill that.”
She drew in a shuddery breath and a strand of hair fell over her brow. The viscountess brushed it back and tucked it behind her ear. “This is about your Lord Rutland.”
And because Phoebe would wager her very life that Father didn’t speak to his wife on any matter, even the topic of her own children, she told her the truth. “He won my dowry in a game of cards against Father.”
Her mother stilled her soothing caress. “And?”
“And he would have wedded Justina if I did not marry him.” That part stung more being breathed aloud so that she resisted the urge to rub her hand over her aching chest.
Mama snorted. “You believe Lord Rutland would have wed Justina, to what end?”
Phoebe opened and closed her mouth several times and then frowned. Odd, until this moment, she’d not truly considered how Justina fit into his madcap scheme. Or…for that matter, why he even wanted Phoebe. After all, marriage to her had effectively quashed his plans for Honoria.
“Do you know what I believe?”
She shook her head, wishing someone had answers to put her world to rights.
“Your husband cares for you. When he looks at you, there is no other person in the room.” She stroked her hair. “No, that man would have never wed Justina.” Her lips turned in a wry smile. “I am not excusing his behaviors, but I am saying there is more there than your modest dowry.”
Hope stirred at her mother’s words and, for an instant, she willed them to be accurate and true. Then she recalled that blasted book and her name scratched casually upon the pages as though she were any other person he’d use in his scheme of life. “Edmund doesn’t care for anyone,” she said tiredly. She drew in a breath and before her mother could debate the point with her, she hurriedly said, “I should return home.”
“Yes, you should.”
Phoebe kissed her mother on the cheek. “I love you.”
“And I love you.”
She started for the door when her mother called out stopping her. “Phoebe?” Phoebe glanced over her shoulder. “Lord Rutland is not your father,” she said simply.
Phoebe managed a smile and with that, left. As she made the short carriage ride back to Edmund’s townhouse and entered her new home, her mother’s words danced around her mind. Wallace opened the door granting her entry and she paused in the foyer.
The servant cleared his throat. “His Lordship has gone to his clubs.”
His clubs. Of course.
His clubs. Those vile, despicable dens of sin. It should come as no surprise that a man with a book containing peoples’ weaknesses would take to his clubs not even two days after he’d married. She curled her hands into tight, painful fists. After he’d lain in her arms and shown her more pleasure than she’d ever known her body capable of, he’d today sought out his clubs, which was really not dissimilar than any gentleman might do—if he were to visit White’s or Brooke’s, but this was different. Hurt throbbed in her chest and she swiftly turned to go. “Thank you.” Phoebe made to climb the stairs to seek out the sanctuary of her new chambers.
“My lady, you have visitors.”
Foot poised on the step, Phoebe spun about, nearly toppling herself in her haste. “I have taken the liberty of showing Miss Fairfax and Lady Gillian to the drawing room.” Her friends! Joy filled her at the prospect of seeing the two women who’d been friends to her when no one else had and then her happiness quickly receded with all the secrets she’d kept from them. She’d not even given them the courtesy of speaking to them of her wedding. Granted hers hadn’t been a joyous affair, but still they would have expected and surely deserved an invitation to act as guests and friends.
Wallace again spoke, calling her attention back. “If you wish me to inform them that you aren’t receiving—”
“No!” the denial sprung from her lips. She winced at the desperate edg
e to that one word utterance. Phoebe took a calming breath. “That is, thank you. I will join them.”
He bowed his head, but did not leave. Phoebe stared questioningly at him.
“Lady Rutland,” he said this time. “If I may be so bold? You looked at the painting and wondered as to His Lordship’s happiness. He has not been happy in more than twenty years, but I do believe he is happy, now.” Wallace gave her a pointed stare, his meaning clear: Edmund could be happy because of Phoebe. Which was madness. It would take far more than her to ever fill the vast void inside her husband. She managed a small smile and before she made a cake of herself and cried useless tears in front of the servant, hurried off to the parlor. If she were a good friend she’d be properly focused on the regret she had for abandoning them the moment she’d met Edmund. But she was not a good friend. For with each footfall that brought her away from that child’s portrait and to the drawing room, Wallace’s words haunted her; echoing around her mind, calling forth thoughts of Edmund as a child of seven, once smiling—and then three years later, in a picture so bitter and cold in his portrait.
Phoebe came to a stop outside the drawing room and froze at the threshold.
Gillian and Honoria stood shoulder to shoulder with their arms folded at their chests and matching expressions of disappointment stamped in their face. If there had been anger, it would have been easier than—this.
She stepped into the room and quietly closed the door behind her. To break the recriminating silence, she said, “Would you care for—”
“If you offer us refreshments, I’m going to clout you,” Honoria interrupted. She stitched her eyebrows together.
Phoebe fell silent. The trio of friends once inseparable stared at one another, each daring the other to speak.
With a sigh, she clasped her hands together. “I understand you are upset.” And rightly so.
“I understand if you’d not share the details of your marriage with the ton, they are horrid,” Gillian gave a sniff. “But we are your friends.”
“I shared with you what I knew during your visit.” They gave her dark frowns. Guilt needled at her conscience and she crossed over. “I didn’t know we would wed so quickly,” she said as she came to a stop before them.
The concern faded from Honoria’s stare, replaced now by dark suspicion. “Did he force you to immediately wed?”
“Yes. No.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. How could the answer be both? She’d not debated him on the point of when the event would take place. “It mattered not whether it was the next day or next week, my marriage to him was inevitable.” She’d courted ruin in meeting him all those days. She sank onto the edge of a red-velvet sofa and directed her stare at her lap. “I know what you think of me. I know you believe me an awful friend for shutting you out of my life these ten days,” and she was. “And I am.” Pain filled her throat and made words difficult. “But I fell in love with him,” or rather she’d fallen in love with the lies he’d fed her. “And he was all I thought of.” Phoebe forced her gaze to Honoria. “You were right.” Her voice emerged a broken whisper. “I was hopeful and foolish, and he was everything you claimed he was.” Only that wasn’t altogether true. Confusion stabbed at her mind and played havoc on her heart. There was also a man capable of apology and who’d brought her a tray of food and a book. Nay, not just any book. The book of Wales.
The sofa dipped slightly with the addition of Honoria’s weight as she settled into the spot beside Phoebe. “Do you believe I would judge you so harshly?” Honoria chided, a stern reproach threading her words. “I love you,” she said simply. “You are my friend. And I love that you are hopeful in the face of your father’s horridness.” She claimed Phoebe’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “You retained that important piece of your soul when others,” Honoria, “are less successful at such a feat.”
Gillian claimed Phoebe’s opposite side. “It is true. I would have dearly loved to attend your wedding and be there for you. But I would never resent you for finding and knowing love.” Her lips pulled in a grimace, as she seemed to recall the inevitable deception Edmund had practiced upon an unsuspecting Phoebe.
Honoria scrutinized her in that assessing manner of hers. “Has he…” Her cheeks pinkened and with that hesitancy of her question and the color on her face, her meaning became clear. “Hurt you?”
“No!” The words burst forth.
They eyed her skeptically.
She drew in a breath. “Not…in that way.” He’d been a patient, careful, gentle lover. Bitterness turned in her heart. Then, his expert touch had merely proven just how very many came before her. Even now he could be with one of those women. How she wished his had merely been a physical pain inflicted, instead of this twisting, aching regret.
Honoria applied pressure to her fingers. “What is it?”
She gave her head a small shake, not wanting to breathe the truth aloud to these two women. Some things had no place between anyone, but one’s own tortured musings.
Gillian looked about. “Where is His Lordship?”
And with that simple inquiry, she was proven a liar. There were more tears. The gates opened up. Phoebe buried her face in her hands and wept noisy little tears, detesting the shuddery sobs that shook her frame.
“Oh, Phoebe,” Honoria said with such a gentle kindness, Phoebe quaked all the more.
She cried with such force she soaked the fabric of her friend’s muslin gown. “I-it sh-should not matter that he’s gone—” Especially after that blasted book.
“Where has he gone?” Gillian put in and it made the tears come all the harder and faster.
“T-to his s-scandalous clubs. B-but it does. And I d-don’t know why.”
Gillian settled her fingers on Phoebe’s back and rubbed small, soothing circles. “Why, you love him, sweet. That is why,” she said gently.
Phoebe wrenched away. She staggered to her feet and gave her head a horrified shake. “I-I don’t.” She couldn’t. Not with the lies between them. “He betrayed me, forced me into a marriage I did not want. No, I do not love him.” She brushed her hands over her cheeks, recognizing the lie of her own words.
As did Gillian. “You cannot simply erase the ten days where you did fall in love with him.”
Phoebe spun around and strode over to the window. “Nothing was real,” she said, more to herself. She yanked the edge of the curtain back and stared out at the passing conveyances. The crystal windowpane reflected back her grief-ravaged face and she winced at her own weakness. She’d become her mother. Phoebe pressed her eyes tight. God help her.
The rustle of skirts indicated one of her friends had moved. “Some of it had to be real,” Gillian said.
In the window she detected the hard stare Honoria gave their still hopeful, dreamily optimistic friend. “It matters not,” Honoria said and crossed over. She settled her hand on Phoebe’s shoulders. “You will do precisely as I said. You will live your life, he will live his, and along the way you will steal happiness for yourself where you can. Lady Wentworth has her annual ball this evening. It shall be good fun and even more so for you, as a wedded woman. Promise you’ll come. Present yourself as the proud, bold Marchioness of Rutland.”
“I don’t want to go to a ball,” she said, her voice tired.
Honoria snorted. “No one does—”
“Some do,” Gillian put in.
“But it shall be far better to go together. We shall face Society with you a married woman, no different than any other wedded lady of the ton.” Phoebe released the curtain and it fluttered back into place. She’d long abhorred the crush of balls and the inanity of soirees. Except when presented with the option of remaining alone in Edmund’s home with her broken heart and morose thoughts, the ball sounded a good deal more preferable. She sighed. Who knew?
Chapter 23
Edmund sat at the back table of Forbidden Pleasures. Through the years, this was the place he’d felt most at home. When he’d needed to strategize on a man’
s destruction, this is where he’d come to organize his thoughts. In this instance, however, he scratched and clung to his very survival. Since yesterday morn, after he’d made love to his wife and awakened beside her lithe, naked form, Phoebe had turned his mind inside out with a hungering for her that went beyond the physical. He’d never slept beside a woman. There had been no need. No, his relationships with women had served one purpose—his and his partner’s sexual satiation. Edmund damned his wife for making him want more. He looked over the club, determined to put logical thoughts back to right.
Except now, the din of raucous laughter and the clatter of coins hitting the faro tables of this once stable hell blared loud in his head. He raised his snifter of brandy to his lips and welcomed the familiar burn of the fine, French liquor as it blazed a trail down his throat. Frustration turned within him as he skimmed his gaze over the lords with a scantily clad beauty upon their laps; some of them with two or three. At one point, he’d felt a sense of belonging in the decadent hall of sin. His gaze collided with the fat, sweating frame of the Viscount Waters and Edmund clenched his snifter so hard, his knuckles turned white. He took in the man, his father-in-law, more importantly, Phoebe’s father. With the lush, blonde beauty on his lap, nuzzling his neck, the man was no different than really any other married man of the ton. Edmund continued to study him. And yet, this was Phoebe’s father, a man who’d visited shame upon her. He warred with the sudden urge to storm across the crowded club and take the man apart with his bare hands.
He studied the contents of his glass a moment, rolling the snifter back and forth between his hands. For the course of his life, he’d allowed his parents’ depravity to define him. Destroy him. He’d taken the sight his father forced him to witness and used that as an excuse to live an equally immoral existence.
And yet, Phoebe’s life had not been unlike his. Both born to shameful sires who opened their eyes to vileness in a person’s soul, they’d each let that shape their lives but in entirely different ways. He had embraced a cold, unfeeling world in which he’d never know hurt and only feel that which brought him satisfaction. Phoebe, however, had moved through the world with a positive hope in others and her future. He’d prided himself these years on his strength, but he’d not been strong. He’d been merciless and ruthless, but that was not strength. The inherent ability to smile through life’s ugliness and not allow it to turn one bitter and cold—that was strength. He was merely the monster he’d proven himself to be these years. His insides twisted in agonized knots. And in his need to possess her, he’d destroyed her. With a curse Edmund downed the remaining contents on a long, slow swallow. His lips pulled in an involuntary grimace and he set the empty glass down with a hard thunk.
A Heart of a Duke Collection: Volume 1-A Regency Bundle Page 165