When the Earl Met His Match (Wedded by Scandal)

by Stacy Reid

  She flinched at the sharpness of his tone but resolutely lifted her chin. “I fear I cannot be silent, Papa, and I must speak about my hope for a future with…G…with Mr. Hastings.”

  “Why would you conceive to even ask this of me and your mother when you know the expectations we have of you?” the duke demanded, leveling his icy glare at her. “A marriage between you both is quite unthinkable by our family’s standard.”

  Because we are best friends, and because of a night of celebration that led to too many shared intimacies. To her mortification, she hardly remembered that night when they had secretly met in the alcove in the garden, laughing like loons because George had received a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Music. It had been her idea to take down the sherry and the two glasses from her father’s study and meet him when the household had gone to bed.

  They had drunk and drunk…and it had been some mad wildness and rebellion in her which had encouraged her to lean forward and kiss George on the mouth. Phoebe recalled the awkward kissing, the sweet, shy way they had undressed each other while giggling, the warmth which had unfurled in her chest when he promised to care for her always. There had been some fumbling, a mild discomfort, and then George stammering that on their wedding night it would be much better. Phoebe had been bemused and terribly disappointed that the passion poets wrote about was so unmemorable. Despite being a bit addled by the sherry, Phoebe believed that deep in her heart she had wanted such an outcome, for then the aging earl would no longer be a marriage prospect. And then she would be allowed to live a life that would most certainly bring happiness to her heart and home.

  “Mr. Hastings loves me, and I also hold deep affections for him. We must be married, Papa,” she said bravely, hating how furiously her heart pounded.

  The duke stiffened, disbelief widening his dark golden eyes. “You are ruined?”

  Phoebe closed her eyes, a flush mounting on her cheeks. “Papa, please, I—”

  A loud crash jerked her eyes open. A carafe rested in broken pieces on the carpet, and liquid dribbled down the wall by the fireplace. The icy fury on the duke’s face was one she had never seen. A thud sounded, and she glanced down to see that George had fainted. Her heart pounded, and her throat went tight with pain and worry.

  The door opened, and her mother sailed inside to pause in dismay. “Winston!” she cried, her hand fluttering to her chest. “What is happening?”

  “Close the door,” her father said in a very disagreeable manner.

  The duchess complied then sauntered toward them. She stared at George for a moment then at Phoebe and the shattered glass on the ground. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Your daughter…our willful, stupid daughter, has allowed herself to be ruined by…” Her father closed his eyes.

  The duchess sucked in a sharp breath. “Ruined?”

  Phoebe clasped her fingers tightly together around her middle. She thought she had prepared for her parents’ reaction to the news. She felt terribly frightened.

  The duchess rounded on her. “You will refute your father’s scandalous supposition this instant!”

  “Mr. Hastings and I…we…we…” How difficult it was to say with her parents looking on. “We’ve kissed…and…and…” The sensibilities she had thought long abandoned reared their heads, and she blushed.

  The duchess straightened her shoulders. “Whatever foolish thing you did will not be discussed or considered going forward! You will wed Lord Dumont, and you have simply proven that we should have forced this marriage weeks ago instead of allowing you to enjoy the season!”

  An awful sensation lodged itself in the vicinity of Phoebe’s heart. Her parents had not been so benevolent as to allow her to enjoy the season, but that the earl still had a few weeks to come out of mourning. They were very considerate about what was proper and would never condone announcing an engagement while his second wife had gone on to her rewards less than a year ago. Phoebe had been living with such anxiety and dread, counting down the months then weeks to when her engagement would be announced. The days of living with such anxiety and fear had taken a toll, and Phoebe desperately wanted something…anything to be different.

  “Mama, are you so determined to marry me to Lord Dumont that you will overlook that Mr. Hastings and I…that we are compromised? How can you be so indifferent to the future state of my happiness?”

  The duchess directed a quelling look at her. “You will be allowed to marry wherever you wish when the earl is dead. If fate is kind to you, he will go on to his rewards in a few years’ time. There is a rumor that he has a weak heart.”

  Her mother’s cruel and icy words pierced Phoebe’s heart deeply. “Do I mean so little to you, Mama? I am simply a tool to be bartered to support our wealth and holdings? What of my happiness and contentment in life?”

  Her mother walked over to her, and before Phoebe realized her intention, a harsh slap landed on her face. Fire exploded in her cheek, and with a gasp, she pressed her hand to the left side of her face.

  She didn’t dare breathe. “Mama?”

  “I’ve always thought you too close with this boy, and you were willful enough to behave in such a wanton manner. We will not allow this marriage to take place.”

  The duchess went to the oak desk, retrieved a decanter with amber liquid, walked over to George, and rudely splashed some of its contents in his face. His lashes fluttered open, and it was with some confusion that he swiped a hand across his cheek. He fumbled to his feet and tugged at his cravat. “Your Graces…I…”

  “Mr. Hastings, you will accept a draft of five thousand pounds, and you will never darken our doorstep again or dare to speak with our daughter. Is that understood?”

  A fortune for a second son who only ever had the hope of entering the clergy or the Royal Academy of Music. Phoebe wanted to weep at the pain and disappointment she saw in his dark eyes.

  “Your Grace,” he began softly. “I implore you—”

  “Eight thousand pounds, Mr. Hastings,” the duchess interjected with chilling incivility.

  His eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. “I sincerely love Lady Phoebe—”

  “Ten thousand pounds!”

  The words fell like acid against her skin. “Mama, please!” Phoebe cried, humiliation crawling through her. “Please stop.” Because there was a slowly burgeoning fear in her heart that her mother’s outlook on the world, that money was the solution to every problem, could find root today in the library. Immediate guilt seared her for having so little faith in George.

  He drew himself up as if he were affronted, and her heart lightened. Once he was resolute, she would fight with him, for days, weeks, if necessary.

  He raked his fingers through his sandy hair and expelled an ungentlemanly sigh of frustration. “Your Graces—”

  “Come, man, name your price!” her father snapped, his voice a whip. “And let us be done with this crass haggling; it is unbecoming and distasteful!”

  George flushed and quickly glanced away from Phoebe. The daring words to rebuke her father hovering on her tongue died at that flash of guilt. “George?”

  He did not regard her, only stared at the scrubbed tip of his well-polished boot. A cold chill of warning sliced through her.

  “Twenty thousand pounds,” he said so softly, she wondered if she had heard correctly. But then he squared his shoulders and looked beyond her father’s shoulder to a spot on the green and gold drapes. “Twenty thousand pounds, Your Grace.”

  His voice echoed with misery and shame, and he diligently looked at those drapes and not in her direction. Phoebe’s heart became a roar in her ears, and she almost crumbled to the floor. And now she felt unbearably foolish. Her throat burned, though she did her best to not cry. Betrayal burned through her heart like a poison-tipped knife. They had been dear friends for so long. She could still recall the first time they met more
than ten years ago, the many days they had run barefoot through the meadows and swam in the lake that abutted their estates.

  Phoebe had been so certain of their friendship…and budding love. On so many occasions, with the utmost adoration and flattery, he had confessed his love. Every stare as they sat and played the pianoforte together had always communicated longing and admiration. But apparently all of that had a price. Twenty thousand pounds.

  A feeling she had never endured before erupted inside her chest, and it was raw and powerful enough where a soft moan of denial against it rose in her throat. But she bit it back, fierce pride holding her tongue from demanding an explanation. It would not do for George and her parents to see her emotions so exposed, certainly her vulnerability would invite a scathing and critical remark.

  “Done!” her father said, walking around to his desk and withdrawing a sheaf of paper and an inkwell.

  Unable to witness her father writing the order for his solicitors to prepare the draft, Phoebe whirled away from the sight. George was staring at her with regret and some sort of determination.

  “They will never allow us to marry,” he said softly. “I…I am deeply sorry…”

  The carefree days of happiness and a simple life she had envisioned shattered. The realization that she was ruined in every way settled on her shoulders. “You are a coward, Mr. Hastings…one without honor…and I…I was a reckless fool who trusted in your empty words.”

  He jerked as if she had slapped him, and his face flushed a ruddy red.

  Phoebe was afraid of speaking more, afraid her voice would break. She pressed two fingers to her lips, shook her head wordlessly, and hurried from the library.

  I am irrevocably ruined… Oh, what am I to do?

  She raced up the stairs to her bedroom, calling for Wolf as she entered her chamber. He streaked in behind her, and when Phoebe collapsed onto the bed, he was there, butting against her chin and rumbling comfortingly low in his chest. The sound soothed her, and Phoebe gently rubbed her gloved fingers behind Wolf’s ear.

  “My lady,” Sarah said anxiously, lowering the dress she had been hanging in the armoire and making her way over to Phoebe. “You look very pale. Should I send for the doctor?”

  “No.” Then to Phoebe’s horror, a raw sob tore from her throat before she quickly contained the emotion. “I only have one wish in life. And that is to live my days happily. I do not think that is an unreasonable desire.” And how silly she had been to write of those hopes to a stranger who seemed like he had the right of it—sentiments were for fools.

  “Not unreasonable, milady,” Sarah said soothingly, her pale gray eyes glowing her worry.

  Phoebe’s late brother, Francis, had held a similar hope in his heart, and in his last days he’d sunk into deep despondency as he’d been forced to agree to marry the woman their mother had selected. However, the fiancée was not the one who deeply held his heart. Her brother had died without the woman he loved by his side. And the worst of it was that he had called for her in his delirium, but their mother had forbidden anyone from acting on the request.

  Phoebe still recalled the terror she felt sneaking out in the dead of the night, with only a scared Sarah by her side, as they had made their way to Mayfair Square to knock on Miss Minerva Tilby’s door. But it had all been in vain. Hating to recall how Miss Tilby had wept when she discovered Francis’s death, Phoebe forcefully shut the memories away. “Am I silly and capricious for desiring such happiness?” she asked the dog.

  Unexpectedly, Wolf nudged her chin, and an odd rumble came from his throat. “Really?” she asked. “Do you think I should defy Father and do everything to secure my own future?”

  Sarah gasped and looked worriedly behind her at the closed door before facing Phoebe. “I do not think this creature implied anything of the sort, milady!”

  “His name is Wolf.” Phoebe smiled tearily when the dog rumbled again. “I think he did, didn’t you, my boy?”

  Another deep, lazy rumble, then it licked her chin.

  “You are right,” Phoebe murmured with a shaky laugh. “I am Phoebe Maitland! Daughters of dukes do not allow fear to master their lives! We do not succumb to self-pity and despair or the coercion of others. We must be smart…and witty…and outwit those who wish to control our lives as if we have no thoughts of our own!”

  Sarah sounded as if she was choking, but Phoebe paid her no heed.

  “Why am I not able to choose?” Phoebe whispered into Wolf’s neck. “Am I not a person who bleeds and cries and has hopes?”

  “You are distraught. I will go call for a warm bath and some tea,” Sarah said, hurrying from the chamber.

  “I must keep fighting, mustn’t I, Wolf?”

  Wolf rumbled his agreement, though it could just be that he found pleasure in her rubbing behind his ear. Richard had often scolded her that her capacity for recklessness was truly unmatched. Of course, Phoebe did not agree with that assessment; she simply did not accept that Papa, Mama, and society’s opinions must direct her entire life.

  To most in society, it was inconceivable that there were young ladies who dared to step out from under the restrictions their families and society dictated. But to her mind, if every lady in society had allowed themselves to be controlled by the collective group of society, then surely famous ladies whom Phoebe admired such as Mary Wollstonecraft, Charlotte Lamb, and Lady Hester Stanhope wouldn’t have rebelled against expectations and inspired so many young ladies of society to aspire for individuality. Why, if Caroline Herschel had followed the persuasion of her mother, she would have been a well-trained servant, and not a woman of great intellect who discovered eight comets!

  How do I escape the future you’ve plotted for me, Papa?

  Could she go to her brother? Richard had his own worries and battles to fight, so how could she think to burden him with her problems? And if Phoebe were honest, she was afraid to create a deeper rift between Richard and her parents. She felt like she had no one to turn to with all the doubts, anxiety, and pain that were a constant pressure on her heart. Phoebe was hurting and confused. And she felt utterly alone, a state she had existed in since Francis died and Richard had cut all ties with the duke and duchess.

  Francis had died far too young, Richard had been labeled a scoundrel, and so the family had reinvested their hopes in her. And that hope rested on her making an eligible and proper match, one they could exploit for their politics and influence in the realm. Her parents were constantly involved in political chess with the powers that be and were quite determined to carve more influence for the Maitland family. Everything they did, even deciding which ball to attend, seemed to be carefully plotted and executed because it mattered who would be in attendance.

  At times, Phoebe wished she had been able to escape as Richard had. He had stormed from their clutches by forging his destiny, damning all consequences. But of course, it was different for Phoebe. She had been reared with the benefits of an excellent education, which had alarmingly paid close attention to propriety, duty, and obedience. Aristocratic ladies did not dare to chart their destinies or fall head long in love with a gentleman of their own choice.

  Heaven forbid we should have dreams and desires of our own.

  Chapter Two

  Byne Hill, Scotland

  Glencairn Castle

  “Have you decided?”

  Hugh Winthrop, the future Earl of Albury, stared at the crashing waves below, the tranquility of the moment ruffled by those three simple words. An unnamed sensation clutched at his throat, yet anyone looking on would not be able to detect that he was a bit out of sorts. Most importantly, his father would not know. Hugh had learned over the years to suppress his emotions behind a composed façade. Despite the deep love and respect Hugh possessed for his father, he did not want the old earl to know that at times he felt confused, unmoored like a ship about to be tossed against jagged rocks. A d
ecision from Hugh now meant that his father could give up, for the old earl would lose the reason that kept him so ruthlessly tethered to living.

  Hugh stared down at the seaside, imagining that he was down there, walking barefoot in the sand, the pebbles digging into the soles of his feet as the wind battered at his body. He inhaled the cold crispness of the morning air into his lungs. Hugh very much enjoyed these long walks with the old man and would sacrifice anything for several more years with his father. He released the breath he hadn’t realized he held and moved to stand in front of his father.

  Lifting his hands, he replied, “Not as yet.”

  “I do not have much time left.”

  He heard the chilling manipulation and the hope in that simple statement. His father was dying. According to the best doctors from Edinburgh, the old earl would soon go onto his eternal rest and should spend his last days abed. An advice his father staunchly disregarded and, with admirable willpower, spent most of his days hobbling about his lands or in his gardens. His father was very prosaic about death, nor did he fear the hollowness of a grave.

  What his father feared was leaving his son alone in a world he believed was cold, vicious, and unforgiving to anyone who did not fit their carefully preserved mold of privilege and perfection. So much so that he had asked his son to fulfill one request before he died—marry a suitable woman and take his place in English society as Earl of Albury.

  “Thirteen women were desperate enough to respond to the Advert you had Caroline place.”

  Fourteen. But, of course, his Curious Lady did not count, for she was in the realms of something different, something…perplexing and compelling to his senses that had been inspired to come to life. He could tell that should he meet A Curious Lady, he would like her immensely.

  His father pinned him with his direct and calculating glare. “And you will consider one of them?” the old man asked, looking out at the crashing waves, as if he could not bear another rejection from Hugh. His once robust father, who had seemed invincible to his mind, was now little more than a flesh-covered skeleton. What remained true for the old earl was the world-weary cynicism carved into his features.