by Stacy Reid
Phoebe nodded. “I am aware of that, so I do not know why I should feel this sadness for him. Do not mistake me, I do not feel this sadness for my daughter, for in Hugh, she has a father who is incomparable.”
“I agree,” Richard said with a small smile. “There are days I also wonder if I will ever reveal to little Emily the identity of her mother. Perhaps when she is of age, but I do not want to ever hurt Evie, who has lovingly claimed Emily as a daughter.”
“I believe it is a discussion Hugh and I will also have in the future,” Phoebe said contemplatively. “Thank heavens that is years from now. George is in the past, and I bear him no ill will. In truth, when I think I might have been married to him, I get terrified because I would have missed Hugh and the wonderful life I have with him.”
“Is it, Phoebe?” her brother demanded. “Is it wonderful?”
“Yes.” She took a few steps closer to him. “We will need your support and those of your friends.” Especially the Duke of Wolverton, who was influential. Though he’d had his own scandal of a young lady climbing into his bed at a house party to deliberately compromise him, that had turned out well, and those whispers had died down, and many even admired his duchess for her daring.
“Society will love your husband because he is enigmatic.”
“And when he is no longer a curiosity?”
“He is too wealthy for that to happen. Even I have heard about the Winthrop wealth. It is rumored in the millions.”
That jolted Phoebe. She hoped that enigma and his wealth would be enough to pave the way when their mourning period was over.
“How old is Winthrop?” Richard murmured
“Five and twenty.”
“He is ruthless for one so young.”
“So are you,” she whispered. “And so is Father. Perhaps I was destined to fall in love with a man with a similar inclination.”
Richard’s eyes sharpened. “So you truly love him?”
She pressed a hand against her stomach. “Frightfully so.”
“I can see that I have little need to worry about your safety.”
She smiled.
“I will worry about your heart,” he said gruffly.
Phoebe’s eyes widened to hear her once-cynical brother speak so casually about matters of the heart. His apparent weakness for Evie was something Phoebe would never get used to seeing. “What about my heart?” she murmured.
“While he is protective of you, Albury does not look at you like a man in love,” he said with brutal frankness. “You must protect yourself, Phoebe. You might be unwilling to admit it, but that man had ulterior motives for marrying you. I do not want you to hide from it and leave yourself open to pain.”
She flinched as a quiver of pain arrowed through her chest. Phoebe did everything to hide the torment digging at her heart. “He is frightfully contained with his emotions, but I assure you not only is he protective of me, but he treats me with kindness. He also desires me quite a lot.”
Richard scowled and tugged at his neckcloth as if she made him uncomfortable at the mention of her husband desiring her.
“Protection and kindness are not love,” he retorted.
She wanted to yell at him that he should leave her some hope. Why did she feel so horribly vulnerable and scared? “Perhaps they are the beginning of it.”
Her brother hesitated, and his gaze lowered briefly to her hands. It was then she realized she had them clenched tightly around the edges of her skirt. She released her dress as if she had been singed and smoothed the wrinkles.
“If you ever need to breathe…come to me, Phoebe. My home is always open to you, and no one can take you from it unless you are willing.”
She nodded and walked over to him to press a kiss to his cheek. When she moved to walk away, he enfolded her in a hug. “I love you, poppet.”
Tears formed in her eyes. The last time Richard had been this affectionate and called her poppet was before Francis had died.
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
A few minutes later, she went outside to see her husband waiting patiently in the hallway, the viscount nowhere to be seen. Hugh turned at the closing of the door and held out his hand. Her heart thumped as she placed her gloved hand in his and allowed him to sweep her away from her brother’s residence to the waiting carriage outside.
Once they were settled inside the carriage, she leaned her head against the squab, painfully aware that his stare had not left her person. Never the kind of person to shy away from scrutiny, she lowered her gaze to his. A strange stirring began in the pit of her stomach and drifted lower.
His gaze moved to her mouth, his desire to kiss her a tangible thing. Phoebe went over to him and sat in his lap. She twined her hands around his neck and kissed him. He responded immediately, but her heart went cold.
The unrestrained passion he normally kissed her with was missing. It was just as ravaging and deep, rousing her pleasure, but something was missing.
“Tell me what is wrong,” she whispered against his mouth. “Share with me.”
There was a terrible air of indifference around him. His face was inscrutable, and she hated that contained emotion.
“Such oversentimentality is not necessary in our marriage.”
For several moments, she felt as though she couldn’t drag enough air into her lungs. “I see,” she finally said stiffly, moving from off his lap to settle against the squabs.
He thought sharing their feelings an oversentimentality.
“I might no longer have your tender considerations, but I demand your respect,” she said with biting civility.
This arrested his attention.
“I can tell there is something different between us…I feel the loss of it here,” she said, pressing the flat of her palm against her chest. “It writhes inside, hot and terrible, and I ache. I have asked twice, you have ignored me, and that, my Lord, is intolerable.”
A flash of admiration lit in his gaze. He touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers, and for a moment, she savored the wonderful caress. But then he lowered his hand, and her skin grew cold again.
“Our marriage is one of convenience. You will have my loyalty, faithfulness, and protection always.”
She managed to say, after a brief struggle, “Is this your way of saying I must not muddy the water with talk of love and sentimentality?”
He stared at her for several moments. “George asked you to be with him. He was confident that you still loved him. Why did you not answer his question?”
The shock that tore through her felt as if someone had dropped her into a lake in winter. Awareness bloomed through her. “I was simply not interested and had no wish to waste my efforts in explaining my stance. It was not because I considered his offer or was confused! Do you think me capable of abandoning the vows I made to you before God?”
“Anyone is capable of acting in a manner to satisfy the desires of their heart.”
“Do you not trust me, know that I am faithful to our marriage?” The words felt like glass scraping along her throat. “I trust you, Hugh. In the months we’ve been married, I’ve come to know your heart and character, and the manner of man I see is who I admire, even as I yearn that he would fall in love with me…as I have fallen in love with him. You’ve known me as long as I’ve known you, but you think so little of my character…” Her voice broke, and she stared at him, hating the pain worming through her heart.
“I suppose you have stopped loving George, then.”
Phoebe did not understand why the words pierced her heart in such a violent manner. “I do not love George. I never did. You heard him declaring his love and promising all sorts of rubbish. You know he…he…” She took a deep breath. “To feel even a smidgen of jealously is normal under the circumstance—”
The sharp slashing motion of his hand faltered
her speech, and Phoebe’s throat went dry at the briefest flash of torment that crossed his features. “I am not the jealous sort, nor will I ever be. Do you think me so weak that I would allow myself to be tortured over another man kissing you? Do you think I would be foolish enough to ever make myself so weak to a woman where she could drop me to my knees and leave me there to suffer with a craving she does not return?”
“Of course, I do not think you weak. Loving and caring for another is not weak.”
His eyes widened with incredulity, and the smile that hovered across his lips scared her. It seemed derisive and…dismissive.
“Do not speak,” she breathed shakily. “We are not ourselves at this moment, and I believe—”
His expression hardened, and his fingers spoke for him. “I am myself, Phoebe.”
“Are you?” she demanded, hating that her lips trembled, and intolerable tears burned behind her eyelids. “I was ashamed at how silly I had been with George. That is the only reason I shied away from speaking about him at all. I should have explained everything to you the moment you asked me to marry you. I did not love him when I acted with recklessness, and I do not love him now. So if George plays any role in how you are feeling now, please dismiss him from your awareness.”
When he said nothing, she lifted her chin, holding his stare with hers.
“I cannot tell when I started to fall in love with you, Hugh. I did…I do love you, and love matters so much.”
“Don’t.”
“Ambrose—”
“Don’t. I am not that man, and I will never be that man.”
Her chest rose and fell raggedly.
Then to her shock, he lurched from his seat to sit beside her. Hugh cupped her cheeks, lifting her face to his so he could press his mouth to her forehead. The brush of his lips was cold, indifferent, and a knife to her heart.
Then he dropped his hands and signed. “You are my wife. You are my family. Of course, I will care for you always, Phoebe. But I am not interested in love or sentiments. I am not interested in how it makes people fools…how it breaks their spirit and how it makes them lose all semblance of self and pride. You knew this about me from my letters, so do not look at me with those wounded eyes, as if I have broken something inside you. I was never that man, nor will I ever be.”
Her lips trembling fiercely, she fought the need to cry. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks, and her chest burned with the effort to hold her hurt inside. If her husband had even cared a bit about the love that she felt for him, he would have offered something more than, “I am not that man.”
He had not offered any hope that their union might continue with the same tenderness as before, with the same joy and anticipation of a new day.
I was never that man nor will I ever be.
She tried to bring back her earlier resolve that she was quite fine with a marriage that only existed for mutual benefit, but that belief could no longer be held in her heart. Every smile, touch, kiss, conversation between them had altered her. And she suspected he had been, too, but instead of welcoming it, he had grabbed it into his fist and shattered that budding love.
And for the first time in months, Phoebe eased back away from him, into the shadows of the carriage, and silently wept.
Chapter Nineteen
The softest of kisses brushed against Phoebe’s nape, and she closed her eyes against the pain and pleasure that caress wrought. Her husband stroked the side of her arm over the silken sleeves of her nightgown. That brought a lump in her throat as she fought the urge to cry. Burying the useless emotion, she turned in the cage of his arms and twined her hands around his neck. They had returned from England to their home in Scotland a little over a month now, and each day it was hammered in her heart that he would never fall in love with her.
Everyone in the household tried to honor the old earl’s wish by not swathing the mansion in black. But they had refrained from all social gathering, and each invitation that had braved the wintry roads from Aberdeen and Edinburgh had been declined. They privately mourned him and had no wish to return to Society until a full year had passed. Until that time, they had a reprieve from the malicious rumors they might face. But it reassured Phoebe greatly that her brothers and his influential friends would stand boldly ready to welcome the Winthrops into their folds. The hurdles they would endure would still be tremendous, but Phoebe was willing to brave it all for dear Caroline.
She traced his full lips with her finger, thinking of the polite routine they had fallen into and how, while comfortable, it felt empty. Each morning they would break their fast together, then he would spend an hour or more with Franny before he disappeared behind the closed door of his office. There he would stay for hours, until the dinner bell rang. Other times he would leave the estate and only return at the lowering of the sun. Their dinner conversations were about the weather and sometimes about her meetings with the solicitors she had invited to help with the construction of Hope, the tentative name of her charity. It had sunk deep into her bones that what they now had was a normal ton marriage. He had no expectations of her, and she should have none beyond the polite courtesy, his name, and money.
So many ladies would be satisfied and find their happiness in the arms of a lover. That very notion was repugnant to her heart and honor. How could so many in society accept a marriage without love and affection as the normal way of things? How could anyone scoff at a love match?
He nipped at the finger across his lips before sucking it into his mouth. Her knees weakened, and she moaned, sagging against him. He released her finger. A tug at the strings of her nightgown bared her throat fully and the mound of her breasts. Their chamber was cast in more shadows than light; still she risked glancing up, for Phoebe could not look into his beautiful eyes anymore without a dagger tearing into her heart.
Whenever our gazes collide, your eyes are so carefully contained. How do I bear staring at you?
He gripped her hips and lifted her in his arms, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips. Within a few strides, he had them tumbling on the bed, her nightgown pushed to her waist, his hot lips at her throat.
Whenever we make love, you do not kiss me anymore.
She closed her eyes against that pained awareness. Her husband hadn’t kissed her lips since London. Wicked heat curled low in her belly, and even as he reached between them and notched his manhood at her wet aching entrance, her body quivered in delight and her heart cried at its emptiness. The duality of the emotions wrecked her. A wild cry ripped from Phoebe as he buried himself to the hilt in one stroke.
She held him to her, agonizing pleasure pummeling her body as he loved her with sometimes slow and torturous strokes, then wicked and ravaging plunges. When they found their pleasure together several moments later, she turned to her side, pillowing her hand beneath her cheek. The bed dipped as he disappeared, then he returned with a washcloth to clean away his seed and lowered her nightgown.
Her heart pounded, and she shifted to lay on her back and stare at the darkened ceiling.
She had been enduring his civility and the polite indifference, which only thawed briefly when he took her to heights of bliss. And she was not the sort to endure anything for long without acting. Phoebe had long accepted that she was reckless and impulsive, and if she wanted contentment in her marriage, perhaps she should fashion a reckless plan that would allow her husband to fall in love with her.
What did ladies of the ton do to make gentlemen write poems and sonnets in their names? And artful love letters.
Perhaps she could write a letter and ask Evie. As Evie had regaled Phoebe at the celebratory ball after her wedding, she had been in love with Richard for so very long, but her cold-hearted brother had been impervious to Evie. That was until she had boldly taken the reins and decided to seduce him into noticing her.
But you already come to my bed every night.
She truly had no notion what to do.
Hugh lay beside her, and several minutes later, she could tell that he was still awake. He rolled to her, gripped her hips, and tugged her onto his chest. This he did every night, for she refused to curl into his arms anymore. If he wanted her there, he would damn well reach for her.
Yet he did not wrap his arms around her or kiss her forehead as he had done in the past. Though her back was pressed to his chest and she could feel the beat of his heart against her skin, there was a divide that seemed impossible to cross.
He had drawn an invisible line, and nothing she had done had breached that line or his impenetrable silence on the matter. Phoebe could no longer pretend or ignore the truth. Their previous relationship had been altered indelibly and might never return.
Phoebe closed her eyes and pressed a trembling finger to her lips. She recalled each wonderful memory: how they had laughed while they raced together, the lanterns in the sky, the sweet and tender way he would kiss her, the beautiful way he had played the flute…and then she allowed the images to disintegrate as if fire had burned them to ashes and then the wind picked them up and scattered them across the wasteland.
I can tell that everything is different between us. You say nothing, but you do not have to. I feel the distance in your every touch, in your lack of kisses, the way you hold me in the night. It says though we are in the same room…the same bed, we are miles apart, and you are not interested in ending that distance.
She closed her eyes to trap her tears, but they still leaked, ran down her temple, and onto his chest. A tight tension wound through his frame when he felt her tears, and the sudden pounding of his heart echoed through her body. Yet neither of them moved.
“Do not expect me to love you forever when you are indifferent to me,” she whispered in the stillness of the dark. “I will not suffer for my heart to break daily.”
Thud.
His heart felt as if it had slammed against his ribcage. Yet he did not move. A massive boulder of loss pressed against her chest. It hurt, somewhere deep down, that she did not have his love and her presence in his life was merely tolerated. All the feelings she had been bottling inside these last few weeks as she still smiled brightly and went about her day broke. Fierce and complex sensations tumbled through Phoebe, and an unrelenting fist closed itself over her heart.