After what could only be described as the most bizarre family dinner Phoebe had ever been party to, she made her way with Benjamin and Lady Eastleigh to the master suites on the second floor. Phoebe would have been lying to herself to say she wasn’t nervous about meeting the marquess. Not only was she meeting her future father-in-law, which she assumed would be unsettling in its own right, but she was meeting him on his death bed. It was imperative she make a good impression, lest it be the only one she got to make.
“Did you enjoy dinner?” Benjamin asked as they cut through a massive portrait gallery.
“It was . . . lively,” Phoebe said with a smile.
“Yes, my children see to that, Miss Blake. Though I don’t know if lively is exactly the right word. They’re all rather excitable when it comes to just about any topic of no real import whatsoever.”
“Now, now, Mother, I don’t think it’s fair to say that the controversy of roundarm bowling is of no import. Katherine is mad to say it should be allowed in the cricket clubs. And she’s out of her mind if she thinks I will allow it in our own matches.”
Phoebe giggled as Benjamin turned to give her a wink. Perhaps entertaining was the best way to describe the dinner conversation.
They grew silent as they neared the massive oak doors to the master chambers, and Phoebe’s heart raced with apprehension. Lady Eastleigh went ahead of them and closed the door behind her while she made sure the marquess was in a state to receive them. A moment later, she cracked the door open and bid them enter.
The chamber was dimly lit by only a couple of candles and a fire in the hearth. It smelled of sickness, and a pall of sadness hung in the air. Phoebe’s eyes landed on the slight form in the bed. Hair that she was sure was once as dark as Benjamin’s was now streaked with silver and framed a gaunt and wrinkled face. Thick blankets covered the rest of him, but it was obvious he was thin and frail.
Phoebe trembled for many reasons: she was nervous, yes; even worse, however, she was reminded of her own father’s death. It saddened her and yet somehow made her grateful she had not been there in his last days. Benjamin put his hand over hers in a gesture of comfort. It helped, but not completely. She still had to pass the test.
Sure, Benjamin had made his decision, but she knew approval from his father was of great import.
They walked to the edge of the bed. Lady Eastleigh sat on the other side and applied a cold compress to her husband’s forehead.
“Darling,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Benjamin is here with Miss Blake.”
He blinked a few times until Phoebe could see just a sliver of his black eyes. “Ah, Miss Blake,” he said. “You will have to forgive me that I cannot greet you properly, but I’m afraid my legs do not work as they used to.”
Phoebe smiled, feeling a little more at ease already. Clearly, he shared the same wit his wife and children did, and he had not lost it despite his debilitating disease. “I shall endeavor to find it in my heart to forgive you, my lord,” she replied, hoping her sarcasm would not be lost on him.
It wasn’t. A hint of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth, and he turned his attention to Benjamin. “At least we know she will be able to hold her own with the lot of you,” he said weakly.
Benjamin laughed as the marquess refocused his attention on Phoebe. “Tell me about yourself, Miss Blake. While you seem to be quite charming, I am sure there are many more reasons that caused my son to fall in love with you so quickly.”
Phoebe flinched at the mention of love, and her heart sped to an alarming pace. He loved her? She wanted to turn to him, to see if his expression confirmed or denied his father’s words, but her neck felt suddenly immobilized. She couldn’t turn if her life depended upon it. It was certainly fear that had rendered her thus, for she wasn’t sure what would happen if his eyes denied the marquess’s assessment.
Instead, she remained focused on Lord Eastleigh and launched into an abbreviated account of her life and her upbringing, her interests and her dislikes, until it became apparent the man was growing weary.
“I have tired you out with my incessant rambling, my lord,” she said with a smile.
He smiled back with fondness in his eyes and reached for her hand. “I could never tire of you, my dear,” he rasped. “But I tire quickly of this blasted illness.” He coughed a bit, and Lady Eastleigh was back at his side in an instant with a glass of water.
“We will leave you to rest, Father,” Benjamin said from behind her.
He gently took her by the elbow to help her from the chair.
“Wait!” said Phoebe, an idea coming to her all of a sudden. She looked at Benjamin, then Lord Eastleigh, and finally stopped at the marchioness. “Do you think it would be too much to ask that we have the ceremony here tomorrow? So that his lordship might be able to witness it?”
There was a pause before Benjamin leaned in to whisper, “Are you sure, darling? I thought you would want to at least have a chapel wedding.”
Perhaps that had been her dream once upon a time. A grand wedding in a grand church with pews filled with friends and family. But none of that seemed to matter now. It had been Lord Eastleigh’s dream to see his son marry before he died, and that was far more important than a silly chapel wedding.
“I would rather have it here . . . if that’s all right, of course.” She looked up at her fiancé and saw the joy in his eyes, the approval in his smile.
“It is up to you, Father,” he said, but the marquess was already sound asleep.
“I am absolutely certain it would be all right,” Lady Eastleigh put in. “Now, why don’t you two go downstairs with the rest of them, and we will see you in the morning.”
They bid goodnight to Lady Eastleigh, left the master suite and started in the direction of the large drawing room where they had congregated earlier, before dinner. But halfway there, Benjamin tugged lightly on her arm and pulled her into his embrace. They stood in the darkened hallway like that for a few minutes before he finally released his grip on her. She tilted her chin up so she could look at him and noticed the intense longing in his eyes.
“Phoebe, I . . . I don’t know how to thank you for—” His voice broke, and so did Phoebe’s heart.
“There is no need to thank me,” she told him. “It is what I want.”
He shook his head. “You don’t have to say that. I know it can’t be in keeping with your dreams. I have seen how women get over their wedding day. I’ve taken all that away from you by insisting on a hasty wedding. And now—”
“And now it will be absolutely perfect.” She smiled and reached up to smooth the worried frown from his forehead. “It is the people who make a wedding special, not the location or the flowers or any of that. Please believe me when I say this is what I want. You are what I want.”
She held her breath, wondering if she’d said too much. Surely, he knew from her behavior just how much she cared for him, but they’d yet to express their feelings with words. She thought about what his father had said about his being in love with her and wondered if it was true. If he truly did love her, even after such a short period of time. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility—she loved him, after all—but perhaps it was too much to hope for so soon.
And what did it matter, anyway? She would marry him whether he loved her or not, for it would be difficult, after the past week, to imagine her life without him. Furthermore, it was obvious he cared for her, and even desired her, which was far more than most women could say of their husbands.
His lips came down on hers, firm and needy, coaxing her to open to him. She didn’t hesitate to grant him entry, and she allowed her tongue to mingle and tease with his, while her hands roamed his hard, muscular shoulders. There was more to this kiss than she had felt in ones prior. He had always been gentle and careful with her. But not tonight.
He kissed her harder, held her tighter, breathed a little heavier than ever before. And Phoebe could not get enough. She felt weak, as if her legs might give way any moment, and urgent, as if she might never be able to get close enough to this man.
She snaked her foot around his calf, pressing herself against his leg, trying to satiate an urge she didn’t quite understand. He pressed back with his muscular thigh and Phoebe felt the blood rush to her ears. She wanted more, more, of this sensational feeling, but she wasn’t sure how to go about getting it. However, she was positive Benjamin would know how to give it to her.
When his mouth left hers and began to travel down her neck, stopping to tease the sensitive dip where her pulse throbbed, she whispered, “Take me to your room.”
There was a groan—a low, reluctant groan—as Benjamin lifted his head, straightened his leg and set Phoebe away from him by several feet. She stared at him, breathless and wanting, wondering what had happened.
“Was it something I said?” she asked, hoping to break the tension that crackled between them.
It worked. He chuckled. “While no one in this household would think much of it were I to take you to my room a mere twelve or so hours before I marry you, I would.”
She said nothing, only blinked at him, surprised by his virtuous declaration. She was supposed to be the virtuous one, wasn’t she? The virgin, saving herself for her wedding day? Yet here she stood, desperate to make the throbbing between her legs go away, the ache in her breasts, with not a thought for her own virtue.
He moved towards her, and she dared to hope that perhaps in the infinitesimal seconds that had passed, he might have changed his mind. A strong hand caressed her cheek and moved into her hair. She thought for a moment that he might pull her to him again for another kiss, but he didn’t. Not the kind of kiss she was craving, anyhow. He merely placed a tender peck to her forehead, and said, “I want to do this the proper way, Phoebe, my love. And I will force myself to wait until tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s not exactly fair, is it?” Phoebe asked, a sense of bravado washing over her.
“I’m sorry?” Benjamin stared at her, his brows raised in surprise.
“By forcing yourself to wait, you are also forcing me to wait, and I’m not sure I like that scenario . . . not right this moment at least.”
Benjamin chuckled again and shook his head. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know. In the Shakespearian way, of course.”
What did Shakespeare have to do with this? “Would you care to explain?” she asked, not enjoying being left in the dark.
“No.” He took her firmly by the elbow and started off in a brisk walk down the corridor. “Not tonight, anyway.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but it didn’t much matter. The air between them had cooled in the course of their conversation, and she was ready to acquiesce. He was right, anyhow. Their wedding was a mere twelve hours away, and then she supposed she had the rest of her life to figure out how to satiate the incessant throb between her legs. Or to learn how exactly she would be the death of him. It didn’t sound very romantic, but one never knew. She would save judgment for tomorrow.
By the time they gained the stairs, Phoebe had decided she did not want to mingle with the family tonight. She was getting married in the morning, so it was best she have a good night’s sleep to appear fresh and awake for her nuptials.
Benjamin agreed it was for the best. “I think I shall turn in myself,” he said, leaning in to give her another chaste kiss on her cheek. “Sleep well, my darling.”
They parted ways, and Phoebe sauntered slowly back to her room, one floor above. She was sleepy and ready to climb into bed, but when she did, the second her head hit the pillow, she knew she wouldn’t enjoy a wink of sleep that night.