Benjamin stood there, staring at his wife, unable to find words. Anything would have been better than the stammering and stuttering he demonstrated, but no singular thought had an opportunity to form completely, and therefore none made it to his mouth. Lamely, he reached for the letter she still held out to him. It felt heavier in his hand than a simple piece of paper should have.
It bore his given name, no title, written in Lillian’s hand. She’d never seen reason to refer to him by his title; they were far too intimate for such formalities, she always said. Damn her! Her informality had clearly raised suspicions with his wife.
At that thought, his mind shifted. What was Phoebe doing reading his correspondence? He had told her he didn’t need help with the mound of papers that were his responsibility—not hers—and it appeared she had gone behind his back to “help,” anyway.
If Ben had found the letter on his own, he would have opened it to make sure none of his friends in New York had died, and then used it for kindling. He didn’t care what Lillian had to say. He didn’t care if she missed him or wanted him to come back. She meant nothing to him; Phoebe meant everything.
However, his helpful little wife had clearly read the letter and now he had to answer to her.
A sudden headache began to throb between his eyes. What was he to say? Would she believe him if he told her the truth? He was about to open his mouth to venture an explanation, but Phoebe spoke first.
“You might want to read it before you try to comment upon it.”
He blew out a long breath and stared her right in the eyes. “I don’t want to read it.”
“Really?” Her tone was ice, but her eyes burned with fury. “I think I would want to know if a woman had carried my child and miscarried. Perhaps you want to know that she misses you and loves you. That she wants you to come back and marry her and let her bear your children.”
“Stop!” he shouted, unable to hear anymore. His head was swimming now, as if he were drowning, in the deepest and most turbulent of seas, with no foreseeable way out.
“Oh, but there’s so much more,” Phoebe said, the light sarcasm in her tone belied by the rigidity in her stance.
“I don’t care!” This time he roared at her. He hated this side of her. This hard, cold exterior and cool, sarcastic voice made him want to shake her until she turned back into the beautiful, vulnerable woman he loved.
He loved her, dammit! Didn’t she know that? What was it going to take for her to understand the depths of his devotion to her? He had no idea. All he knew was that he couldn’t let her go on believing he held any feelings for Lillian whatsoever.
“Phoebe,” he said, softening his tone and moving towards her. “You must listen to me. I have had no contact, other than this letter that she sent to me, since I left America. I told her she could stay in my townhouse until she found another protector, but that is as far as my relationship or financial support with her goes.”
Phoebe didn’t move away from him, but neither did she soften when he put his hands on her shoulders. She stood still as a statue, staring at him with furious black eyes.
“She carried your child,” she said, her voice low.
“You don’t know Lillian. She will do anything—say anything—to get her way.”
“But she loves you!”
And I love you! He should have said it to her, but it wasn’t the way he pictured telling her. They should be making love, not screaming at one another about his former mistress when he told her he loved her for the first time.
“But I. Don’t. Love. Her.” He accented every word and pleaded with his eyes for Phoebe to hear the meaning in his voice.
She did not. At least, he didn’t think so when she dissolved into tears and pushed past him. Dammit!
He spun to see her stomping across the room, one hand to her face to hide her tears. “Phoebe, please—”
“No! Don’t say anything. You have no idea what it was like for me, finding that letter today, reading such intimate things from another woman . . . a woman who knows you far better than I.”
“What the hell does that matter?” This was really getting out of hand, and he had to put a stop to it now. She was letting her female sensibilities run away with her, and he was getting the brunt of it.
“It matters tremendously! How can I compete with her?”
“You don’t have to compete with her. I-I don’t care about Lillian—”
“But she cares about you!”
Good God, they were talking in circles now, and the bottom line was that she never should have been going through his post in the first place. He couldn’t say that to her, though. He would have to find another way to put a stop to this conversation.
“Phoebe,” he said, a slight warning in his tone. “Do I not demonstrate my desire for you on a nightly basis? Did I not demonstrate it by marrying you, for Christ’s sake?”
“You married me because you had to!”
Her accusation cut right to his heart and stopped him cold. “What the hell are you talking about?” His voice was a dangerous growl now, and he saw her cower slightly before straightening up and re-assuming her hellcat persona.
“You needed a wife. Or, rather, your father thought you needed a wife,” she amended. “You married me in an effort to gain his approval before he died, did you not?”
Now she was treading on dangerous territory. “You know nothing of my relationship with my father.”
“I know that you must feel guilty for being gone for the last year of his life—”
“Silence,” he growled.
“Why? Because it’s true?”
He said nothing, only stared at her, seething, wondering how the hell a bloody letter from Lillian had resulted in this.
“Well?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows as she crossed her arms over her chest like an insolent child.
“You will never do this again.”
She looked at him askance, as if she were suddenly unclear as to what they were talking about. She maintained a challenging look, though, as she asked, “Do what?”
“You will never go through my letters again unless I give you explicit permission to do so. Is that understood?”
Phoebe’s nostrils flared. “Why? Are you expecting more letters from your mistress?” The acerbic tone she used on “mistress” made him scoff.
“I’ve done far worse things than keep a mistress, Phoebe.”
“Is that meant to make me feel better? That this Lillian person is the least of your transgressions? Because it doesn’t.”
“I don’t give a Goddamn, Phoebe. Give your word that you will stay away from my papers!”
“Don’t curse at me, Benjamin Wetherby.”
“I will curse at you until I am blue in the face or until you bloody well understand that if you had never gone snooping about my things, we wouldn’t be having this ridiculous argument right now.”
“I wasn’t snooping, I was helping, God forbid! And I never realized my husband had so many secrets he wished to keep from me.”
“Lillian was not a secret I meant to keep. I didn’t think she was important enough to bring up. Plenty of gentlemen keep mistresses before they’re married, and many of them after!”
“Like you,” she accused.
“Not. Like. Me.”
“You are paying for her to live in your home, Benjamin. If that’s not keeping, then what would you call it?”
Dammit, he was letting her talk him in circles again. “Enough of this, Phoebe. I’m going to tell you one last time. I care nothing for Lillian. I’ve had no contact with her since I left America, and I have no intentions of contacting her in the future. I had no control over her writing to me, and I really do not appreciate this attack you have launched on my character.”
“Don’t you dare try to turn this around on me.” Her voice caught slightly and she shook with the effort of trying to keep the tears that shone in her eyes from spilling over to her flushed cheeks. “You have no idea what it is like to read those things from another woman about your husband. It’s not as if I thought you were a virgin, but to have your intimacies so blatantly spelled out before me . . . ”
“Phoebe, what more can I do?” he pleaded, hating to see her like this, but knowing not what else to say beyond what he had already said.
“Sell it.”
He blinked at her. “Sell what?”
“The house!” she screamed at him. “Evict her from it and sell it!”
“Phoebe,” he said, trying to keep his tone calm in light of her irrational behavior. “It is an investment property, and as soon as Lillian finds another protector, I will rent it to someone else.”
“What do you need with investment properties, Benjamin? You’re richer than Midas, for heaven’s sake.”
“I will not continue to have this conversation.” He was truly angry now. Why the hell would she not see reason? “That is my property and those were my letters, and you cannot march into this house, demanding what I do with them!”
“Why can I not have input where it concerns me?” she yelled back.
“Because these things do not concern you—”
“Of course they concern me! I am your wife!”
“Listen, wife, when I want something to concern you, I will tell you. Otherwise, you are to stay out of my business.”
“You sound just like my father!”
“Well, then it’s a good thing I shot him!”
Silence, heavy and charged with shock, hung in the air between them. Their eyes locked, but neither of them said a word. Benjamin’s heart raced so quickly he was sure he would have a coronary. Had the words actually escaped his mouth?
Dear God. What had he done?