Chapter Seventeen

Money granted power and information, so before Hugh arrived in London, his man of affairs had known Phoebe’s location and exactly where she would be this evening. Hugh had only arrived at his townhouse in Grosvenor Square a little after nine in the evening and was greeted by the under butler and housekeeper, the only two staff who knew how to speak his language.

Only the old earl had known that Hugh invested heavily into schools for the deaf and mute in London and Scotland and that he had given a significant amount of money to ensure those schools were funded for those who could not afford private tutoring. He had instructed his man of affairs to hire staff for his homes in England from amongst those who had studied at the schools he had helped his tutor to launch.

His man of affairs, James Humboldt, hadn’t been able to find a worker of great experience who knew enough of the language to act as butler, but they were able to hire an under butler who himself was hearing impaired and so was competent in sign. His housekeeper, Shirley Bramwell, also was adept at signing and impressively could speak, even if slowly. She was young but very efficient and glad to be working in such a prestigious household without worrying her disadvantages would cost her a job.

The twelve-room townhouse had been in order, with heavy scents of lemon, beeswax, and freshly cut flowers redolent in the air. Dinner had been waiting, and he had quickly eaten, taken a bath, and then read the report his man had left for him in the study. His wife had been seen about town in the company of her brother, the Marquess of Westfall, and his pregnant wife, Lady Westfall. Phoebe’s brother had a fearsome reputation about town, and his society was more wary than accepting of his presence amongst their lofty ranks.

He filed that information away and scanned the rest of the report. Yesterday Phoebe had attended a ball, the day before a picnic in Hyde Park, and tonight she would be at Lady Lillian Harte’s ball. One Viscount Malfoy was also seen in the company of his wife, and that man was a close associate of her brother. He lowered the report. Nothing there showed a lady eager to return home to her husband and child. Drumming his fingers on the desk, he assessed the situation from all sides. If her parents and brother were determined to keep her from “the mistake” he had hinted about in his letter, Phoebe would be powerless to fight a man of his reach.

Perhaps she is just unable to leave, a small voice of reasoning whispered.

Hugh carefully dressed himself in the appropriate evening style, and the carriage was brought around for his convenience. The ball was not far from his home, and when he arrived, the queue for the ball went past the fronts of several townhouses. Instead of waiting, he exited the carriage and walked past several carriages toward the revelry in the distance. Though his man of affair had procured an invitation, Hugh made his way around the side entrance of the ball and entered through the gardens.

The merry noises of conversation and laughter spilled outside from the hall and stairs. The sound of an orchestra playing wafted down from the ballroom above. Many ladies and gentlemen loitered outside, and he even detected a couple scandalously kissing in the shadows. Hugh moved unobserved through the throng and made his way into the ball through the open side terrace door. No one questioned if he should be there, but a few lords and ladies cast him a questioning look. A few ladies gave him lingering stares, invitations to wickedness in their gaze as they scanned his body.

Hugh ignored it all, climbing the stairs to the upper bowers. He stood in the shadows by a Corinthian column, observing the crowd with utmost discretion. Ladies and gentlemen twirled across the ballroom, glittering in their fineries, and he noted a ball in London was very much like those held in Edinburgh.

He scanned the crowd, searching for his wife. It did not take long for him to find her, so attuned he was to everything about her. Unexpectedly, the tight band across his chest released, and a soft shudder went through his body.

There you are, my wife.

She looked so breathtakingly vivid in a dark green gown that had been cut with elegant lines to accentuate her full charms. His Phoebe stood by the sidelines, appearing aloof and untouchable, not like many of the other young ladies flittering about. A few people cast her curious and puzzled frowns. He examined her demeanor now as he thought back to how she had described her season and realized it was vastly different to the story she had told him.

A man watched her, with an intensity that was…hungry. He was a short red-haired lad who seemed as young as his wife and stared at her with such yearning it was a wonder he did not try to snatch her from the ball and carry her away.

The young man tugged at his cravat nervously a few times and even downed two glasses of champagne quite hurriedly. That man made his way to her through the crowd, and she deliberately snubbed him by turning away. The fact that she cut the man did not lessen the coldness in Hugh’s gut, for his expression had taken on the cast of someone caught in the throes of love and regret.

George.

Everything in Hugh warned him that this was the man who had gotten his wife with child.

He either did not know the rules of propriety or he did not care for them, because her actions had not deterred the man. He went to her and bowed, holding his hand out for a dance. Several people observed their interactions, and Phoebe, after a slight hesitation, allowed the man to walk her out to the dance floor. There was no doubt she wished to avoid the speculation her refusal might cause, and this man had exploited on that.

“You have been staring at my sister like a hungry wolf for the last several minutes without care for her reputation,” a dark, dangerous tone drawled nearby. “Be mindful, stranger.”

Hugh did not acknowledge the man who came up beside him with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Since he spoke of his sister, the man could only be Richard Maitland, the Marquess of Westfall. Hugh had not prepared any notes, and there was no one to translate for him, so he did not even bother to try and indicate he could not speak. That awkwardness when those around him realized he could not speak would inevitably come. Just not now. What Hugh did was kept his regard firmly planted on his wife.

How beautiful and graceful she looked twirling in the arms of another man. A disturbing, ruthless need trembled inside, and he forcefully squashed it. He would not get angry or become a raving, possessive idiot who would be haunted by anyone’s action.

“Who are you?” Lord Westfall demanded. A chill of warning edged his words.

Hugh descended the stairs, ignoring the dark shadow of Lord Westfall, who watched him with a mien of curiosity as if he did not know what to make of him. The dance ended, and the man held onto her gloved elbow and deftly twirled her away and with a quick glance about slipped with her through a side door.

Something cold and unforgiving throbbed through Hugh. A quick glance at the upper bowers revealed that Lord Westfall was watching him like a hawk. Hugh allowed his lips to quirk in a measure of amusement, and the man’s golden gaze sharpened. Hugh deftly moved through the crowd and out the side door the man had taken his wife. He saw the hem of her gown as it disappeared around a corner. Hugh followed, hugging the shadows, scanning to ensure no one else lingered who could gossip and cause irreparable harm to her reputation.

“Why have you dragged me here?” came his wife’s scathing demand. “You will release me at once!”

“Phoebe, please,” the man breathed. “Did you get my letters?”

Hugh faltered into remarkable stillness. Letters?

With a scoff, she whirled around and made to head up the stone path back to the ballroom.

“Please, Phoebe, we have been friends for years! Please…I…I only wish a moment of your time,” the man cried in a choked voice.

She stopped and closed her eyes briefly, a spasm of emotions crossing her face Hugh could not decipher. The coldness inside grew.

She turned around. “The only reason I even allowed you to drag me away is because I did not want to start a scene and a scandal. I have people depending on me who would hate for any luridness to attach to our names, and that is the only reason I did not punch you on the nose, George.”

He chuckled, yet his expression was one of pained regret. “This is what I love about you, Phoebe. Your boldness. How you speak your mind. You are so decided. I…I love you. Please, please let me make this up to you. Marry me, Phoebe!”

His father had warned him that it was easy to make enemies within the ton, and because of its fickle nature, he should be aware to whom he gave that epithet. One should not be eager to claim an enemy because having a friend was more worthwhile. Yet it was with a sense of pleasure he mentally moved the man before his wife into enemy status.

“Do not be ridiculous,” she said cuttingly.

“Your brother…he told me if I wished to do the honourable thing, I should be at tonight’s ball and try and speak with you. He gave me hope, Phoebe…hope that you perhaps think of me with the same longing as I think of you. I want to give you a husband that you love…and one who loves you…a happy life…a happy family. I can give that to you. Please give me a chance to make up for the fool I was.”

She stared at him for several seconds, and the man seemed to hold his breath, awaiting her reply.

With a sense of disbelief, Hugh found he did the same thing. He waited, his heart twisting as if a knife had been lodged within.

She did not answer. Merely turned away. The man grabbed her shoulder and twisted her around. A low growl came from his wife’s throat, and Hugh moved forward, iciness flowing through his veins.

“George, you will—”

The man hauled her to him and pressed a kiss to her mouth, cutting off her furious rebuttal.

…

Phoebe jerked from George’s embrace, shock tearing through her. A glint entered his eyes, and he reached out a hand to her. Outrage poured through her, and she slapped his hand away and stepped back. “How do you dare? I am a happily married woman!” she said furiously.

“Married?” he cried, shock slackening his jaw. He appeared a besotted, miserable fool, and Phoebe did not care to offer him any kind words. George squared his shoulders. “Your brother clearly believes that marriage is of little consequence if he is willing to take steps to see us reunited. I even suspected that marriage is a tale to support you returning with a child.”

She stumbled back. Richard told him? Phoebe breathed harshly, anger and hurt pouring through her veins. “I am not sure what Richard told you but—”

“I deduced it myself! You disappeared from society without any word like many ladies do who run away to the country for months and return a widow. We have a child, don’t we?” he asked hopefully.

“We do not, George. My husband and I have a child.” Not even sparing him another glance, she deliberately used the back of her glove to swipe away the imprint of his mouth on hers and whirled away. Thank goodness he had not tried for more intimacy or she would have bitten his tongue off! She did not believe violence was the first response, but she should have slapped his face again!

Phoebe took three steps and collided into an unyielding frame with a rousingly familiar scent. Glancing up, she met the bluest, most beautiful eyes. Phoebe’s breath caught as a burst of relief and happiness filled her heart.

“You came,” she cried happily, flinging herself into his arms.

It took a few moments before his arms came around her. He enfolded her in a hug and rested his chin on the crown of her head. In this embrace, she felt his concern, but there also lingered a tension to his frame that had been absent from all previous embraces.

She withdrew and gave him a tremulous smile. “I am so very happy you are here.”

An inexplicable look of withdrawal came into his eyes. His hands dropped from her and lifted between them. “Are you?”

“Yes, I am. I have been wracking my brain on how to hatch a daring escape plan, but now I can save my dignity because you are here,” she said softly but with firmness. “The only reason I am even at Lady Hart’s ball is because I know what we want to accomplish for Caroline and our family. I have been slowly letting everyone see and speculate on the new Countess of Albury. Of course, society was instantly compelled by rumors of vast wealth.” She took a deep breath. “I have much to explain, and I hope you will give me that chance without rushing to any judgment.”

At his lack of reaction, she faltered into stillness and simply stared into the eyes that peered down at her. She saw a stranger. That distance startled Phoebe immensely. She attempted a smile that felt brittle, but he did not respond. It was then she recalled George behind her and that he had kissed her only a minute ago. Ice lodged against her stomach. Had her husband seen their embrace and misinterpreted it? “I…what you witnessed just now was—”

“It is of no consequence.”

No consequence? How could he say it so casually? His handsome, impassive countenance betrayed no sign of anger.

Footsteps sounded behind her as George drew close, but Hugh did not lift his regard from her. George’s approaching presence was as significant to him as an ant crawling in the underbrush by his feet. He held out his hand to her, and Phoebe placed her palm against his, allowing him to tug her to his side. Hugh walked with her into the ballroom, and when they entered together, she felt the ripple of interest from several persons.

Instead of taking her from the ball, he led her to the dance floor at the announcement of the waltz. With a soft sigh of pleasure, she walked into his arms, basking in the delight of dancing with him. It felt so right…so wonderful to be held in his arms so.

Her joy was suspended, for his gaze was simply too cool and watchful. But then he tugged her a little closer than what was considered proper, and a breath trembled from her lips. They moved together at first almost tentatively, but within a few beats something changed.

Phoebe could feel the pulse of the violins in her body, and she felt the subtle tightening of his fingers on her body. She was very much aware of his arms about her waist and his rousing masculine scent. This time when she boldly peered at him, in his gaze she saw a spark of remembered heat. The moment felt remarkably intimate.

They soared across the expanse of the ballroom, staring into each other’s eyes. It was as she suspected: her husband was the most elegant and accomplished dancer.

With each glide, and twist, and turn, her enjoyment grew, and Phoebe laughed. And how her heart tumbled inside her chest when his mouth curved and he, too, smiled.

He spun her away from him, and she twirled in two rotations before she was back in his arms, this time even scandalously closer. Oh God. Her body felt charged, vibrantly alive, her heart exquisitely tormented by the intense feelings burning through her for this man.

Phoebe could feel the curious stares of several people from society upon them, yet he only had eyes for her. Her heart thrilled even as a soft warming went through her. The dance ended, and he led her from the dance floor and out into the hallway. She felt a stare and glanced back to see Richard observing their departure. A footman rushed to deliver her wrap, and she thanked him and rewarded him a small coin. Hugh led her to a carriage that was still in the queue and helped her inside. The weather had changed since their dance, and it was now raining. The conveyance was large and elegant, one of the most luxurious she had ever seen.

He sat opposite her. “I am taking you to our townhouse.”

“And where is that?”

“Grosvenor Square.”

“I’ve missed Franny dreadfully.” It had only been a little over a week since she had been taken from her home, and each night since she had been restless and worried without her child.

The hard line around his flat, unsmiling mouth softened. “Franny is well. I am sure she misses you, too. We must return to her as soon as possible. Tomorrow.”

Her heart lifted. “Of course.”

An odd tension lingered in the air. She drew the curtain aside and watched the townhouses they rattled past. She frowned as they drove past a woman with a swaddled bundle pressed against her chest and a young boy of about three years with his hand clasped between her own. They were hurrying away from a townhouse, and to Phoebe’s shock, a footman dashed a pail of water toward them.

The lady hurried along, almost tripping in her haste.

“Stop the carriage,” Phoebe cried.

Hugh arched a brow and rapped the roof of the carriage.

“There is a lady outside with…with two children, and a servant threw water at them. It is already drizzling outside and so dreadfully cold. How terrible of him!”

Hugh made no reply, and Phoebe opened the window when it stopped at the woman’s feet, causing her to cast a wary and suspicious glance at the equipage.

“Hallo,” Phoebe greeted. “It is raining, and I daresay it will only fall harder. Might I offer to take you and the children to your lodgings?”

Shock blanketed the woman’s face, and she stared at Phoebe for several moments before saying, “I ain’t got no coin to pay.”

“I am not a public hackney, madam,” Phoebe said with some teasing. “Surely that is evident.”

The little boy swiped some of the water from his face, tugged at his mother’s hand, and peered up at her pleadingly.

“Thank you,” the lady said quietly.

The steps to the carriage were knocked down, and Hugh exited the equipage to assist the lady inside. That seemed to be a greater shock to her, and she wiped her hands in her skirt before accepting his gloved hand.

Phoebe offered her a reassuring smile. “Where can we take you?”

“I am letting a room in Covent Garden.”

Quick instructions were given to the coachman, and the carriage rumbled over the street, taking them away from Mayfair. The lady and the boy huddled closer, though there was ample room for them to sit comfortably. A gurgling sound emitted from the boy, and Phoebe realized it was his stomach.

“I witnessed that footman tossing the pail of water your way. I am deeply sorry you had to suffer that indignity.”

The lady did not seem to know what to make of Phoebe, and she nodded shyly. Upon looking closer, Phoebe could not help noting how young the girl was. “How old are you?”

The boy scooted closer to her, and she wrapped her arms around his thin shoulders. They shared a resemblance with their brown hair, the slant of their cheekbones and light eyes. He was a handsome lad, and the lady herself quite pretty despite her haggard appearance.

“I am one and twenty, milady.”

“And these two children are yours?”

Her throat worked on a swallow before she nodded.

“And your husband?”

Something flashed in the lady’s light gray eyes, a curl of shame and fright, before she lifted her chin. “Dead,” she said, though the word trembled.

Phoebe suspected then she’d had the children out of wedlock. “Were you coming from the home of their father just now?” she said quietly.

The lady’s chest rose on a harsh breath, and the little girl in her hand stirred awake.

“Mamma,” she said sleepily, pushing the blanket from her head and looking around the carriage. “Hungry.” This last bit was said with a whimper, and the boy’s stomach rumbled again.

The girl was maybe two years of age and quite thin. Sorrow clutched at Phoebe’s throat. If not for her circumstances of birth and the kindness of her husband, this might have been her plight. Alone and adrift with a child to take care of, with little option or opportunities to live. How many women found themselves with a child out of wedlock and the gentleman who had helped to create that life indifferent to their sorry state?

Phoebe reached up and removed her earbobs. The lady watched her the entire time while she shushed the fretful child in her arms. Phoebe held them out to her. “These are worth at least fifty quid. You should pawn them tomorrow. Do not accept less than forty pounds.”

With trembling hands, the lady reached out then at the last minute snatched back her hand and stared at the earbobs with a desperation that made Phoebe’s throat ache.

“I am the Countess of Albury,” she said softly.

Hugh tensed subtly beside her at the use of her title.

“As unlikely as it might seem, a few months ago I was very desperate and afraid, but God sent me to my destiny, and since then I have not been afraid. I can see the fear in your eyes and the hunger in your children. Please take them.”

The lady snatched the earbobs from her hands, silent tears rolling down her eyes. “Thank you, your ladyship. I…somehow I will repay you.”

“It will not be necessary,” she said kindly. “They were simply an ornament, but I dare hope the money will be able to keep you fed and warm for a few months.” How she wished she could do something more.

Hugh stirred, and his fingers moved. Phoebe almost threw herself at him and hugged him fiercely as she read his words. She turned back to the lady. “What is your name?”

“Agnes Smith, your ladyship.”

“Miss Agnes, in the morning, please visit Mr. Humboldt on Brook Street. He will have five hundred pounds waiting for you, and he will help you find a job.”

Agnes’s lips parted, and she stared helplessly at Phoebe. “Are you funning me?” she whispered hoarsely. “That is a fortune. And no one will hire me once…once they understand my circumstances.”

Hugh’s fingers moved. “It is a mere pittance.” However, Phoebe did not relay that to the quietly weeping woman.

“Rubbish, you are a respectable widow, and I hope you may have a skill?”

“I am an excellent seamstress, your ladyship!” she said eagerly.

“There. I am certain you will be able to find your way. A little bit of help was simply needed.”

A profusion of thanks erupted, and even the little boy started to smile despite his rumbling belly. Several minutes later, they deposited her to her abode, and the carriage turned around to take them to Grosvenor Square.

“Thank you,” she said, with a small smile at her husband. “Not many would have agreed to take her in the carriage.” But then Phoebe was already intimately acquainted with his honor and kind considerations.

He gave her another one of those long, searching stares but proffered no reply. Phoebe glanced out the window into the sleeting rain, her thoughts churning. “I would like to start a charity…or a program that would help women…women who have children out of wedlock who are left to suffer indignity, shame, and poverty. There must be other options than giving away their child to an orphanage or the poor house.” She looked at him. “Do you think this is possible?”

His hands lifted. “You have enough wealth to invest in dozens of charitable causes.”

Something tender swelled in her chest. “My brother and his friends, the Duke of Wolverton and the Earl of Blade, invest in many charitable endeavours to help the poor of society, especially those made orphans either by the war or parents who do not care. I would like to start something similar but directed toward women with few options. If they have no skills, I could have a program that teaches them whatever is necessary for them to find employment and then to help them find a job and housing. I think it sounds like it will be a large undertaking.”

“I will allocate one hundred thousand pounds to you for this endeavour. I have also been remiss in my duties, and a yearly stipend will also be allocated for your personal use. Whenever you need my input, I am here.”

Phoebe almost choked. “I…thank you.” It astonished her that he would so readily support her and entrusted her with such a fortune to do as she will. He clearly believed in her and did not think her too young. She wished she could wrap this feeling around her like a blanket and wear it with her always.

“Your brother sounds like an admirable man.”

She smiled briefly. “Though he can be an arrogant fool sometimes, especially when he sent that bacon-brained idiot for me, he is also very wonderful.”

His eyes hooded, and that careful mask slid into place once more. Anxiety beat in her breast, and she gripped the edge of the squabs. “Richard was afraid that somehow you took advantage of my desperate plight and everything inside of him told him that I must be rescued. He is so mistrusting of others, except for his wife, of course, that it never occurred to him that I might be contented. Once he meets you, he will see that he has nothing to worry about.”

“Did the man who took you hurt you? I suspected he drugged you.”

“Yes, I was drugged. But he did not hurt me. I was more frustrated by his audacity and worried that you might not know what happened to me,” she whispered.

To this her husband said nothing, and the lantern in the carriage dimmed, casting him in more shadows.

“My brother might try and object to me leaving.”

“He is allowed to try. He will be disabused of the notion that he has the right to interfere in your decisions anymore.”

It was astonishing that she could detect menace in his signs. Perhaps it was in the still, coiled way he sat.

“I do not wish for a quarrel between you both,” she murmured.

He leaned forward so the light from the lantern splashed across his cheeks. “And if there is, where shall you stand?”

She wrinkled her nose. “What a silly question. By your side, of course, quarrelling right along with you.”

This seemed to surprise him, and her heart jolted.

“Do you not know that you have my loyalty?” she whispered.

That you have all my heart, she cried silently.

He made no reply but disappeared back into the shadows. Phoebe could feel his stare like a living entity. It felt heavy and questioning. And how her heart trembled while her thoughts swirled with a thousand questions. They arrived at Grosvenor Square several minutes later, and they alighted in front of one of the most impressive four-story town homes. The house faced Grosvenor Square Gardens and had a pretty view from the front windows of a beautiful Grecian-style statue of a half-draped lady carrying a large water vase.

They entered and made their way upstairs to a palatial chamber. She crossed the threshold and strolled over to the low-burning fire in the hearth. Unable to keep the most important question out of the dozens, Phoebe whirled around. “Are you not even a little bit angry or disappointed that you saw another man kissing me?”

No expression crossed his face, and nothing flickered in his eyes. “No.”

The depth of his indifference broke her heart. “I own I do not believe you to be a man with a jealous or possessive nature…but your indifference to George’s action is insupportable. If I had ever come upon you with a lady kissing you, I would be terribly angry and hurt.”

She fisted a hand on her hip and glared at him. “Why, I might even act as Lady Blade did last season when she challenged her husband’s former mistress to a duel for daring to kiss him! Does it not bother you that…that he stole a kiss from me?”

He sustained this impassioned cry with no more than a blink.

His unwavering gaze disconcerted her, and his eyes were no longer indifferent, but they glittered with something incendiary. He came over to her, used his forefinger to lift her chin up, then dipped his head. Phoebe felt the barely perceptible touch of his mouth against hers. There was a beat and another before he framed her face with his hands and plundered. She could barely summon the breath to speak or offer a token of protest. Not that she wanted to, even if she found his intensity alarming.

He plucked the pins from her hair, scattering them onto the carpet. In between passionate kisses, he undressed her, without care for the fragility or the expense of the gown. He managed to remove her gown, stays, and chemise with frightful efficiency in between long, passionate kisses. When she remained in only her stockings, garters, and dancing slippers, he swept her into his arms and bore her down on the sofa near the hearth.

Her husband shrugged from his clothes impatiently, while she observed the revelation of his wonderful body with a hammering heart. With a dazed sense of shock, Phoebe watched as he dropped to his knees before her, splayed her legs wide, and lowered his head.

“Hugh?” she cried, terribly alarmed at this unexpected move.

All that faded as he lasciviously kissed her sex. Phoebe gasped then screamed when his tongue did something that had her hips arching off the cushion. Soon her stocking-clad legs were hung wantonly over each of her husband’s shoulders, her slippers glinting under the firelight. With each lick and nibble her sex pulsed urgently, and hunger clawed at her. She felt empty and desperately needed to be filled. Phoebe pulled at his head frantically, and he nipped sharply at her inner thighs before kissing her again…carnally devastating her with pleasure.

His teeth raked against her nub of pleasure, and she convulsed, pleasure splintering through her body. While still on his knees, he grabbed her hips and tugged her down so that she slid off the sofa. Penetration was immediate, and she cried out wildly at the almost painful stretch. He took her mouth in a raw, domineering kiss, swallowing her cry at his invasion.

Phoebe felt delirious with arousal. Her skin burned, and she wanted to get even closer to him. Wrapping her hands around his shoulder like a vine, her feet now braced on the carpet, Phoebe started an instinctive ride. Or was he using his hands to lift her up and then urged her down onto his manhood? She could not tell; Phoebe was lost in the provocative position and the lush eroticism of how they came together.

He hugged her to him, twisted, and tumbled them onto the carpet. He slipped his hands beneath her buttocks, lifting her to meet his thrusts, filling her repeatedly in heavy surges. There was a hint of urgency, or desperation, almost a savagery to his movements as he plunged inside her over and over. A stunning pleasure and pressure built inside her, clawing to be free. Each thrust held her poised on the brink, and her body raced to reach a pinnacle it was familiar with. Except each plunge seemed to push her beyond a point she had never been taken before, and Phoebe screamed into the crook of his need, frantic pleadings and then demands falling from her lips as unbearable heat twisted low in her belly.

Somehow, while he still rode her to bliss, he reached between them, took her nub between his fingers, and pinched. Phoebe’s mind blew apart as ecstasy writhed through her. She slid her hands over the arch of his back, caressing and urging.

“I love you,” she cried against his lips as he claimed another kiss. That soft cry had tumbled from her before she could catch it.

He froze, and his eyes fluttered open to stare at her as if arrested.

With trembling fingers, she traced his lower lip. She had not meant to admit her feeling, not when things felt so odd between them. “I love you,” Phoebe breathed shakily, testing the weight and truth of those words.

Something raw flashed in his eyes before his lashes swooped down, concealing the brilliance of his gaze from hers. Do not hide from me, she silently demanded. Then it did not matter, for his hands tightened around her, and with a few ravaging thrusts, he, too, found his pleasure. Stroking his back, she held him to her until his shaking had subsided.

I love you.

That cry of adoration lingered in Phoebe’s thoughts. She felt stupid and hopeful, as she waited, her heart beating for him to sign something…anything. Silence lingered, and his fingers did not move to caress, reassure, or return any sort of sentiments. Her belly went hollow, and the fact she told him she loved him felt unforgivable. It made no sense to lay her heart bare to a man who would never return her love. If only she did not desperately wish he would love her in return. When had she started to dream of that again? Of a man who would love her with every emotion in his heart and soul? Phoebe suspected that dream had started the very first time he kissed her.

He pulled from her, and she whimpered at the ache between her legs. Gently, he helped her to stand, her legs wobbled, and she laughed.

“I think, my lord, we almost killed each other,” she said softly, peering up at him.

Phoebe’s heart squeezed at the frightful look of indifference in his gaze, as if what they had just shared was ordinary. She reached up to cup his jaw, and he caught her hand and slowly lowered it to her side. A cold knot formed in Phoebe’s stomach. He padded away to the wash basin and returned with a washcloth to tenderly clean her. She watched him in silence as he removed her stockings, garters, and slippers. When he was finished, he went over to the washbasin and started to tidy himself. Padding over to the armoire, she took out a nightgown and slipped it on then made her way over to the bed, climbed up, and sat in the center.

Soon, he outed the lamp and slid into the bed. He did not take her into his arms as he usually did, and Phoebe sat there in the dark, her heart jerking. Something had changed. She fought hard against the tears she refused to let fall.

“I did not betray you,” she said softly into the darkness. “Never once did I think of leaving, and if the viscount had not drugged and taken me away, I would still be in Scotland with you and Franny.”

Silence lingered, and her breath rose and fell unevenly.

“I would never leave because you are my family…and I…I love you…so very much.”

More silence. Of course, she would not see if he signed in the dark. Though she suspected he had not shifted at all, she could feel the potency of his stare on her, as if he could see her clearly. She was bewildered by his demeanor and could not understand why he had retreated to the aloof gentleman he had appeared to be when they had just met. When he made no move, she shimmied down and lay on her side, unable to understand the raw ache that was suffusing her heart.

He moved, and she closed her eyes as he slid his arm around her shoulder and drew her into the curve of his arms. A soft breath caressed her forehead, and she sensed he lowered to kiss her there, as he did each night before they slept. Phoebe held her breath waiting for that kiss, but then his breath vanished. He had changed his mind.

There was a rustle as he drew the thick coverlet over their bodies. They lay in the darkness, each unable to sleep. Though his chest rose and fell evenly, she knew he was awake. So many questions swirled in her mind; so many anxieties burrowed in her heart.

“Why does it feel different between us?” she whispered.

Nothing indicated that he heard her soft entreaty. She recalled the old earl warning that Hugh was not a man given to sentimentality. Yet before this trip to London, she had felt certain he held great affection for her in his heart, and she was so certain they had been fated to meet and have a grand love despite their rocky beginning. Am I just a naïve, silly girl? Her throat burned with supressed tears at the notion of losing a love she had felt blooming between them.

Do not be silly, she warned herself fiercely. You knew from the beginning he did not believe in love and that you should have no expectation of it in this marriage of convenience. A stubborn tear leaked from her eyes, and she gently wiped it away. Oh, but I want it so very much. And when something was worth fighting for, she would not shy away from doing so. Her reckless, impetuous spirit surged, and she twisted in the cage of his arms, to encounter a gleam of brilliant blue in the darkness.

You are awake, she silently said. What thoughts keep you from sleep? Are they the same as mine?

Phoebe wasn’t certain how long she stared into the faint shimmering silk of the overhead canopy before the darkness of sleep lured her away from her tormenting thoughts.