“Who’s the father?” he demanded.
“I won’t tell you that. It’s only important to know Adam is stepping in where the father would not,” Emma said. A current of steel infused her voice, and Phee couldn’t help but be proud of her. She’d grown out of being that girl who’d kissed Phee at Vauxhall and then tried to use it as blackmail. Although Emma’s knack for lying her pretty tail off was certainly coming in handy now.
The marquess rested his elbows on his knees in a posture so reminiscent of Cal, it sent an unwelcome pang of longing through Phee. He stared at his hands as he asked, “You’re sure?”
Whom the question was directed toward remained unclear, so both Phee and Emma answered, “Yes.”
“The baby will have a father, my reputation shall be saved, and Adam will gain the inheritance left by his parents. It’s all rather tidy, actually.”
Eastly sighed. “Very well. I’ll leave right now and return with a license. Lucky for us, the archbishop is visiting the area this month.”
“Thank you, milord,” Phee said. “We have one other request to make in connection with this.” Phee shot a look at Emma, who nodded encouragingly. “Lord Carlyle will not look favorably on the match. But, milord, since you are head of your house and have given your consent, yours is the only opinion I care about. We ask that you not say anything about this to Lord Carlyle or anyone else until it is done. When we say our vows, he may find out along with everyone else.”
A glimmer of amusement appeared in the marquess’s expression. Emma had been right to suggest Phee appeal to her father’s place as head of the family and his love of secrets.
“I will hold my tongue and call on the archbishop.” Eastly stood, smoothing the front of his waistcoat, and tugged his coat into place. “Mr. Hardwick, I believe I owe you my thanks for helping my Emma-girl.” He held out his hand, and Phee stood to shake it. The older man’s grip was firm, but his hands were soft. “Welcome to the family.”
As soon as the front doors closed behind him, Emma grinned. “We did it!”
Phee let herself relax a little. “That’s that, I guess.” Having never had a girlfriend before, she didn’t know what happened next. Did they hug? Squeal? This relationship was a mystery.
“You have no idea what to do now that we have the plan in motion, do you?” Emma asked.
Phee huffed out a laugh. “Is it that obvious? Normally, I’d talk through the next stages with Cal, but if I see your brother, I might spit in his eye.” Or punch him—on purpose this time.
“Cal isn’t normally one to play fast and loose with a girl’s affections. I would never have pegged him for a bounder. But you’re right. Clearly, he protested but didn’t actually cry off if Miss Cuthbert and Rosehurst are still expecting her to become the new countess. I love my brother, but you deserve better.” Emma took one of Phee’s hands and squeezed.
Phee tried to smile, but it wobbled, and tears threatened. “I think I’ll go lock myself in my room for the rest of the day. If anyone asks, tell them I got too much sun and felt unwell.”
“I will. Try to rest. We have a lot ahead of us. The hardest part of this plan might be keeping the details to ourselves until it’s done,” Emma said.
“No one would believe us if they knew the full truth.”
Phee was at the door when Emma said, “I can never thank you enough for helping me.”
“We’re helping each other.” With one last smile at her new friend and soon-to-be sort-of wife, Phee escaped to her room.
Hours later, Phee’s eyes were puffy from crying. Each time she blinked, it felt as if her eyelids were moving at a snail’s pace, and the spiky clumps of her lashes wanted to tangle together. The focused anger hadn’t lasted long enough to result in a smug feeling of satisfaction at seeing her machinations play out or to grant her the peace to nap. Instead, she’d sprawled in the chair by the fireplace, having taken off only her cravat, coat, and waistcoat before collapsing into a sobbing heap.
On the other side of the wall, the faint murmur of voices in the hall warned that Cal was retiring for the night. Any other night, she would slip out and meet him at the door. She would kiss that beautiful smile and feel like the luckiest person in the world, even if she could be a lover only in secret.
She couldn’t face him. Not yet. Not without yelling, begging to know why, or confessing to the things she’d put into motion. When the doorknob turned, she glanced over to make sure the brass key stayed in the lock where she’d left it.
“Adam?” A pause. Phee bit her lip. Anyone could hear him call down the corridor, so of course he’d call her Adam. Their relationship was one big lie. “Are you awake? Emma said you weren’t feeling well. I’ve hardly seen you all day. Please let me in.”
Phee stayed in the chair, watching the door, listening to the voice that had been the root of her fantasies for so long. No countess of mine will have scandal attached to her.
She’d loved him well. To the best of her abilities. She’d loved him to the point of sometimes wondering if she’d kept any love for herself, or if she’d poured everything into him.
Well, now she knew. There’d been plenty reserved for herself, and it was hers alone. No one else could touch it. Even though the loss hurt, at the end of the day she didn’t need him to love her. Especially not if it meant sacrificing her self-respect. She deserved to be loved out in the open, not hidden away like a shameful secret.
The sounds from the hall quieted. Eventually, even the usual house noises of doors opening and servants murmuring faded.
Cal didn’t fall asleep easily, usually wanting to talk through the day. It was something she’d teased him about, because he’d once said that Emma couldn’t rest until she’d expelled everything on her mind. The siblings were so alike in some ways. Like his sister’s, Cal’s body needed to wind down like a pocket watch, expending all his energy until there was nothing left to run on.
Phee glanced at the clock. Hell, he probably hadn’t even undressed yet. Cal liked to end the night with a brandy in the chair by the hearth—even during the summer, when there wasn’t always a fire.
That was one example from thousands of things she knew about him. Intimate facts like schedules and preferences. Paying attention—no, reveling in those personal details—had been easy when she’d tricked herself into believing their relationship would last.
Such a gullible fool she was. The exhaustion and despair Phee had wrapped around herself earlier disappeared as fury awoke, rolling through her in a hot wave. The rage burned away reason and logic and any lingering tenderness toward him.
She’d given Cal her body. Her heart. Her trust. What was it he’d said in the library, when he’d confessed his love? Whatever happens, we handle together.
Meanwhile, Cal—despite his protestations—had been engaged to an heiress the entire time. Phee and Cal hadn’t handled anything together. He’d kept her in the dark and fed her lies.
Lies she’d gobbled up, because they’d come with affection she’d been missing her entire life. It had been unwise to trust anyone other than herself, and she’d known that. All those years on her own should have made Phee immune to the sting of betrayal.
But damn it, they were supposed to love each other. Each time they’d come together, Phee had believed Cal gave as much as she did—an equal exchange of devotion. Maybe he’d only been taking.
When he’d called through the door, parts of her had responded like they always did, warming and softening in expectation of what usually came next. Logic and self-preservation declared their affair was over, but her traitorous body hadn’t embraced that knowledge yet. Hell, Phee might always crave him. Crossing her legs did nothing to cool the heat that gathered at her core.
If nothing else, she deserved to say goodbye as she saw fit. And if this would be her last chance to touch him, to own his body for a few final moments, Phee would do whatever she wanted, and to hell with the consequences.
It was her turn to take.
&nb
sp; The door slammed against the wall when she stormed into his bedroom and interrupted his pacing. Sure enough, he remained fully dressed, with a snifter of brandy on the small table between the chairs by the fireplace.
“Phee? Are you all right—” She cut off his words with a kiss, sinking her fingers into the long strands of his hair—he liked it when she held him like that.
She knew, because she’d been paying attention. Wanting to please him. Wanting to believe the fantasy that he loved her. God, she’d believed he’d fallen as she had. Silly girl.
“Do you want me? Do you want this?” she demanded.
“I always want you, Phee. Are you all right? I missed you at dinner—”
There were better uses for his mouth. Her tongue and teeth chastised him, showing without words that this wasn’t the time to talk. Tugging the hem of her shirt up her thighs, she rucked the fabric over her torso, then pulled it off. Catching on to her urgency, Cal’s hands tore at her binding until he palmed her breasts, pinching her nipples between his fingers with a low groan.
Frantic hands made quick work of opening the placket on his breeches to free the hardness pushing against the buttons. She had to give him credit; Cal was always ready for her. Of course, she’d believed it was because he loved her, not just bed sport.
But with the perfect Miss Cuthbert available, Ophelia was obviously nothing more than someone to pass the time with until a respectable lady warmed his bed—wed and legally bound.
Phee sure as hell wasn’t feeling ladylike at the moment. His girth swelled as she worked her grip along his cock, then dropped to her knees. Holding Cal’s gaze, she swallowed him deep and shuddered with satisfaction when he cursed and grabbed one of the ornately carved posts of his bed frame for balance.
At the mercy of her hands and tongue, his body became her plaything. But Phee knew the game now, and it was high time the rules changed in her favor. Cal might not realize it yet, but this encounter wasn’t for him. And she’d make damn sure he remembered it for the rest of his life.
Phee’s heels dug into her bottom, and a cool breeze from an open window beaded her nipples into tight peaks. Cal’s fingers clenched in her hair, then caressed a line across her cheekbone.
As if she meant something to him. As if she was special.
Well, she wasn’t the one he’d been negotiating an engagement with. Phee added the soft scrape of her teeth—which, judging by his low groan, only heightened his pleasure; he’d entirely missed the implied threat.
Shivery goose bumps followed in the wake of his fingertips along her skin, and she hated him for it. Hated that part of her still wanted him, despite everything.
Determined to find her pleasure first, Phee shoved her hand down her breeches and speared two fingers into the curls between her thighs. The slick response from her body coated the epicenter of nerves at the top of her slit. Working her mouth on him and her fingers in herself, a jolt of dark pleasure pierced Phee when Cal’s eyes rolled back and his thighs tensed under her hands.
A perfect lady like Miss Cuthbert would probably be horrified at the idea of sucking a cock. Phee dug her fingers into the hard muscle of Cal’s perfect bum and took him even deeper.
Lucky for Cal, Phee wasn’t a lady. Maybe for a few precious days or weeks she’d dared dream of being his wife, but now she knew better. This gilded life wasn’t for her. If she wanted happiness in her world, Phee would make it herself. She had to claim any good fortune as her own and take what she wanted.
Right now she wanted Cal.
Just one more time.
At her mercy, chanting her name, completely undone.
No way in hell would she let him come first, and he was close. Gentling her rhythm, she licked, lapping at him like an icy treat, until the hard line of his thighs softened under her hand as she coaxed him from the edge. The fingers in her breeches stayed in place until the now-familiar tingling began at her toes, then traveled up her calves.
It wouldn’t be long now. Mere moments left to taste him. Smell him. Hear that growl she’d only ever heard from Cal while in bed.
His breath scissored in and out in time with the suction of her mouth. Bittersweet satisfaction inflamed her arousal when Cal breathed her name on each exhale and it sounded like a benediction. “Phee, Phee, my God, Phee…”
Climaxes came in so many forms. This one tore through her with brutal efficiency, curling her toes and severing her last contact with the man she’d loved. Still loved, damn him, but that was her problem. On unsteady legs, she got to her feet, shaking like a newborn calf. Cal reached for her, eyes still glazed with desire, but she stopped him with a finger to his lips—the same finger that was still coated with her slickness.
Between one labored breath and the next, Cal sucked the finger into his mouth, closing his eyes on a moan to savor her flavor. A ribbon of desire flickered back to life, pushing past the pain, but she snuffed it out.
Ignoring the chill creeping over her bare torso, Phee stepped close, until the tips of her breasts brushed against his coat. Except for his open breeches and tousled hair, Cal looked ready to walk into any fine drawing room in the country.
Her finger slipped from his mouth as she turned and donned her shirt.
“Phee? Where are you going?” Bless him, he looked so bewildered that for a moment her anger wavered. The temptation to ask for an explanation clawed at her brittle control.
Yet even if there were perfectly logical reasons, he’d been playing someone false. After hearing him with Eastly, Phee knew it had been her. He’d made her the other woman. And that? That, she couldn’t forgive.
Thank God it was only a handful of steps to the door. She could fake a confident swagger that long. Her long legs, unhindered by skirts and shod in tall black leather boots, allowed her to walk anywhere she chose. Even out of his life.
It wasn’t a hardship to glance over her shoulder and indulge in one last look to admire his perfect beauty. Even a liar could be gorgeous. She sneered. “That was for me. If you want an orgasm, ask your fiancée to take care of you.”
“What? Phee, what are you talking—”
She cut his protestations short with a sweep of her hand. “No. This is where we end.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Cal would rather not delve into whatever circumstances had led to the archbishop owing his father a favor. It could have been anything.
Eastly summoned him to the drawing room—which annoyed Cal to no end, because this was his blasted house—and there stood Phee and Emma and an older man he didn’t recognize. Phee’s boots shined with a high gloss, and her hair had been ruthlessly subdued with pomade. Purple smudges under her eyes told him she’d slept as little as he had. Emma clutched a nosegay of flowers to match her pink dress trimmed in Brussels lace.
“Son, this is Vicar Norton. He’s here to officiate. We are witnesses.” Eastly leaned close and whispered, “She’s in the family way. Young Hardwick is stepping up. Smile and give your blessing. Now.”
What the hell? Cal bit his lip to stop his instinctive protest. Emma was pregnant and marrying the woman he loved. The absurd impossibility of it tore through him like a cannonball, destroying the last remnants of certainty he’d clung to, believing he might be able to explain to Phee today.
Last night, when she’d rocked his world off its axis as per usual, he’d barely been able to comprehend the parting volley she’d shot over her shoulder. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Phee had overheard the meeting with Father yesterday.
In this very drawing room, Cal had prevaricated, sidestepped, and danced along the line of outright lying to buy Miss Cuthbert a little more time to pull off their scheme. He should have simply shut down the conversation. Then perhaps Cal wouldn’t be standing in the middle of an unfolding emotional hellscape in which he lost Phee forever.
To his bloody sister, of all people. Cal stared at the couple, looking for a clue that Emma knew the truth about Adam Hardwick. If she did, she played her part
beautifully. With dimples out in full force, Emma beamed at her redheaded husband-to-be.
For the first time, Cal’s efforts to fix one of Eastly’s scandals had failed spectacularly. Yet his first inclination wasn’t to salvage Father’s reputation or regroup and change the plan. The only thing concerning him right now was going on right in front of him.
The vicar spoke. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…”
A cold sweat broke out along Cal’s spine, and the points of his collar scraped against the underside of his jaw. For the first time since standing before a mirror at the age of fourteen and admiring the fit of a well-made suit of clothes, all Cal wanted to do was loosen the cravat so he could fucking breathe.
Everything about this was wrong. Somehow Emma had learned she was pregnant yet hadn’t said a word to him. Since her first skinned knee, she’d always come to him when in trouble. But not this time. To add insult to injury, she’d confided in Phee, and Phee hadn’t told him either. Now his lover stood before a man of the church, making vows before God.
And not only was Cal not the groom, but Phee wasn’t even the bride.
During the last twenty-four hours, his life had spiraled out of his control, and Cal didn’t know how to fix it.
Phee knew he’d failed to handle the Violet situation, and Cal didn’t have words that weren’t excuses. He wanted so desperately to explain that Eastly was like an explosive device—he must be handled delicately to avoid a tantrum that would inevitably make the situation far worse. Unfortunately, Cal should have realized Phee was capable of blowing things up too. Now she was clearly not open to further conversation, since she was busy getting married.
“Therefore, if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak or else hereafter forever hold his peace.” The vicar paused for dramatic effect.
Emma shot him a glare, promising hell to pay if he tried to intervene. Clasping his hands behind his back, Cal couldn’t look away from the picture they made standing before Vicar Norton. If Cal hadn’t been paying attention, he might have missed Emma’s wink to Phee.
West End Earl Page 22
