Phoebe cried out and raked her nails down his back; holding him closer, wanting to bind her soul with his so there was no darkness within him and only light. With his mouth clenched in a tense line and sweat dripping from his brow, Edmund continued his steady thrusts. Retreating. Plunging forward. Retreating. Plunging forward. And Phoebe held on tight to him as she climbed that pinnacle and then a garbled cry burst from her throat as he increased his rhythm and then she plunged over the edge of all reason, falling, falling into the bliss of his sure movements. Then with a primitive, triumphant shout, he arched back and flooded her with his seed.
And this time, as he collapsed atop her and then swiftly rolled off, pulling her into the fold of his arms, she knew that for the hurt he’d caused, her heart was in even greater peril where her husband was concerned. For it did not escape her that he’d not responded to her request for him to set aside the life of revenge he’d lived all these years.
Chapter 21
The following afternoon Edmund sat in his office. A ledger lay opened and forgotten upon his desk, buried under a familiar leather book.
I would ask that you set aside this vengeful life you’ve set for yourself.
He swiped the book from his desk and fanned the pages that contained years’ worth of men who’d wronged him, men who owed him debts and who, through those debts, could hold no power over him. Phoebe asked him to forget who he’d been for the past thirty-two years. In the whole of his life, he’d not been happy. Not truly happy, but he’d felt nothing and feeling nothing was far safer than feeling something. He’d made that mistake but once—with Margaret Dunn. On her, he’d pinned the fleeting hope, the whimsical belief, he could perhaps be different than his parents. With her faithlessness, and in her quest for power and the title duchess, she’d killed that foolish, fleeting weakness.
Until Phoebe. He gripped the leather book hard in his hands. In her, she’d made him feel things he’d not allowed himself to feel in more years than he could remember. Nay, emotions he’d not wanted to feel. With her effervescent spirit, she was spring to his dark winter. She represented life and hope and happiness he’d long ago given up on. He drew his desk drawer open and tossed the book inside. Slamming it shut with a decisive click, Edmund swiped a hand over his face. And yet, for years he’d protected himself by making himself stronger as others grew weaker. Could he just set aside the years he’d spent trying to survive on the request of a woman? A dry laugh escaped him and he dropped his hand to the book. Could there be any greater weakness than that? Except—was it truly weakness if making his wife happy also brought him more happiness than he knew what to do with?
Abandoning his work and tumultuous thoughts, he shoved back his chair and stood. He needed a visit to his clubs. He needed to clear his thoughts and restore order. With determined purpose, Edmund strode to the door, yanked it open, and took his leave. Yes, in his clubs he plotted and schemed. It was there he was comfortable. With those thoughts fueling him, he made his way through his quiet townhouse.
“Oh, my.” The faint, whispery words carried through the still corridor and he slowed his steps, beckoned back toward the sound of his wife’s voice. He froze outside the closed door and listened at the panel.
Like a blasted child at a keyhole. He blinked as with that he was transported years earlier to a different door. The muscles of his stomach knotted as his past converged with his present. Phoebe’s words called him back from the memories.
“That is splendid. So very splendid.” What in blazes? Edmund threw the door open so hard it bounced off the wall and nearly closed in his face once more. He stuck his arm out to keep it from shutting.
His wife shrieked and dropped the book in her hands. She swung her legs over the side of the chair and settled her feet on the floor. The taffeta of her gown wrinkled noisily as a wide-eyed Phoebe leapt to her feet. “Edmund,” she greeted. “What are you…?” her words trailed off as he stepped into the room and looked about.
He blinked slowly. There was no one here. He returned his attention to her.
“Are you looking for someone?” she asked furrowing her brow.
“No.” Yes. A dull flush burned his neck. Had he expected Phoebe the day after their wedding to be rutting with some stranger or servant in his library? His answer, based on his own experience should be an emphatic yes and yet it was not. “What are you doing?” he asked, hearing the accusatory edge of his question.
Phoebe stooped down and retrieved her book. “Reading.” She paused. “What are you doing?”
Which was, of course, the far better question. “I was—” Going to my clubs. The words stuck in his throat and he remained rooted to the floor.
“Did you know the Green Bridge of Wales is not really a bridge?”
He cocked his head.
“It is an arch. A naturally formed arch. It is approximately eighty feet,” she said animatedly and opened her book. She skimmed through the pages. “Though I don’t know how anyone can measure that with any real certainty.” There was something so very enchanting in the excitement in her tone and eager movements. “Do you know?”
“Do I know what?” His tone emerged sharper than he intended. That handful of words were roughened by embarrassment.
“How they measure such a thing?”
Edmund gave his head a shake. He cast a glance over his shoulder at the opened door and then looked back to her. He should really leave.
“Have you been to the Pembrokeshire Coast?” she called out, unwittingly staying him with her question.
“I have not.
Phoebe flipped her book open to a certain page. “Aha! Here it is.” She turned it around to face him. “Do you believe there is grass atop the arch?” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and nibbled at it contemplatively. At any other point and any other time, all he would think about was his own sexual gratification and what pleasures that delectable mouth could be used for.
Not now. Now, standing before her with that damned book, he was infected by her contagious enthusiasm—for life. Pressure weighted his chest and he made to flee once again.
“I think I shall go here.”
And he froze once more. Agony lanced through him. So, she would leave. You offered her freedom. You said you only wanted her as your wife and have since had her body twice. That should be enough. With a growl he stalked over. Yet it was not. He made to take the book from her hands to see what rival he now fought.
Phoebe looked around his arm at the book he now held in his hands. “I suspect it must feel like the ladder to heaven, broken just shy of the gateway.”
Was there a heaven? For people like her there would be and suddenly her cheerfulness grated. “Why aren’t you enraged?” The question ripped harshly from his chest.
She picked her head up; confusion riddled her brow. Phoebe alternated her attention between Edmund and the book in his hands. “I daresay I will eventually go there. There is nothing to be—”
“With me?” he snapped. She’d sworn her hatred not even two days earlier.
“Do you want me to be enraged with you?” she asked hesitantly.
Edmund thrust her book back into her fingers and dragged a hand over his face. “You made your feelings quite clear two days earlier, Madam.” When I forced you into marriage. He’d foolishly thought having her would be enough. How wrong he’d been. He wanted all of her. “Do you still not feel that hatred?”
He didn’t realize his breath was bated, until a somber look settled over her face. Pulling the book close to her chest, she took a step away from him, and then retreated, giving him her back. “I want to hate you.” Some of the tension lessened in his chest. For her words hinted she still cared for him in some way. She shot a sad look over her shoulder and just then he’d give her everything he had to erase that glint that had no place in her eyes. “Should I go through life frowning and snarling because you’ve hurt me? Because you’ve forced me into a marriage?” That I did not want. Her words were like a dull bl
“But you do not still fancy yourself in love with me?” He cringed as soon as the question left his mouth. God, he’d been transformed into a weak, mewling, pathetic excuse for a person.
Phoebe took a step toward him. “You don’t fancy yourself in love with someone.” She gave her head a little shake. “You either are or you aren’t. And I fell in love with you alongside a Captain Cook exhibit at the Royal Museum. Now, it is just a matter of knowing if any part of that man is truly real.”
He opened and closed his mouth several times and then like the coward he was, turned on his heel and fled.
*
If ever there had been an indication as to her husband’s true feelings, his swift retreat this moment was it.
“Did you expect he loves you?” she muttered. “Just because he wanted you?” Now he’d had her in the only ways he’d wanted her. What need had he of her any longer?
“What was that, my lady?”
Phoebe spun about and flushed at the butler who stood framed in the doorway. “Er, nothing….” The poor ancient servant was everywhere she turned.
“My lady, forgive me. I did not have the honor of a proper introduction.” He bowed. “I am Wallace.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. No, her husband hadn’t bothered to perform those necessary introductions with the members of his staff. But then, a man so consumed on revenge and bent on hatred wouldn’t bother himself with such social niceties.
The butler, Wallace, stood in stoic silence.
She cleared her throat and broke the awkward quiet. “Have you been in the marquess’ employ long?”
He inclined his head. “I began working for the previous Marquess of Rutland ten years before Lord Edmund was born.”
Her mind raced. Why, that must make the gentleman at the very least—
“I am seventy years old, my lady,” he supplied, his aged voice laced with amusement. “I’ve been in the employ of the Marquess of Rutland’s family for forty-two of those years.”
Her fingers tightened reflexively on the edge of her book. For his dedicated service, the man had not been properly compensated with a deserved retirement. How could her husband not have generously rewarded the man for his years of service to his father? “I am sorry,” she said at last.
Wallace’s aged brow wrinkled. “My lady?”
“I expect for your dedicated service that, at the very least, you’d be deserving of a generously settled pension.” Disappointment filled her at Edmund’s lack of regard for the old servant. “I,” she held her palms up. “I will speak to His Lordship if you wish.” As soon as those words left her mouth she grimaced at the futility of them. She’d never hold any sway over Edmund; not in the ways that mattered, nor the ones that did not.
“Speak to His Lordship?” The ghost of a smile played on his lips.
“On the matter of your retirement. I…” At his growing smile, her words trailed off.
“I do not wish to retire, my lady.”
She cocked her head. “You do not?” Surely, all people not only deserved, but wanted, some rest at the end of their years.
Wallace gave his head a vigorous shake. “I do not.” He leaned close and then dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. “Oh, His Lordship has fought me on any number of scores about the very matter.”
“He has?” Shock filled her tone.
“He has,” he concurred. “But I ultimately always prevail with His Lordship.” Phoebe eyed him with incredulity. No one prevailed where Edmund was concerned. With his ruthlessness and steely resolve, he was indomitable in all matters.
She continued to study Wallace a long moment. Yes, no one emerged triumphant over Edmund—except, it would seem this ancient servant. Intrigue stirred in her breast and she felt like she had been handed a thousand jagged pieces of a puzzle and tried to put it to rights. “Why do you wish to remain at your post?” She could not call the question back, nor did she wish to. The old man’s smile slipped. Sadness wreathed his wrinkled cheeks. “I vowed I’d not abandon my post until His Lordship was happy.”
Those words struck at her heart; an unexpected, painful jab. But twelve words, and yet they conveyed so very much. They recalled the parts of his past he’d shared yesterday. “Surely,” she wet her lips. It was the height of impropriety to speak on personal matters with a servant; to speak of one’s husband, madness. “Surely, he’s been happy at some point these years.” Yet, this man also had known Edmund from the moment he’d been born. She tried to imagine Edmund as he’d been once—innocent, trusting, and dependent upon others for his care and love. Who had first failed him to make him this empty shell of a person?
“Oh, he was once very happy.” Wallace said nothing more on it, dangling that morsel so she was forced to either remember what was expected of a proper lady or feed the questions on her lips. He sketched a bow and a moment of panic besieged her, a fear that he would leave and so would end her only opportunity to ask the one person with answers about the stranger she’d married, but then he said, “Will you allow me the honor of showing you about the townhouse, my lady?”
“I would appreciate that, Wallace,” she said suddenly glad her husband had not seen to that polite detail. She hurried after the butler as he turned on his heel. They continued down the hall. The older man walked with slow, shuffling footsteps with the soles of his shoes dragging quietly on the floor. Together, Phoebe and Wallace moved through the corridors with Wallace pointing out a Blue Parlor, a Pink Parlor, and a Green Parlor.
It would seem in this new, grand, spacious labyrinth she called home, there was no shortage of parlors. She troubled her lower lip and searched for a polite way, or at the very least, less obvious way, to inquire about her husband and coming up empty, she settled for blunt directness. “What was he like as a child?”
Wallace slowed a moment. She stole a sideways peek at him. The fond gleam in his eyes was better suited to a proud parent. Then, he resumed his pace. “He was quite mischievous, my lady. Always ready with a smile but a handful to his nursemaids and tutors.”
Phoebe drew forth an image of Edmund as a small boy—a boy with a thick crop of chestnut, slightly curled hair and a wide grin. Her heart pulled painfully at the image.
The butler motioned to another room. “His Lordship’s office.”
She paused beside the closed door and stared at the wood panel.
“He is not in his office at this moment.”
No, she knew as much. He’d fled her the way one might have fled the burning city of Rome. They continued on, when a portrait in an elaborate gold frame caught her notice. She paused, and Wallace momentarily forgotten, wandered over to the canvas upon which a boy, mayhap no more than ten or eleven glared back at her. He stood beside a leather button sofa with his hand curled on the arm. The virulence in his brown-eyed stare beckoned her forward. She inched closer and then came to a stop. A chill went through her. She’d never before thought a mere child could invoke fear and upon a painting, no less. Yet, there was something menacing about the boy. A dark strand of hair tumbled over his brow and the hardness of his lips marked this too-old-for-his-years child as her husband. “When did he become so…so…?” Cold, unfeeling, ruthless.
“Serious?” Wallace supplied from just over her shoulder.
She nodded, transfixed by her husband forever memorialized as an angry child. Serious would suffice. When silence met her inquiry, she shot a glance back.
Lines of sadness wreathed Wallace’s face. “He was seven.”
Phoebe swiftly returned her attention to the canvas. She raised tentative fingertips to the grim child. Seven. Her heart sputtered. Oh, God. “Seven,” she repeated. That was the piece he’d not shared yesterday. He’d been just a babe. Her throat worked spasmodically. “Did he…ever know happiness after?” At least with his Margaret. For as much as she hated the other woman for having what Phoebe herself wanted, she would be grateful if, even for just a short time, he’d smiled again.
“That is a question best reserved for the marquess, my lady.”
As she stood there, the ten-year-old Edmund continued to bore his angry, hardened stare into her soul. She swallowed hard and once more managed words. “Wallace, thank you so very much for showing me about.” Phoebe forced her focus to the older servant and managed a smile. “May we continue our tour at a later time?”
“Of course, my lady,” he said. With a bow, he turned and shuffled down the hall.
Phoebe stared at Wallace’s slow-moving frame as he retreated. This ancient servant was just one more piece in the puzzle that was her husband; a piece that did not fit within the jagged frame of his life. Who was this man she married? Monster or just a complex man who hid the good parts of himself from the world? She gave her head a rueful shake. Or perhaps that was nothing more than the fanciful ponderings of a woman so desperately wanting to see more. She turned to make her way abovestairs and then froze. Unbidden, her gaze traveled back to Edmund’s office door. With hesitant steps, Phoebe wandered to the door and froze. She worried her lower lip and then cast another glance down the opposite end of the corridor. It wasn’t really wrong entering his empty office. This was now her home and surely she was permitted the luxury of moving freely within any and every room. Before her courage deserted her, she pressed the handle and stepped inside.
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