The Heart of a Scoundrel

by Christi Caldwell

  The servant cleared his throat. “His Lordship has gone to his clubs.”

  His clubs. Of course.

  His clubs. Those vile, despicable dens of sin. It should come as no surprise that a man with a book containing peoples’ weaknesses would take to his clubs not even two days after he’d married. She curled her hands into tight, painful fists. After he’d lain in her arms and shown her more pleasure than she’d ever known her body capable of, he’d today sought out his clubs, which was really not dissimilar than any gentleman might do—if he were to visit White’s or Brooke’s, but this was different. Hurt throbbed in her chest and she swiftly turned to go. “Thank you.” Phoebe made to climb the stairs to seek out the sanctuary of her new chambers.

  “My lady, you have visitors.”

  Foot poised on the step, Phoebe spun about, nearly toppling herself in her haste. “I have taken the liberty of showing Miss Fairfax and Lady Gillian to the drawing room.” Her friends! Joy filled her at the prospect of seeing the two women who’d been friends to her when no one else had and then her happiness quickly receded with all the secrets she’d kept from them. She’d not even given them the courtesy of speaking to them of her wedding. Granted hers hadn’t been a joyous affair, but still they would have expected and surely deserved an invitation to act as guests and friends.

  Wallace again spoke, calling her attention back. “If you wish me to inform them that you aren’t receiving—”

  “No!” the denial sprung from her lips. She winced at the desperate edge to that one word utterance. Phoebe took a calming breath. “That is, thank you. I will join them.”

  He bowed his head, but did not leave. Phoebe stared questioningly at him.

  “Lady Rutland,” he said this time. “If I may be so bold? You looked at the painting and wondered as to His Lordship’s happiness. He has not been happy in more than twenty years, but I do believe he is happy, now.” Wallace gave her a pointed stare, his meaning clear: Edmund could be happy because of Phoebe. Which was madness. It would take far more than her to ever fill the vast void inside her husband. She managed a small smile and before she made a cake of herself and cried useless tears in front of the servant, hurried off to the parlor. If she were a good friend she’d be properly focused on the regret she had for abandoning them the moment she’d met Edmund. But she was not a good friend. For with each footfall that brought her away from that child’s portrait and to the drawing room, Wallace’s words haunted her; echoing around her mind, calling forth thoughts of Edmund as a child of seven, once smiling—and then three years later, in a picture so bitter and cold in his portrait.

  Phoebe came to a stop outside the drawing room and froze at the threshold.

  Gillian and Honoria stood shoulder to shoulder with their arms folded at their chests and matching expressions of disappointment stamped in their face. If there had been anger, it would have been easier than—this.

  She stepped into the room and quietly closed the door behind her. To break the recriminating silence, she said, “Would you care for—”

  “If you offer us refreshments, I’m going to clout you,” Honoria interrupted. She stitched her eyebrows together.

  Phoebe fell silent. The trio of friends once inseparable stared at one another, each daring the other to speak.

  With a sigh, she clasped her hands together. “I understand you are upset.” And rightly so.

  “I understand if you’d not share the details of your marriage with the ton, they are horrid,” Gillian gave a sniff. “But we are your friends.”

  “I shared with you what I knew during your visit.” They gave her dark frowns. Guilt needled at her conscience and she crossed over. “I didn’t know we would wed so quickly,” she said as she came to a stop before them.

  The concern faded from Honoria’s stare, replaced now by dark suspicion. “Did he force you to immediately wed?”

  “Yes. No.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. How could the answer be both? She’d not debated him on the point of when the event would take place. “It mattered not whether it was the next day or next week, my marriage to him was inevitable.” She’d courted ruin in meeting him all those days. She sank onto the edge of a red-velvet sofa and directed her stare at her lap. “I know what you think of me. I know you believe me an awful friend for shutting you out of my life these ten days,” and she was. “And I am.” Pain filled her throat and made words difficult. “But I fell in love with him,” or rather she’d fallen in love with the lies he’d fed her. “And he was all I thought of.” Phoebe forced her gaze to Honoria. “You were right.” Her voice emerged a broken whisper. “I was hopeful and foolish, and he was everything you claimed he was.” Only that wasn’t altogether true. Confusion stabbed at her mind and played havoc on her heart. There was also a man capable of apology and who’d brought her a tray of food and a book. Nay, not just any book. The book of Wales.

  The sofa dipped slightly with the addition of Honoria’s weight as she settled into the spot beside Phoebe. “Do you believe I would judge you so harshly?” Honoria chided, a stern reproach threading her words. “I love you,” she said simply. “You are my friend. And I love that you are hopeful in the face of your father’s horridness.” She claimed Phoebe’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “You retained that important piece of your soul when others,” Honoria, “are less successful at such a feat.”

  Gillian claimed Phoebe’s opposite side. “It is true. I would have dearly loved to attend your wedding and be there for you. But I would never resent you for finding and knowing love.” Her lips pulled in a grimace, as she seemed to recall the inevitable deception Edmund had practiced upon an unsuspecting Phoebe.

  Honoria scrutinized her in that assessing manner of hers. “Has he…” Her cheeks pinkened and with that hesitancy of her question and the color on her face, her meaning became clear. “Hurt you?”

  “No!” The words burst forth.

  They eyed her skeptically.

  She drew in a breath. “Not…in that way.” He’d been a patient, careful, gentle lover. Bitterness turned in her heart. Then, his expert touch had merely proven just how very many came before her. Even now he could be with one of those women. How she wished his had merely been a physical pain inflicted, instead of this twisting, aching regret.

  Honoria applied pressure to her fingers. “What is it?”

  She gave her head a small shake, not wanting to breathe the truth aloud to these two women. Some things had no place between anyone, but one’s own tortured musings.

  Gillian looked about. “Where is His Lordship?”

  And with that simple inquiry, she was proven a liar. There were more tears. The gates opened up. Phoebe buried her face in her hands and wept noisy little tears, detesting the shuddery sobs that shook her frame.

  “Oh, Phoebe,” Honoria said with such a gentle kindness, Phoebe quaked all the more.

  She cried with such force she soaked the fabric of her friend’s muslin gown. “I-it sh-should not matter that he’s gone—” Especially after that blasted book.

  “Where has he gone?” Gillian put in and it made the tears come all the harder and faster.

  “T-to his s-scandalous clubs. B-but it does. And I d-don’t know why.”

  Gillian settled her fingers on Phoebe’s back and rubbed small, soothing circles. “Why, you love him, sweet. That is why,” she said gently.

  Phoebe wrenched away. She staggered to her feet and gave her head a horrified shake. “I-I don’t.” She couldn’t. Not with the lies between them. “He betrayed me, forced me into a marriage I did not want. No, I do not love him.” She brushed her hands over her cheeks, recognizing the lie of her own words.

  As did Gillian. “You cannot simply erase the ten days where you did fall in love with him.”

  Phoebe spun around and strode over to the window. “Nothing was real,” she said, more to herself. She yanked the edge of the curtain back and stared out at the passing conveyances. The crystal windowpane reflected back h
er grief-ravaged face and she winced at her own weakness. She’d become her mother. Phoebe pressed her eyes tight. God help her.

  The rustle of skirts indicated one of her friends had moved. “Some of it had to be real,” Gillian said.

  In the window she detected the hard stare Honoria gave their still hopeful, dreamily optimistic friend. “It matters not,” Honoria said and crossed over. She settled her hand on Phoebe’s shoulders. “You will do precisely as I said. You will live your life, he will live his, and along the way you will steal happiness for yourself where you can. Lady Wentworth has her annual ball this evening. It shall be good fun and even more so for you, as a wedded woman. Promise you’ll come. Present yourself as the proud, bold Marchioness of Rutland.”

  “I don’t want to go to a ball,” she said, her voice tired.

  Honoria snorted. “No one does—”

  “Some do,” Gillian put in.

  “But it shall be far better to go together. We shall face Society with you a married woman, no different than any other wedded lady of the ton.” Phoebe released the curtain and it fluttered back into place. She’d long abhorred the crush of balls and the inanity of soirees. Except when presented with the option of remaining alone in Edmund’s home with her broken heart and morose thoughts, the ball sounded a good deal more preferable. She sighed. Who knew?

  Chapter 23

  Edmund sat at the back table of Forbidden Pleasures. Through the years, this was the place he’d felt most at home. When he’d needed to strategize on a man’s destruction, this is where he’d come to organize his thoughts. In this instance, however, he scratched and clung to his very survival. Since yesterday morn, after he’d made love to his wife and awakened beside her lithe, naked form, Phoebe had turned his mind inside out with a hungering for her that went beyond the physical. He’d never slept beside a woman. There had been no need. No, his relationships with women had served one purpose—his and his partner’s sexual satiation. Edmund damned his wife for making him want more. He looked over the club, determined to put logical thoughts back to right.

  Except now, the din of raucous laughter and the clatter of coins hitting the faro tables of this once stable hell blared loud in his head. He raised his snifter of brandy to his lips and welcomed the familiar burn of the fine, French liquor as it blazed a trail down his throat. Frustration turned within him as he skimmed his gaze over the lords with a scantily clad beauty upon their laps; some of them with two or three. At one point, he’d felt a sense of belonging in the decadent hall of sin. His gaze collided with the fat, sweating frame of the Viscount Waters and Edmund clenched his snifter so hard, his knuckles turned white. He took in the man, his father-in-law, more importantly, Phoebe’s father. With the lush, blonde beauty on his lap, nuzzling his neck, the man was no different than really any other married man of the ton. Edmund continued to study him. And yet, this was Phoebe’s father, a man who’d visited shame upon her. He warred with the sudden urge to storm across the crowded club and take the man apart with his bare hands.

  He studied the contents of his glass a moment, rolling the snifter back and forth between his hands. For the course of his life, he’d allowed his parents’ depravity to define him. Destroy him. He’d taken the sight his father forced him to witness and used that as an excuse to live an equally immoral existence.

  And yet, Phoebe’s life had not been unlike his. Both born to shameful sires who opened their eyes to vileness in a person’s soul, they’d each let that shape their lives but in entirely different ways. He had embraced a cold, unfeeling world in which he’d never know hurt and only feel that which brought him satisfaction. Phoebe, however, had moved through the world with a positive hope in others and her future. He’d prided himself these years on his strength, but he’d not been strong. He’d been merciless and ruthless, but that was not strength. The inherent ability to smile through life’s ugliness and not allow it to turn one bitter and cold—that was strength. He was merely the monster he’d proven himself to be these years. His insides twisted in agonized knots. And in his need to possess her, he’d destroyed her. With a curse Edmund downed the remaining contents on a long, slow swallow. His lips pulled in an involuntary grimace and he set the empty glass down with a hard thunk.

  What manner of pathetic fool had he allowed himself to become, sitting here with a club of eager beauties and coin to be won, waxing on with his maudlin thoughts about his childhood and his wife? He swiped the bottle from the table and splashed several fingerfuls into his empty glass. This hold Phoebe had upon him was too great. He could not give her more of him than this—it would weaken him and destroy him in ways he’d not been destroyed. She already hated him. He swirled the contents of his glass in a small circle. History had proven what happened to those who hated. Soon, that bitterness would drive his wife to seek out another and he would not be the angry, hurt man staring at her tup another, the way his father had been.

  A young beauty sidled up to him. “My lord,” she purred. “Are you desiring company?” Clad in a black lace confection, she was sin wrapped with the crimson bows that held her slip of a dress loosely tied. The lush woman fingered her low décolletage in invitation. At any other point, in any other time before Phoebe he’d have unhesitantly taken the woman. He would have slaked his desire, brought her release that left them both sated. Edmund gave his head a curt shake and with a moue of disappointment, she sauntered off. Now there was Phoebe and nothing made sense any longer.

  “Rutland, my good man.”

  At the cheerful greeting, Edmund stiffened. Bloody brilliant. “Barrett,” he said warily. “I was just—”

  The young man was as undaunted as his older sister. “Glad to keep you company.” He tugged out the chair opposite Edmund and slid into it. “Enjoying marriage?” His wry grin indicated he’d already arrived at an opinion on Edmund’s thoughts of his wedded state.

  He frowned and remained silent.

  Undeterred, Andrew Barrett stuck his hands into the edge of his waistcoat and tipped back on the legs of his chair, balancing haphazardly. “A bit surprised I am, if I can admit as much.”

  Edmund battled back wary annoyance. “Surprised at what?” Of course, he should expect his brother-in-law would take offense with him abandoning the newly married Phoebe. Still, visiting his clubs was not uncharacteristic of a wedded gentleman. Mayhap not a just wedded gentleman, but it was quite the norm.

  Barrett shrugged and then leaned abruptly forward as his precarious positioning nearly landed him on his backside for his attempt at nonchalance. “A man such as you would hardly be content with Pheebs.” A cocky grin pulled his mouth up at one corner. “A bit mouthy and motherly, I was surprised that you were so determined to have her.”

  A growl worked its way up Edmund’s chest and he narrowed his eyes into thin slits.

  Barrett wasn’t wholly stupid, for he bristled. “Not that I’m not glad to have you as a brother.” No, perhaps he was wholly stupid after all. “And Phoebe will make you a good wife. She is loyal and devoted.”

  Edmund reached for his bottle and poured himself another brandy. The man spoke of her as though she were a damned spaniel. Yes, she was loyal and devoted as the other man claimed, but she was so much more than that. She was spirited and passionate and intelligent. “She is not a blasted dog,” he snapped, then set the bottle down hard and picked up his glass. He took another much needed drink.

  Barrett blinked rapidly. He scratched his brow. “Er…I didn’t call her a dog. I called her devoted.” Glancing about, the young pup located a fiery-haired lightskirt and motioned to her. The woman sauntered over with the flimsy, crimson satin fabric molding to her every curve with each slow, inviting step she took.

  The young woman stopped beside their table and settled a glass on the smooth mahogany surface. Then, planting her palms on Barrett’s lap she leaned close and flicked her tongue over the shell of his ear. “Do you require anything else?”

  The young man’s throat bobbed up and down. />
  Edmund swiped his free hand over his face. Oh, Christ. The last thing he cared to do was sit here with this man who had his wife’s eyes while he took a whore in public for all to see. He made to shove back his chair.

  “I was surprised I didn’t see you with her tonight.”

  Edmund froze and probed Phoebe’s brother with a hard look.

  The young man paused in the midst of nuzzling the prostitute’s neck. She giggled and swatted at him in protest. “At Lord and Lady Wentworth’s,” he clarified. “Came from there a short while ago.”

  The knot twisted all the more in his gut. She’d gone out to a polite Society event. Did you expect she should stay at home, alone, while you sought out your clubs? Yes, yes he had. Because the selfish bastard that he was, he’d not considered what she’d be doing. But now he knew. She was at the bloody Wentworth’s ball. If they were to live their own lives such a detail didn’t really matter. She’d attend with—

  “Was there with her friends,” Barrett supplied, as he ran a hand down the whore’s thigh.

  Edmund came to his feet earning a confused look from his brother-in-law. “Where are you off to, Rutland?”

  He gave a slight bow. “Barrett,” he muttered. Regardless of their connection through marriage, and by Phoebe, he still wouldn’t answer to this man or anyone. He spun on his heel and he who’d sworn to avoid polite Social events unless they suited some larger purpose took his leave from Forbidden Pleasures and made his way to the damned Wentworth ball.

  *

  “I do say they are leering more,” Gillian said on an annoyed moan.

  “Yes, yes they are,” Honoria glared at Lord Pratt who eyed the trio of her, Gillian, and Phoebe.

  Phoebe sighed as the young earl ran a lascivious stare over her person, before ultimately settling his hot gaze upon her bosom. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I daresay it is my fault,” she muttered. For apparently with this whole marital business came open advances and interested stares from bold gentleman no longer restricted by the polite bounds of unwed, virginal lady and gentleman. Lord Allswood caught her eye across the ballroom and gave her a slow, lingering grin. She scowled and jerked her attention away. She’d wager the title of Marchioness of Rutland did not help with the whole respectability end of everything.