“Oh, no!” She sat up abruptly in the plush bed. “I can’t be . . . can I?” Flinging her legs over the edge, she hopped down to the floor and began pacing the room as the events of that afternoon came back to her.
Unfortunately, she didn’t get very far before she was forced back to the bed by the pounding in her head and the roiling in her stomach.
A chamberpot sat on its stand nearby, and she peeked inside to make sure it was empty. There was a possibility she would need it soon.
With a groan, she leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Oh, that won’t do! She felt as if she was spinning on the fastest of carousels and the only way to keep off of it was to open her eyes. Which made her head hurt.
Lord, what had she done to herself?
No, what had Kat done to her?
Here, Phoebe, you must try some of this! It is my favorite . . . Oh, have some more, Phoebe, isn’t it wonderful? . . . How about another glass, Phoebe . . .
If she didn’t know better, she would have thought the duchess tried to get her foxed on purpose. But she would never do that, would she?
She would have shook the thoughts from her head, but she knew the physical act would have her face-down in the chamberpot, so she held still and tried to focus on other things. Things like, where in the world was she? And was anyone going to come and retrieve her? Did her mother know where she was? Had Becky been taken home? And what time was it, for heaven’s sake? Though her mother claimed to never be hungry, she still needed to be fed. Heaven knew she wouldn’t do it on her own.
Phoebe would have left the room in search of someone if she thought she could make it more than two feet past the door. Frustrated, she drummed her fingers on the bedside table. She had drummed them three times when, finally, the door to the chamber opened and Benjamin poked his head in.
“You’re awake!” he said, a genuine smile coming to his lips.
And that was it. That was all it took to remind Phoebe of the horrific mistake she’d made that afternoon. No, no, no, no, no! How could she have told the duchess she was falling in love with Benjamin? How? What on earth had possessed her in the first place?
Suddenly, she couldn’t find her tongue, and the queasy feeling in her stomach got worse. Much, much worse.
Don’t, Phoebe! Do not throw up now!
He was coming towards her, but she couldn’t stop it, so she held up a hand to stop him instead, at the same moment reaching for the chamberpot and burying her head as deeply in it as she could without getting vomit on her face. Tears sprung to her eyes, though in her current state she couldn’t tell the real reason for them. Any number of things could have brought her to cry: the fact that she was tossing up her accounts in front of the man who was courting her; the stinging, scratchy feeling at the back of her throat; or the incessant pounding in her head.
“I will never . . . ever . . . have another sip of apple brandy for as long as I live.” Her face was still buried in the chamberpot, which she thought more favorable than meeting Benjamin’s eyes. But when she heard him chuckle, and heard his footsteps near, she lifted her head, horrified.
“Don’t,” she said, not wishing for him to come closer lest he get a look inside the pot.
But he didn’t stop his advancement. He came right to her, took the chamberpot from her hands and placed it back on its stand. Then he brought her a wet cloth from the washbasin to clean her face.
“You forget I have three younger siblings. I’ve had to take care of them in this sort of state many times before. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“It most certainly is,” she rebutted, still wondering if Kat had told him what she’d said earlier that day. “I can’t believe I allowed myself to drink so much.”
“But it’s not your fault,” came another voice from the doorway. Phoebe glanced up to see the duchess gliding over the threshold, dressed for the evening in a blue-green gown that clashed horribly with the room. She turned to Benjamin and said, “You know better than to be alone in here with Miss Blake.”
“Says the woman who got you drunk today,” he said to Phoebe, bringing a smile to her lips. “Fine, I shall leave, but only if you assure me you don’t have a bottle of apple brandy stuffed in your garter.”
“Oh, get out, Ben!” Kat said, swatting him with her gloved hand.
“You will see she gets home, Kat?” he asked, his expression turning serious all of a sudden.
“Of course. Now, go.”
Ben winked at Phoebe, told her to get some rest and assured her she would see him on the morrow.
Part of her wanted him to stay—the part of her that wanted to be with him always, every moment of every day, the part that just couldn’t get enough of him. But, of course, the part that had just thrown up and could barely hold her head erect wanted him to go . . . far away.
As soon as the door was shut, Kat nestled on the edge of the bed next to Phoebe. “Do you hate me?” she asked, her lovely face twisted into a grimace.
“Of course I don’t hate you. Why would I?”
“I never should have made you drink all of that. You’ve probably never even had spirits before, have you?”
Phoebe shook her head. “But while I must admit this is probably the most painful physical experience of my life . . . I did have fun this afternoon.”
A wide smile broke out on Kat’s lips. “Good. Then you forgive me?”
“For getting me drunk, yes. However, I must know, Kat . . . did you tell him what I said to you this afternoon?”
“Oh, Phoebe, I would never do such a thing to you. Believe me, your secret is safe with me.”
There was a slight pause, and Phoebe knew there was something more. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what it was, but at the same time, she was certain she would find out anyhow.
“Though I dare say,” the duchess continued predictably, “you will soon have the chance to profess your love to him yourself!” She giggled briefly and then sobered, all vestiges of humor disappearing with alarming immediacy. “However, that is all I will say on the matter, so do not try and pry it out of me.”
Chapter 9
When Phoebe arrived home that evening it was to a fully lit house and quiet chatter coming from the parlor. Though her head still hurt and all she really wanted to do was feed her mother and fall into bed, curiosity won out. After all, she was essentially the head of the household; if there was someone in her home, they were probably there to see her.
Nothing could have prepared her for the sight she saw upon walking into the parlor, though. Her mother. Her mother and Becky. And a fire and food . . .
Phoebe was speechless, and she stood lamely in the doorway, wondering if she’d stumbled upon another world. A dream world where everything seemed to be going her way, the apple brandy incident notwithstanding.
“Oh, miss, we didn’t hear you come in!” Becky leapt from the chair and hurried across the room. “Let me take your things.”
Phoebe handed over her pelisse and parasol, gloves and bonnet to Becky, but she still couldn’t find the words to ask what was going on or why her mother, after a year, had suddenly decided to emerge from her room. “You’re eating,” was all she managed to get out.
Her mother smiled—actually smiled!—and shrugged her shoulders. Then she patted the dusty sofa for Phoebe to come sit by her. She did, her headache and sour stomach all but forgotten by the time she reached her mother. Though there were heavy bags under her mother’s eyes and her skin fell limply from her cheekbones and jaw, there was a sparkle to her eyes and a hint of color to her usually stark white pallor.
“Becky’s prepared a delicious stew, with real beef.”
“Real beef?” Phoebe spun to see Becky, who stood in the doorway, a proud look on her face. Had everyone gone mad? They couldn’t afford beef!
“No more mutton at Blakeny House,” Becky said. “Only the finest cuts of meat, he said.”
“He? He who?”
“Were you ever going to tell
me about your gentleman suitor?”
Phoebe spun back around to face her mother. “I suppose Becky told you about him,” she said.
“She told me his name, and that he sent her home with enough quid to feed us for quite some time.”
Phoebe’s heart stopped, or at least that was what it felt like. He meant to rescue them, to deliver them from ruin. It was amazing, really, how in one moment, with one tiny sentence, a person’s world could be turned upside down . . . or right side up, in this particular case. After a year of living a nightmare, of wondering just how far they could stretch what few pennies they had left, she would be able to rest easily.
“But why didn’t he tell me any of this?” Phoebe wondered. “I saw him not a half hour ago and he said nothing.”
“He wanted it to be a surprise,” Becky confirmed. “Can I bring you a bowl, miss? It’s quite delicious.”
Now she thought about it, she’d had very little to eat today and far too much to drink. A little beef stew sounded like just the thing. Once Becky was gone, on her way to the kitchen, Phoebe turned to her mother, who spoke before she had the chance.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were being courted so earnestly, Phoebe?”
“I would have, it was just that…well, I didn’t want to get your hopes up, Mama. I thought to wait until a proposal was in the nearer future—”
“And is it?”
Phoebe sighed. “I certainly hope so, but, Mother, it’s only been a few days. And while Lord Glastonbury is being exceedingly generous—”
“I can handle disappointment, Phoebe,” her mother said, and Phoebe almost choked. She could handle disappointment? The woman who had lain despondent in her room for a year could handle disappointment?
Of course, Phoebe didn’t react to this statement, but merely clamped her lips shut and nodded, just once. “I will remember that in the future then,” she finally said.
And then, unable to stop herself after an entire year of not confiding in her mother, Phoebe began to talk: about Benjamin, about Katherine, about the balls and parties, and about Benjamin some more. It wasn’t for another hour or so that her mother began to visibly wilt before her. She supposed it wasn’t surprising since the woman hadn’t sat up properly for more than ten minutes at a time in the last year.
“You’re exhausted,” Phoebe remarked.
“I am,” her mother replied as she grabbed Phoebe’s hand, her eyes misty. “But that will change, Phoebe. I promise.”
Phoebe gently hugged her mother and then helped her up the stairs to bed. Once she’d tucked her in, she went immediately to her escritoire. Paper and ink were expensive, so there wasn’t much of it. But if there was one person who deserved to have a page spent on them, it was Benjamin.
***
Benjamin stared at the mound of correspondence in front of him. It stacked high on his desk and looked rather daunting, if truth be known. He hated to think that a pile of paper could intimidate him so, but he simply dreaded the hours he would have to sit there in his study sorting through it all. Hours that could be spent in the company of the lovely Phoebe Blake.
He looked at the clock. It was far too early to visit, anyway, so it was best he keep himself occupied until proper calling hours.
A smile spread his lips wide, from ear to ear, as he thought of the woman he would soon call his bride. He wondered what her reaction had been to his “gift” last night. Next time he gave her a gift, he would be there to see her reaction and reap the reward. But it was good enough for now to know they’d all had a good dinner and were hopefully enjoying a hearty breakfast at that very moment.
Determined to get through his post as quickly as possible, Ben plucked the first letter from the top of the pile. His housekeeper had arranged them with the most recent date at the top. He assumed the ones at the bottom must date back to just after he’d left for America. If they had waited this long for a response, they could wait a few more hours.
Ironically, the first letter he picked up bore the signature of his beloved Phoebe. He laughed that she had thought to send him a letter when she knew he would be calling on her that afternoon. But he opened the missive, anyhow, curious to see what she had to say.
Dear Benjamin,
Your generosity exceeds all bounds of human kindness. Thank you.
Affectionately yours,
Phoebe
Ben smiled at the simplicity of her note, and the intense emotion he felt in receiving her gratitude. He’d never wanted to make someone happy as much as he wanted to make Phoebe happy. And he would do anything and everything in his power just to see her smile.
Tucking her note neatly in the top drawer of his desk for safekeeping, he moved on to the second letter in the pile. His brows knit together as he recognized his own family crest emblazoned in the wax seal. It was from his mother.
Dearest Benjamin,
I must ask that you collect your brothers and sister, and dare I hope, your betrothed, and bring them to Ravenscroft Castle as soon as possible. Your father is not well. The doctor says it could be a matter of days.
Love,
Your Mother
Benjamin tried not to panic. He thought he had weeks left, not mere days. Dammit, he should have stayed in Kent with his father! More guilt, thick and suffocating, closed in on him. A whole year he’d spent hiding out, trying to run from his horrid mistake. A whole year he’d missed out on spending time with his father. A whole year he’d spent carousing about New York instead of learning about his inheritance.
Dear God, his inheritance. Money, land, tenants and employees . . . how would he ever survive it? His breaths were coming in short spurts now, but through the haze of his panic, he saw Phoebe’s face, and he knew she was the only way he would be able to survive what was ahead. He needed a wife, like his father had said. He needed Phoebe.
***
Since Becky was busy helping Lady Grimsby dress for the day for the first time in a year, Phoebe answered the frantic knock at their front door. On the stoop stood a rather frazzled looking Benjamin. He must have run his hands through his normally perfect coif at least a hundred times.
“Benjamin,” she said, moving aside to allow him entry. “Is everything all right?”
“No.” He turned to her once she had shut the door and took her by the elbows, pulling her close.
She wanted to take a moment to bask in the fresh scent of his cologne and the warmth of his masculine form, but he was bearing down on her with an intensity that made her shiver.
“It’s my father. I must return to Kent at once, with my family.”
“Oh, dear. Benjamin, I’m so very sorry.” Selfishly, she wondered how long he might be gone, but stopped herself before the words made it to her lips.
He stared at her for a moment before pulling her fully into his embrace. “I need to ask you something very important, Phoebe,” he said into her hair.
“Would you like to ask me here or in the parlor over tea?” she asked, her voice muffled in the soft fabric of his overcoat.
She felt his chest rumble with a chuckle and then he pulled away, running a gentle hand over her hair as he did.
“Yes, the parlor, please. I would like to do this the right way.”
Phoebe’s eyes widened, and she looked up to see the tenderness and caring that alighted Benjamin’s face. Good heavens! Was he planning to . . . ?
No, she would not get her hopes up. He could have meant any number of things by his statement of doing things the right way.
She walked dazedly to the parlor, Benjamin close on her heels, and then they sat side by side on the sofa.
“Phoebe,” he began, seeming nervous all of a sudden. “I . . . my father . . . ”
“Benjamin,” she cut in, trying to set her own nerves aside, “you can tell me anything.”
A smile formed on his lips and in his eyes. “I know I can, which is precisely why I’m here. Phoebe, my father’s most fervent desire is for me to inherit the marquessate . . . havi
ng already chosen my marchioness.”
Phoebe’s heart sped until she worried it might leap from her chest. Oh, Lord, this was it. He was going to ask her to marry him.
But what if he wasn’t? Perhaps he was here to tell her he’d chosen someone else. That her station and position in the ton just weren’t good enough for someone like him. Which would not have been untrue, Phoebe realized with a sudden sinking in her stomach. She was poor and unconnected, and her father had been a gambler and her mother . . .
Oh, heavens, how would she tell her mother that Benjamin had changed his mind? This was exactly why she’d wanted to keep it a secret until something more definite presented itself.
“I realize,” he was saying, so Phoebe pushed her errant thoughts aside and tried to pay attention, “that we’ve known each other for barely a week—”
“Six days!”
Benjamin gave a little laugh at her interruption. “Six days then. But,” his expression turned serious, “I have never been so certain of anything in my entire life.”
Phoebe heard herself gulp. The sound echoed so loudly in her ears that she worried she wouldn’t be able to hear him when he asked what she dared to hope he was going to ask. But she did. She heard it loud and clear when he dropped to his knee before her, reached into his coat pocket, and asked, “Phoebe, will you do me the distinct honor of becoming my wife?”
She stared at him dumbfounded, afraid to move or speak for fear she would wake from the most pleasant dream she had ever known. For surely, this could not be real. Moments before, she had been hoping, wishing with all of her might that he would ask her, but now he’d done it, she couldn’t quite believe it.
She must have stayed silent for too long, staring at the massive emerald, for he started to ramble on about it being too soon, and he was sorry, but he couldn’t imagine his father passing without having met her.
Gentleman Never Tells (Regency Historical Romance) Page 7
