A Midwinter's Scandal - A Novella Duet

by Erin Knightley

Chapter Four

  “Thank you, Wells,” Phoebe said as she slid her cloak off of her shoulders in the entrance hall of the townhouse. The stone and stucco home stood as far from Grosvenor Square as it could and still be in Mayfair, but her father had flatly refused to let something in the more economical and only slightly less fashionable Bloomsbury. A waste, she thought, but as in all other things, she had no say.

  The butler whisked the garment away, passing it to a waiting maid.

  “Shall I send some tea up to the parlor to warm you?” he inquired. “It is bitter cold out there. You must be chilled to the bone.”

  “Indeed. I would appreciate that.” She was going to miss Wells, and the rest of the staff, after she’d gone. She’d have to learn to do for herself, but the freedom would be worth it.

  Still, there was no reason to pass up her favorite treat whilst she was still here, was there? “Could you ask Cook to add one of her Banbury cakes?” She could taste the sugary currant-and-rum pastry just thinking about it.

  “Or two,” Wells said, a smile in his voice, though there was no hint of it on his face. Wells prided himself on his stoicism, but underneath he was soft as pudding. That had always been a comfort to her when she came up against the unyielding hardness of her father, particularly after her mother was no longer there to act as her buffer. Yes, she would miss Wells ever so much.

  She handed over her gloves and rubbed her hands together. “Oh, and what time have you?” she asked as he turned to leave.

  “Just past six, Miss.”

  Six? She’d meant to be home two hours ago. There was still so much to do. And yet... A begrudging smile spread across her face. What a gift this afternoon had been. Phoebe was under no illusions that the next months—or years, for that matter—would be easy. She’d be scraping by, at best. There would be no spare coin, or spare time, for frivolity. Though she’d only gone to the Frost Fair to hide, she’d ended up having one of the better afternoons of her life.

  Much of that she owed to Malcolm.

  Her chest tightened a bit. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

  While the sound of his voice had initially sent painful memories crashing over her, they’d receded like the tide, pulling farther out to sea with every moment they’d spent together. It was as if he’d reverted from the disdainful knave she’d last known him to be back into the childhood friend he was once.

  Phoebe wasn’t a big believer in fate. One had to make her own destiny, to take risks and make sacrifices to create the life she wanted. But perhaps providence had taken a hand, sending Malcolm to play a part in her last hurrah. Spending this afternoon with him had gone a long way in laying old feelings to rest. She’d take that peace and march into the future with it.

  A future that depended upon her finishing the illustrations she intended to show Mr. Updike next week. She started up the stairs, anxious to get to work.

  “Where have you been?”

  Her father’s voice boomed from the back of the townhouse. Phoebe leaned over the ornate ironwork that ran along one side of the marble stairs to see him standing arms akimbo, frowning at her from the entrance to his study.

  “Good evening to you, too, Father.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  And that was no way to greet one’s only daughter. But she held her tongue. Only a few weeks more... “Did you not get my note?”

  “I did. Now, come down here.” He’d retreated back into his study before the last word had left his lips.

  However, he’d spoken in his I have some things I wish to discuss voice. Her heart skittered in her chest. She couldn’t imagine what she’d done. She’d gone out of her way of late to be a particularly dutiful daughter, so he’d have no reason to bundle her off to the country before she’d had the chance to secure her position with Mr. Updike.

  Had someone seen her going about unchaperoned? That might throw her father into a temper. But she’d been very careful.

  Malcolm had seen her. Phoebe winced. Why did she have to go and twirl like that? Last time she’d done such a thing it had brought her nothing but trouble. Had her wretched exuberance done her in once again?

  Her father was seated behind his desk looking over his papers when she stepped through the doorway. The smell of leather and the stale cheroots he favored dominated the room. Her nostrils flared and she resisted the urge to pinch her nose.

  “You wished to see me?”

  “You missed Mr. Jones this afternoon,” he said, still not looking up.

  Phoebe let out a breath. That was all? “Did I?” she said. “I could hardly pass up this afternoon’s opportunity,” she continued, refusing to offer regrets she did not feel. “The last Frost Fair happened when I was but four years of age. Who knows when there will be another.”

  “I suppose. Now, as to what I—” He glanced at her then, the space between his gray eyebrows wrinkling. “Is that what you were wearing? In company? Good God, Phoebe, you look no better than a maid in her lady’s castoffs.”

  She looked down. As she’d spent her morning in Lord Pickford’s fine new conservatory digging around in the plants and flowers, she hadn’t worn her best today, ’twas true. She’d had no intention of going out amongst society at all. But it wasn’t worth an argument. “My cloak covered me the entire time, I assure you.”

  “Hmmph. Well, you’ll have to take more care with your appearance now that you’re to be married. Mr. Jones requires a wife of exemplary—”

  “Pardon?” she interjected. Such a polite word, that, given the multitude of unladylike curses her panicked mind brought forth. She was amazed she hadn’t shouted it. Phoebe held herself very still, hoping she’d misheard. “What did you say?”

  Her father waved a dismissive hand, his irritation at being interrupted thinning the lips beneath his moustache. “I accepted Mr. Jones’s offer of marriage on your behalf this afternoon. I am just now writing a request for the banns to be read beginning this Sunday.”

  Phoebe flushed hot all over as a raging tumult burned through her. “You did what?” Was she an imbecile, able to say nothing beyond asking her father to repeat himself? From the look he gave her, her father certainly thought so.

  “You are now affianced to Mr. Jones,” he said slowly. “I haven’t signed the contracts yet, but it is as good as done. You are to be married next month, before the Season is in full cry.”

  She heard his words, but only after a shock-induced lag. Dear God. She’d feared this was coming, but deep down she’d counted on her father’s arrogance to scuttle the match. “But...but he’s in trade,” she reminded him. Not that she cared about station, but her father did. Always had.

  His jowls pulled up as he grimaced. “That is unfortunate, but there are compensations. I no longer need to fund another Season for you, and Mr. Jones has waived any claim to your dowry. In fact, he’ll be adding to my coffers for the privilege of marrying up. It’s as advantageous a match as I can hope for.”

  “For you,” she uttered, bitterness flooding her mouth even as anguish clogged her throat. Her father loved money and his tastes had always flirted with the edges of his means. Still, though they’d never been close, she’d hoped she was more than a financial consideration to him.

  He shot to his feet. His sharp eyes, the same unfortunate brown as her own, narrowed on her. “For you as well, young lady. Every woman needs a husband.”

  “But I—”

  “And every man needs a son.” The palm of his hand smacked against the edge of the desk dully in time with that last word. “Now that the mourning period for your mother has ended, I intend to remarry—while I still have time to beget an heir and see him grow. I am in need of coin to woo a new wife of good breeding, and—” He lifted the hand on his desk and pointed a finger at her. “—I refuse to continue to support you when you should have long ago been another man’s burden.”

  Phoebe balled her fists across her middle. Another man’s burden. Just property to be deeded to another, who c
ould then do with her as he wished.

  No, she couldn’t let this happen. But what was she to do? She’d counted on remaining in her father’s home until the expedition left after Easter, which was nearly eleven weeks away yet. She hadn’t the pin money saved up to last her on her own until then, much less any idea of where she would go. If she refused to marry Mr. Jones, her father might very well toss her out without even her clothing and jewelry, which she’d planned to have in reserve in case things became dire.

  “It galls me that you will have to marry outside the aristocracy,” her father went on, now pacing behind his desk. “If I thought for one moment that you would attract a decent offer... But you’ve left me no hope on that front, and Mr. Jones made an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  “It should be mine to refuse!” Phoebe cried. She clenched her teeth together before an absolute rail on the injustice of it all escaped. She had to rein herself in, try to control the damage if she could.

  “And that has always been your problem,” her father shot back. “If you had only conducted yourself as—”

  A loud knock sounded. “Pardon me, my lord.” Wells stood at the study door, seemingly as impassive as always. But when Phoebe looked over at him, she could see the concern in his eyes. She bowed her head, grateful for his interruption so she could gather herself.

  “What is it?” her father snapped, and Phoebe hoped he didn’t take Wells to task for disturbing him mid-rant.

  “A visitor, my lord.” The butler presented a silver salver with an ivory card upon it. “For Miss Phoebe. Lord Coverdale, miss.”

  Her head snapped up. Malcolm? Was here?

  Her father frowned, taking the card from the tray and rubbing the fine paper between his fingers. “Coverdale is in town? Why would he call upon you, Phoebe? And at this hour?”

  Phoebe swallowed. She had no idea why Malcolm had come. She was still reliving her father’s words from a moment before.

  It galls me that you will have to marry outside the aristocracy. If I thought for one moment that you would attract a decent offer...

  Would that work? Could she avert disaster by pretending a gentleman of their class was courting her, just until she could come up with a way to make it through Easter?

  Her father wouldn’t simply take her word for it. She’d have to have a partner in crime...

  Father tapped his foot impatiently.

  She pasted a smile on her face. “Lord Coverdale and I recently renewed our friendship,” she said lightly. “We encountered one another at the Frost Fair and he joined my party.” No need to mention she’d been a party of one. “We spent a lovely afternoon together. He said he wished to call on me but I had no idea he meant so soon,” she tittered, aiming for flustered and hopeful.

  “Hmm,” her father uttered thoughtfully. He eyed her as if he’d suddenly discovered that a dusty old painting hidden in the attic may have been done by one of the masters.

  There were many holes in this hastily forming plan. First was Malcolm. He may not be willing to go along. And even if he did, she’d have to persuade her father, who very well might decide to stand by the whole bird-in-the-hand nonsense regardless. But she couldn’t just do nothing. She had to forestall her father’s plans until she could devise an alternate strategy.

  “We can finish this discussion later,” her father said, lowering himself back into his chair. She noticed that he pushed aside the missive he’d been writing requesting the banns be read, and instead laid Malcolm’s card on his desk in its place. “Go see to your guest.”

  She left the study, pausing at the foot of the stairs to blink away the moisture that had been threatening to turn to frustrated tears. She pinched her cheeks and took a few deep breaths before starting up to the drawing room, then changed her mind and rang for her maid instead. She needed to look her best, after all. She’d never be as pretty as most of the ladies of their set, but she could at least make an effort.

  She would do whatever she must to convince Malcolm to woo her. Faux woo her, anyway. Fwoo her? It didn’t matter what she called it, as long as he agreed.

  ****

  Malcolm paced the length of the drawing room, his arms clasped behind his back as he waited for Phoebe. It was unfashionably late to be calling, he knew—but the butler hadn’t so much as sniffed at him. Rather, he’d snatched Malcolm’s card and hurried down the hall with it, leaving a footman to show him up to the gilded gold and green room.

  The pale shades of celadon that graced the walls and draperies did little to soothe him, and while the long narrow space would normally have been perfect to walk off his agitation, his strides were thwarted every few feet by large potted plants. There were more than a dozen of them. He sidestepped yet another one.

  Dodging greenery wasn’t helping matters so he moved toward the fireplace and sat on the edge of a floral settee instead. Malcolm drummed his fingers against the settee’s carved wooden arm in time with the tick-tick-tick of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.

  He wasn’t exactly sure what he planned to say to Phoebe. He didn’t have much experience with apologies. In truth, the only other person he’d ever offended enough to warrant heartfelt regrets had been his father, and he’d waited too late for that. He didn’t intend to make the same mistake again. The moment he’d learned what his careless words of so long ago had wrought upon Phoebe, he’d come straight to her. She deserved no less, even if there was little he could do to make amends.

  “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

  Malcolm shot to his feet as Phoebe glided into the room. And glide she did. He blinked once, then twice, at the lovely picture she presented. God in Heaven... The Phoebe he remembered was all elbows and knees and exuberant energy, too much to be contained within demure femininity. She’d been bundled in her heavy cloak earlier, so he’d had no reason to imagine she’d changed—especially given how she’d been twirling on the ice when he saw her again.

  But this Phoebe...

  She was a vision in wine silk netting. Her ivory underdress, which boasted long sleeves in deference to the season, served to lighten the color to a deep rose that reminded him of an innocent’s blush. Hell, the way the low-cut bodice and delicate flowered embroidery emphasized her creamy skin and soft curves, he damned well might blush himself.

  Not that her dress was indecent, by any means. No, he’d seen far more skin in the ballrooms of London, but this was Phoebe. Phoebe wasn’t supposed to elicit feelings of desire. She was his friend. She was...

  He swallowed hard.

  ...a very alluring woman. There was no denying it.

  Her long hair shone with a healthy glow, piled atop her head with a few curls left free to frame her face. Her cheekbones had become more defined with age, but they still reminded him of apples. Her chin was as strong as ever, and her lips were a bit fuller.

  And her once gamine frame had rounded in all the right places.

  “You’re worth waiting for,” he said simply, truthfully.

  Phoebe’s cheeks turned the color of her frock. She lowered her gaze, and a smile that was both hopeful and cynical graced her lips, as if she relished his words but didn’t believe them for one second.

  A fierce anger boiled through Malcolm. He damned well should have thrashed Harvey and his cronies right there on the street instead of just calling them unmitigated asses. A lady as beautiful and brilliant as Phoebe should never have to doubt herself.

  But if they deserved thrashing, he deserved to be flogged. It had been his words that had fueled those fools.

  “Phoebe, I—”

  She looked up at him then and his tongue stilled. He hadn’t noticed it when she’d walked in, blinded as he’d been by her, but her nose was suspiciously red and her eyes shone bright with what had to be unshed tears. Hell and damnation. Was this his doing? Seeing him again must have stirred up terrible memories for her, memories he could only guess at.

  Devil take it, he had no idea how to make things better.

  He
strode over to her, and turned his body so he could present her with his upper arm. “Hit me,” he commanded. “As hard as you can.”

  Phoebe’s eyes widened and she blinked rapidly. “Wh-what?” she asked with a startled laugh.

  “Knock me a wallop, right here,” he said, making an X with his finger on her favorite spot of old. “I mean it, Pheebs. Give it everything you’ve got.”

  Her lips had turned up, probably in confusion, but that was better than sadness. “Whyever would I do that?”

  “Because I deserve it. You said so yourself,” he reminded her, even though he hadn’t known then what she’d meant. “And because it will make you feel better. It always did.” He gritted his teeth—mostly for effect, but also bracing himself. He knew how hard she could hit. “Now have at me.”

  “Oh, Malcolm,” she said, giggling in earnest now. “That’s very...sweet. I’m not sure what you’re about, but I thank you for it. I needed the laugh.” Her eyes softened as her laughter trailed off. “Besides, it wouldn’t help, you know. It never made me feel better. I just didn’t know any other way to express myself, immature as I was. Forgive me.”

  Her apology was a gut punch, much worse than any blow she could have visited on his arm, especially given that he was the one who needed to beg her forgiveness. But at least now he knew exactly what to say.

  Malcolm took one of Phoebe’s hands in both of his. “No, it is I who was the childish one. I treated you abominably five years ago—”

  She gasped and tried to tug her hand from his, her other hand hurrying to cover her eyes like a small child who thought perhaps if she couldn’t see you, you couldn’t see her either. “What—why are you saying this now?”

  He held firm, trying to soothe her by circling one of his thumbs over the top of her hand. “I should have apologized long ago. I just didn’t—” He stopped. Any excuse he gave would ring hollow. He’d been a damned fool. And then his father had died and he’d left London and the man he’d been behind him.

  But she hadn’t had that luxury. There had been social repercussions for her that he had never even imagined.