A Midwinter's Scandal - A Novella Duet

by Erin Knightley

  Finally, he turned back to her. “But surely you can find other ways to use your gifts,” he argued.

  She pressed her lips together. “Perhaps, but for now, my heart is set upon this way.” If he fought her on this, how could she ever marry him and put herself at his mercy? She knew Malcolm would never treat her with the indifference her father did, nor would he be a cruel husband. But as her husband, he could forbid her anything and everything.

  Malcolm’s head tilted, his eyes both imploring and sad. “And you’d rather choose that than a lifetime by my side?”

  “Why must it be an either/or?” she cried, more hotly than she’d intended.

  “Because it is, Phoebe. It is the way of things. I can’t have my wife traipsing about the countryside half the year on her own. It just isn’t done.”

  The lump that had lodged in Phoebe’s throat released into a sharp ache that settled in her chest. She wanted to rail at him, but it would do no good. Malcolm had never been a prig. He’d been full of adventure when she’d known him best. He’d chafed at his father’s rigid expectations, much as she did hers.

  It was that part of him she appealed to. “Come with me, then.”

  Malcolm closed his eyes. Blast. It hid his thoughts from her, and she desperately needed to see which way the struggle turned. It literally hurt to breathe as she waited for his response.

  His jaw clenched, and a deep V formed between his eyebrows. Then his hands fisted...and Phoebe’s hope died.

  Pain clouded his eyes when he finally looked at her, but his voice was firm. “No. I am Coverdale. I have responsibilities to my lands and to my country.”

  “Of course you do,” she said. “But you also have options. You don’t have to martyr yourself to the viscountcy. You can leave some of the—”

  “No. I can’t just go gallivanting about, neglecting my duties.” He straightened and raised his chin. “And neither can my viscountess.”

  The sharp ache in Phoebe’s chest burned through her, making tears threaten. She fought them off. “Now you don’t just sound like my father,” she said bitterly, “you sound like yours.”

  Anger flashed across Malcolm’s face, so ferocious that it shocked her out of her own.

  “You say that as if it is a bad thing,” he said, the deceptive calm of his voice belied by the fierce tic in his jaw. “My father was an exceptional man. Steadfast, responsible, and stalwart—all qualities I only hope may be said about me one day. I have many regrets in my life, Phoebe—” He broke off, and the apple of his throat bobbed as he swallowed some emotion. “But sounding like my father will never be one of them.”

  “I’m sorry, Malcolm,” she whispered, misery taking the place of her own flash of outrage. She wasn’t certain exactly what she was apologizing for. For hurting him with her words? For standing her ground? For things that might have been? Or for what she was about to do...?

  Phoebe walked over to him, rose to tiptoe, and placed a kiss upon his cheek. He was tense, still taut with his anger, she suspected. She let the kiss linger a long moment, trying to memorize the feel of his warm skin against her lips and the scent of him close to her. Then she took a step back.

  “Thank you for your proposal, my lord. You are a kind man, and a good friend.” Maybe he even had seen the real her and appreciated her for it, as she’d believed. But she’d been wrong when giving him credit for not insisting she change. When it came to the heart of the matter, Malcolm was like any other man of their station, and that was—as he’d said—simply the way of things. “But I believe, under the circumstances, I must decline.”

  He swallowed again, then dropped his chin in a curt nod. “I trust your aunt will see you home safely?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall I escort you back to the ballroom, then?”

  She shook her head. “No. I need a few moments to collect myself. I can find my own way back, thank you.”

  Malcolm pressed his lips together, as if he wanted to say something more but had decided against it. Instead, he gave her a formal bow. “Good night, then, Phoebe.”

  The burning behind her eyes was nearly unbearable now. She’d be leaving in a day or two. Once she broke the news to her father that she would not be marrying Malcolm—nor Mr. Jones—she had no doubt he would throw her out immediately. And once she was gone from Society, there would be little chance—or reason—for her to encounter Viscount Coverdale again.

  “Good bye, Malcolm.”

  He let himself quietly out of the study.

  And Phoebe let her tears fall.

  Chapter Ten

  “You’ve outdone yourself, Juliette,” Phoebe said, kissing her friend on the cheek in greeting. And she had. Lit by the flames of what must be thousands of candles, Lord Pickford’s impressive new conservatory sparkled more beautifully this evening than any ballroom Phoebe had ever been in.

  Juliette laughed, a tinkling sound that was infused with pride, but also something Phoebe hadn’t heard in her laughter in months: happiness. Was she finally over that horrible business last year with Lord Haverston, then?

  “Thank you. But let us hold off the congratulations until after the dessert course, shall we? Cook is in a panic over perfecting the timing of so many soufflés.”

  Phoebe smiled. “I’m sure it will come off beautifully.”

  “I have every faith.”

  Before Phoebe could ask more about Juliette’s apparent re-found joy, her friend excused herself, saying she had some last minute arrangements to see to before the bulk of the guests arrived.

  “But I’ve seated you across from me at dinner. We can talk more then,” Juliette promised, and rushed off.

  Phoebe accepted a glass of champagne from a passing servant. Why not? Tonight was a night for celebration, after all. She glanced about for Mr. Updike, but found only poor Mr. Whithers, who looked nearly as green as the leaves of the orchids he stood beside. He was to give the first presentation at tonight’s symposium, she knew. She gave him a sympathetic smile and raised her glass to him. Whithers was a brilliant botanist but always suffered from a nervous stomach before speaking in front of others.

  Her own stomach gave a little flutter. Mr. Updike was the big draw of the symposium, of course—apart from the unveiling of the conservatory. He’d asked to keep her painting, saying he’d like to share it during his talk before introducing her as his new illustrator. Quite soon, her scandalous plan for her future would be very public knowledge. There’d be no turning back.

  Nor did she want there to be.

  Malcolm’s face flashed in her mind, and a dull ache started high in her chest. She shoved regrets away. No, ’twas better this way.

  With nothing else to occupy her as she waited for Mr. Updike and his publisher’s arrival—their publisher, she reminded herself with a giddy burst of euphoria that couldn’t be explained away by the champagne—Phoebe walked through the aisles of plants and flowers that constituted Lord Pickford’s life’s work. It was truly lovely here.

  She’d have to ask Juliette if she would keep and care for her Queen of the Night whilst she was away. She’d trust no one else with it. It wasn’t as if she could cart the rare plant about the countryside with her. But she couldn’t bear to part with it permanently. It was a reminder that Malcolm had cared for her, that he’d wanted her, once upon a time...

  Just not enough. The ache in her throat flared once again. She quashed it with a gulp of champagne.

  A voice came from just behind her. “Miss Anson?”

  She startled, sputtering as tiny bubbles burned through her nose. Blinking the sting from her eyes, she turned to see Mr. Updike, standing next to a taller, more rotund gentleman of a similar age. The stranger, whom she assumed to be the publisher, seemed to stare past her as if looking for someone more important to speak with.

  “Mr. Updike,” she said after she’d steadied her glass and caught her breath. “Lovely to see you again.”

  “And you,” he said, his lips twitching, but not unkin
dly. He surveyed the room, his eyes lingering on the ornate spiral staircase leading to a second floor walkway that made room for even more flora. “You weren’t exaggerating, my dear. This may well be the finest private conservatory in all of London.”

  She smiled at him, but her eyes kept flitting to his companion. The man had barely glanced her way, which did little to settle her stomach. She turned her attention back to Mr. Updike. “I’m sure Lord Pickford will be gratified by your praise.”

  “I shall be certain to heap it upon him, then. But where are my manners? Miss Anson, may I introduce Mr. Barlow, esteemed publisher from Barlow and Burke. Mr. Barlow, Miss Anson.”

  Finally, the gentleman in question looked at her. After bowing, he said politely, “A pleasure.” Yet his lips settled into an impatient line as he once again looked over her shoulder.

  “The same,” she replied, surprised her voice didn’t quiver in her nervousness. “I very much look forward to our professional association.”

  Mr. Barlow’s gaze snapped back to her, then shifted to Mr. Updike, who was grinning.

  “I’m glad to see I’m not the only one who was surprised by P. A. Ellison’s true identity,” he said.

  Mr. Barlow, however, did not return the botanist’s jovial smile. “This is the illustrator you engaged?” he asked, his voice clipped.

  Mr. Updike’s brows drew together, though his smile remained. “Indeed.”

  Mr. Barlow shook his head. “You’ll have to find someone else.”

  Phoebe’s heart kicked so hard she was amazed it didn’t knock her over.

  A frown pulled at Mr. Updike’s sun-weathered face. “Why?”

  Mr. Barlow turned his eyes on her and pursed his lips, as if to say Isn’t it obvious?

  “You’ve seen her work, Charles,” Mr. Updike argued. “It’s far superior to any other candidate we considered. It strikes precisely the tone I hope to achieve.”

  “Yes,” the man conceded. “But ladies don’t belong in publishing.”

  Phoebe struggled to keep the room from spinning as her future threatened to unravel before her. She kept her voice calm and reasonable, with much effort. “Forgive me, but it’s well known in botanical circles that Mary Jackson is the author of three very respected works, using a nom de guerre.”

  In her nervousness, she couldn’t help but babble on. “Although nom de guerre translates as war name, which sounds so harsh for an author. They should use something more fitting. Nom de plume, perhaps?”

  Both Mr. Updike and Mr. Barlow stared at her. She felt her face color.

  “My point is, Miss Jackson’s books are well-received. Even Erasmus Darwin praises her and recommends her books in his own works.” Mr. Barlow must be a businessman at heart. She did her best to appeal to that. “It is my understanding that she sells very well for her publisher.”

  He frowned. “I know of whom you speak. I also know she’s no daughter of the aristocracy. Who is your father, then?”

  Phoebe straightened her shoulders. “Lord Anson.”

  The publisher’s eyes narrowed on her. “I see,” he said. “And does he approve of your traveling about to document wildflowers?”

  “I’ve reached my majority, sir. I do not need my father’s approval.”

  He scoffed and shook his head. He turned to Mr. Updike. “Find another illustrator, John, or find another publisher. Barlow and Burke will not risk the enmity of a baron on a girl’s whim.” He nodded to her. “Miss Anson.” Then he turned and left.

  As a young girl, Phoebe had once twirled so fast and so long that it had left every part of her sick and roiling. That’s how she felt now, only magnified. She squeezed the stem of her champagne glass as if it were a lifeline that could keep her steady on her feet.

  Mr. Updike looked to be reeling himself. The botanist’s ashen face had aged ten years in the past five minutes. “I am so sorry, Miss Anson,” he croaked. “I had no idea Barlow felt that way. I...” He trailed off, as if lost for words.

  Phoebe swallowed, her throat dry. She downed her remaining champagne. “Is there anything to be done?” she asked, hoping against hope that the two of them could devise another option.

  But Mr. Updike dropped his gaze. “Even I am bound by those who would support me,” he said sadly. “I must bow to my publisher’s wish or find myself without prospects.”

  All Phoebe could do was nod. She didn’t trust her voice. If she opened her mouth, she was afraid she might cry. Or scream.

  “I am sorry,” Mr. Updike repeated, and then he too moved away.

  Phoebe sucked in a breath. Spinning, spinning, spinning. Her life was spinning out of control, and she had no idea how to stop it. She put a hand to her temple.

  She couldn’t stay here.

  Unable to find Juliette, she asked Ritter to convey her excuses. The butler gave her a concerned frown, but agreed and sent for her carriage.

  Phoebe snagged another glass of champagne as she waited, then two more—one for each hand—before stepping into her carriage. She’d return the stemware some other time.

  But when her driver asked her, “Where to, Miss?” she couldn’t answer.

  Dear Lord, she had nowhere to go. She couldn’t go home, not to her father’s house. She couldn’t face that reality, those choices. Not now.

  Spinning. Spinning. Spinning.

  “Just drive,” she said, ignoring the coachman’s odd look. “And keep driving.”

  And she started on her third glass of champagne.

  ****

  “Excuse me, m’lord.”

  Malcolm turned from his valet, with some alarm, to find his butler standing in the door of the master’s chambers. Lewis was typically as implacable as they come, but he sounded downright flustered, which meant something was wrong. One glance at the man’s ruddy cheeks confirmed Malcolm’s assessment.

  “What is it?”

  “There is a lady at the door, sir, insisting to see you. She appears to be rather, ah...” Lewis cleared his throat. “...indisposed.”

  Malcolm frowned, even as his heart tripped. There was no reason for Phoebe to visit him. She’d made her thoughts clear last night. But who else could it be? “Did she give a name?”

  Lewis’s nod wobbled with uncertainty. “Of a sort. She said Mrs. Jones was as good a name as any. Kept mentioning that it was her war name now, whatever that means.”

  Mrs. Jones? It had to be Phoebe. Suddenly, Malcolm’s intricately tied cravat squeezed too tightly on his neck. What had happened? Was she all right? “When you say indisposed, Lewis, you mean...?”

  “Drunk as a broken wheelbarrow, m’lord. And about as tippy.”

  Malcolm was out the door before the butler had even finished the word wheelbarrow. “Send hot tea and plain biscuits to the upstairs parlor,” Malcolm called over his shoulder. That would be more private. “Or better yet, coffee.” He didn’t usually care for the stuff, but it had helped him through an overindulgent night or two.

  He found her in his foyer, twirling slowly and quite unsteadily, her head back and her eyes closed. Two footmen watched her warily, no doubt charged by Lewis to guard her until Malcolm decided what to do with her.

  “Spinning, spinning, spinning,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Unravelling. All of it. Even me.”

  He gently approached her, careful to be in a place where he could catch her before he spoke, in case she was startled. “Come with me, Pheebs,” he said, low enough so that only she could hear.

  Her eyes fluttered open, rimmed red and glassy with a despair that struck his heart. But she stopped her slow rotation and simply nodded, not protesting when he put an arm behind her and another securely on her shoulder as he led her toward the stairs.

  A thousand questions flooded his mind on that long trek up the flight of stairs and then through the drawing room to where the back parlor was situated. He held silent, however, even after he gently settled Phoebe into the wingback nearest the fire. He’d quickly chosen it over the chaise, figuring she could
use the extra support to stay upright.

  “Tell me what’s happened,” he said. It must be something awful. He knew as well as he knew his own name that Phoebe wasn’t one for the bottle.

  “I’m sorry, Malcolm,” she said, swaying in the chair a bit. She blinked up at him, her eyes squinting, seeming to focus—as well as she could in her inebriated state—on his eveningwear. “I’ve interrupted your plans. Off to begin your bride hunt in earnest, I imagine,” she said, nodding even as her eyes closed.

  He had been, though in truth his heart had not been in it. An evening in a ballroom dancing attendance on young debutantes while wishing they each were Phoebe didn’t really appeal.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said, nudging an ottoman closer to the chair and settling himself onto it, facing her. “Why have you come?”

  The eyes that opened and fixed on him were wet with tears. “I was wrong,” she said, her voice catching.

  And just like that, hope flared back to life in his chest. Had she had a change of heart, then? He ached to see her so upset—didn’t understand why she should be so. But he would do his level best to soothe away her pain, for the rest of their lives.

  “You were right,” she went on before he could speak. “It just isn’t done after all. Silly me.”

  “What?” he said. Certainly Phoebe was in her cups, but she was making no sense. It also didn’t sound as if she’d come to accept his proposal. Damn. Still, he reached out and took her hands in his.

  At his touch, Phoebe started to sob. He listened with a breaking heart—and not a small bit of anger on her behalf—as she shared with him all that had happened to her this night.

  After long minutes, the flow of words and tears ebbed. “So you see? I was wrong. Wrong to think that I could ever be free. Wrong to think that as a nobly bred woman I could pursue my dreams.” A brittle laugh escaped her. “Isn’t it funny? Were I the daughter of a vicar or such, I likely could have convinced him, but as I’m not—well, it’s just as you said. That’s just the way of things.”

  They sat in silence, her hands warm in his, firelight flickering gently over them. He waited for her to say that she’d been wrong about turning down his proposal, too, but she never did.