When the Earl Met His Match

by Stacy Reid

  “I sent you a letter, one of utmost importance; however, I was unable to wait for your reply to my query. I needed to depart England immediately.” On the week’s journey, she had lived with the possibility his answer might have been no. Based on their exchanges, she knew she was not at all the kind of lady he wanted to marry, even though she had never understood the reasoning behind his requirements. She had been so desperate, afraid, and fiercely protective of the life growing inside her that every prudent consideration had been tossed to the winds, and she had acted, hoping that she was doing so with courage and not with stupidity.

  The reality of her situation and just how naive she was in the ways of the world rested on her shoulders at that moment—heavy and uncompromising. Nothing felt familiar, and nothing felt safe. And Phoebe felt more alone than she’d ever been in her nineteen years.

  Her throat aching, she stopped only a few feet from him. She dipped into a curtsy. “I believe we should dispense with our…sobriquets. I’m Lady Phoebe Maitland, daughter of the Duke of Salop.”

  His gaze sharpened. That should be enough to ensure she was offered shelter and be treated with all courtesy until she came up with another plan.

  “Welcome, Lady Phoebe,” the butler intoned.

  After an almost imperceptible nod of the butler’s head, three footmen appeared and made their way to the coach behind her.

  At the lack of welcome, her heart grew heavier. “Please forgive me, my lord.”

  A rough bark from the carriage halted her speech. Thank heavens, she wasn’t all certain what she had been about to say. The stranger before her stiffened, his eyes growing wide.

  “Oh! I do hope you like dogs. He was sleeping inside the carriage, and he is a huge beast I did not wish to wake without first securing permission.”

  The viscount touched her shoulder, a quick brush, but the shock of it had Phoebe peering up at him. But he wasn’t looking at her. His palm was pressed flat against his chest, and his breath clearly held. Phoebe swore he still did not breathe when he stepped around her as the massive dog leaped from the carriage in one graceful bound. But he did not run to her. No, Wolf darted forward with the power of his legs taking him over to the man who had sunk on his knees and held out his arms in a few leaps.

  Phoebe stared in astonishment as the dog crashed into the viscount, who held on to him as if his life depended on it. Wolf was so excited, his barking had devolved into soft and slightly high whines, his tail wagging in a manner she had never seen.

  It was a reunion.

  A powerful one, too, for the man held the dog’s face, peered into his eyes, and rested his forehead against the beast. They stayed like that—the viscount uncaring the graveled driveway would ruin his pants and Wolf silent as they stared at each other. Another jolt went through her when the dog placed his massive paw over each of the viscount’s shoulders then rested his large head onto said shoulder.

  They were hugging. The beauty of it stole her breath.

  Sarah hurried to stand beside her. “I cannot believe what I see, milady! They seem to know each other.”

  “He…he is the master who wrote the letter to care for Wolf.”

  The viscount stood, the dog pressed against his side as if he would never leave him and faced her.

  “Wolf…he is your dog?”

  He nodded then pressed two fingers over his heart, tapped once, then dipped into a brief but elegant bow.

  “But I thought you were on your death bed?” she said, dazed.

  Then the truth of his situation struck her. The viscount could not speak.

  The silence felt awfully awkward, then the butler cleared his throat, dragging her eyes to him.

  “It had been a very trying time, milady, and the doctor’s report was dire. However, after several days abed, milord rallied, to everyone’s surprise but exceeding gladness, and is now quite well.”

  She shifted her regard to the viscount…and he was just staring at her. Her mind groped for something, anything else. “Do you believe in the whimsy of fate or destiny?”

  That she hadn’t meant to say; it sounded so very silly to her ears.

  Humor lit in his eyes, and unexpectedly he smiled. The incredible sensual beauty of it struck Phoebe. Her cheeks went hot, her throat and belly, too. Her heart tripped, and butterflies wreaked havoc with her stomach. What is this feeling?

  “I…” Phoebe shifted her gaze from the viscount, furious at her unguarded reaction.

  “If you will follow me, my Lady,” the butler said. “Welcome to Glencairn Castle.”

  She glanced behind her and was surprised to see that the viscount was still standing there, his hand on Wolf’s head, man and beast staring as she entered the majestic manor set in perfectly landscaped grounds. Expansive parklands and impeccably designed gardens surrounded the building. It had the most magnificent sweeping arched entrance and boasted many decorative crenellations and several decorative towers. Beyond the countryside was more untamed areas with heather dotted grassy moors and forests nestling beneath majestic hills. In each direction, vista of great beauty awed her. The few patches of brighter green tended land surrounding small humble cottages the Scots named crofts. A small village was set some few miles’ distant.

  Within her, an awful emptiness took root. A marriage between them was not possible.

  It had been easy to deceive herself that the author of the letter was perhaps a wealthy merchant who would have been awfully glad to marry the daughter of a duke with a dowry of fifty thousand pounds.

  The large door swung open, and she stepped over the threshold into a long hallway, the scent of lemon and beeswax redolent on the air. She touched her stomach fleetingly. At least you are safe…

  The inside of the large home was tastefully furnished and decorated, warmly paneled with the trappings of a more warlike past displayed symmetrically upon the upper walls. Pikes, swords, shields, and more ancient weapons that Phoebe could not name hung polished and glowing in the well-lit halls. The wall weaponry was interspersed with stag antlers and other trophies of some former scion’s hunting prowess. Above the symbols of a martial past hung a series of portraits of who she assumed were former family members. They were the works mostly of some local masters, but some of the more recent had clearly been executed by the most prestigious artists of London and further afield.

  She stepped around a number of suits of armor from different periods of the castle’s history. The butler led her up the winding staircase to a chamber on the second floor. He had tried to direct Sarah to the servant quarters, but she had sternly refused, insisting she needed to serve her lady first.

  The room was fit for a princess, quite palatial, even more so than her rooms at her parents’ house. The canopied bed in the center of the room had a profusion of pillows, and the sheer lime green curtains on the post complimented the darker green and gold drapes by the windows. The family coat of arms was embroidered large upon the frontispiece of the tester in padded golden glory. Phoebe quietly admired the quality and intricacy of the workmanship of the exquisite furnishings. The soft plush carpet in swirling patterns of emerald perfectly matched the damask sofa by the fire. She strolled over to the sofa closest to the heat. Sarah helped her to remove the coat, and with a small groan, Phoebe lowered herself onto the plush cushions.

  Sarah knelt and gently eased her shoes from her swollen feet and placed a cushion under them.

  “Sarah?”

  She glanced up with a ready smile.

  Phoebe swallowed. “Thank you for coming with me,” she whispered.

  “I’ll always be by your side, milady.”

  “I fear I will falter.”

  “Then we’ll falter together, milady.”

  Sarah and Phoebe shared the same age, and they had been together for a very long time, considering their housekeeper in Derbyshire was Sarah’s mother. Many days Phoeb
e would dream of her maid being her sister, and many days they would sit and talk for long hours into the evening, but something would always remind her of the difference in their station.

  “I used to sneak from my chamber and use the servant’s stairs to join you for supper,” Phoebe whispered.

  How she used to ache when she spied the servants laughing and eating together in their dining areas. Longing to eat in such relaxed fashion with such joyful company. It was so very different from dining with her parents, where the length and breadth of their dining table made any sort of laughing and chatting, if it was permitted, impossible. But when she had spotted Sarah with her mother and the rest of the staff laughing and eating, Phoebe had thought that was how a family should be.

  The ache in her chest became a physical thing, and there was no ease in its tightening grip. “In my letter to Richard…I assured him I would wed an earl. I did not dream the man I was coming to was truly titled and a future earl, too!” Her laugh came out as a choked cry. “I simply wanted my brother to believe I made an appropriate choice and perhaps not try to find me, because once he does, what choice would he have but to return me home? I am frightened, Sarah.”

  “Oh milady, don’t be! I am here with you, and if you speak to the Viscount, surely he…he will agree to your bargain.”

  Her words were meant to soothe, but Sarah’s gaze slid away guiltily. She did not believe it, either. What lord, a future earl, would wish to marry Phoebe once he discovered her secret?

  She had learned from her brother that it was an exercise in futility to linger within the past when one did not have the power to change it. When the water had already flowed east, there was no path to getting it back west. The only choice she had was to look to the future and make smart decisions that would protect the life and the future of the child she carried.

  Another solution needed to be found right away.

  Chapter Four

  It would be wise if Hugh waited until his curious lady—no, Lady Phoebe—washed away the dust from travel before he summoned her to a meeting. Phoebe. The pleasure of using even a piece of her name was…unexpected but pleasant. He liked her name. There could be no delay in discussing what her presence meant for everyone concerned and exactly what he would do about her. His father hobbled past him just now, but instead of harsh words, the old earl had simply stared at him before heading off to his own chambers.

  Hugh entered the three stories floor to ceiling library where his sister lay sprawled with casual elegance in a deep chair beside the fireplace. He clapped his hands once. Caroline glanced up from the book clasped in her hands, her eyes rounded in dismay. “Hugh, is all well?”

  “I need you to speak for me.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  Caroline cast a desperate glance at her book. “But I am at the part where the hero will find out if the lady in the attic is a ghost!”

  Hugh smiled. “We have a visitor.”

  His sister frowned. “Who?”

  “The beginning of Father’s plan.”

  Caroline flinched before smoothing her expression. Yet her eyes glowed with such hope, it brought a knot to his throat. “Someone actually came after you revealed our family’s name? I thought the infamy of the Winthrops would live on forever.”

  Another throb of an undefinable emotion went through him. “This lady came uninvited.”

  Now his sister stood, smoothing down the front of her dress, a nervous gesture she seemed unaware of. “Uninvited?”

  He nodded.

  Her face alighted with curiosity. “In direct response to the advert?”

  Another nod.

  “She is desperate, then.” Caroline bit her lower lip, her eyes soft and questioning. “But does she have the right connections to…that our problems might be overlooked?”

  “Her family is on the list of the most powerful families of the ton that Father made.”

  Caroline’s lips parted with shock. “Good heavens! And she came here? Something must be dreadfully wrong.”

  Something terrible pushed her to leave her home only with a maidservant as chaperone. Hugh suspected it would be difficult for her to meet him with Caroline by his side. “Never mind. Return to your reading. I will meet with her alone.”

  “It will be very awkward to communicate with her,” his sister rebutted, looking anxious for him.

  Another hard knot formed inside as he anticipated the usual discomfort that normally came whenever he tried to speak without an interpreter. “I believe it would be more so for her with both of us in her room. As you said, something dreadful must have happened. I will tread with care.”

  Caroline nodded, and Hugh padded to the oak desk to retrieve several sheaves of papers, a couple quills and inkwell. Hugh then made his way up the winding staircase to the room lady Phoebe had been assigned. He lifted his fist to knock, only to lower it when a voice cried.

  “Leave, milady? And go where?”

  “It was a mistake coming here, Sarah. I was reckless and did not plan properly.”

  “And where will you go, milady?”

  “Not to London or Derbyshire,” Lady Phoebe said softly. “Perhaps to my aunt Polly in Cornwall. She, too, is deemed scandalous by Mama. Aunt Polly might not object to my circumstance and might help me create a story of widowhood.”

  “Oh, my lady, I think one of the first places the duke and duchess would check is with your aunt, and I dare not think you will be able to convince your mother to let you keep…”

  So she was running from her parents. How curious. The Duke of Salop was from the Maitlands’ family line—a very powerful and influential family anyone would want to be aligned with, and the man’s daughter had delivered herself into Hugh’s lap. The old earl had made it a part of his tutelage to know the powers and limitations of many families in the ton.

  And he had also warned him to ruthlessly question the value of a gift to see if it was worth accepting.

  “I feel so lost, Sarah,” Lady Phoebe said in a choked voice. “It is cruel and wrong to do what my mother wants. I cannot do it, I just cannot, even to save myself from scandal and disgrace!”

  Even more interesting.

  “I do understand, milady!”

  “Oh, Sarah, I feel so afraid…and so alone in this unexpected journey. I am adrift and unsure of the path forward, like a blade of grass drifting with the wind, and it cannot be so. More than one life depends on me to be strong and resourceful.”

  Hugh canted his head. More than one life. How properly ominous.

  “Perhaps the young lord will marry you,” Sarah proffered hopefully.

  “He is the future Lord of Albury! Such a man would never marry me once he learned my secret.”

  Those words settled low in his gut, hard and heavy. Another secret.

  He knocked on the door three times. It was shortly opened by the maid, who dipped into a quick, respectful curtsy. Lady Phoebe stood and hurriedly wiped the tears from her face. She was still clothed in her cloak, though her gloves and bonnet had been removed. Was she still cold?

  Hugh entered and lifted his chin toward the hallway, a clear signal that he required to speak with her lady alone. She glanced at her mistress, who nodded slightly before hurrying from the room, but careful to leave the door ajar.

  Hugh smiled and pushed the door closed into her startled face.

  “Viscount Huxley,” Lady Phoebe admonished, glancing at the door behind him.

  He walked over to where she stood by the sofa and sat on the cushion close to her, leaning forward to rest the ink and inkwell on the small walnut table. There was a pause before she lowered herself beside him but shifted so there was space between them. Hugh glanced at her, almost startled by her closeness. He could see the wild flutter of pulse at her throat. He couldn’t help staring at her, a regard she returned, almost shyly. The
re was a stubborn pride in the set of her small chin, and her golden eyes were truly the prettiest he’d ever seen. Those eyes were a wide pool of pain, with vulnerability and uncertainty etched on her face as if rendered by a loving artist’s gentle brush, yet he also saw delicacy and strength.

  Her gaze lowered to his hands, and it was then he realized he was tightly clutching the papers. To his great annoyance, heat crept up his neck. Facing forward, he opened the inkpot, dipped in the quill, and wrote.

  Before he could push the paper over for it to be read, she shifted closer and dipped her head. The unexpected closeness sent his pulse skittering. He turned his head slightly. She was staring at him.

  The tension that leaped inside him was unusual and unexpected. The fingers that pushed a few artful curls kissing her rosy cheeks behind her ears trembled. Then she lowered her gaze to the paper.

  I got your last letter.

  Lady Phoebe sent him a swift upward glance, searching his eyes. Then she reached for a paper and quill, her fingers colliding with his. The feel of her hand was an immediate assault on his senses. God, she was soft.

  Hugh faltered into stillness and lifted his gaze to her. She was staring at their fingers, and her cheeks pinkened even more.

  Slowly, as if he might bite, she withdrew her fingers and lifted her regard to his. “I…I thought to write my response as well. Very silly now, I see, but…but I did not think, I… Oh, I am more nervous than I thought!”

  Her voice broke, and she glanced away toward the fire for several moments. Not foolish, but she was nervous. With a small smile, he pushed the paper across the table to her and held up the quill.