by Stacy Reid
A knock sounded on the door, and she stood, for a moment faltering with indecision. It was late, very late, for the midnight hour struck some time ago.
Woof! Woof!
It was Wolf, and she did not think he’d arrived at her door by his will. Surely the viscount accompanied him. Her feet wouldn’t move. Nervousness nearly overwhelmed her, as she had not expected to see him again tonight. Phoebe tugged a robe from the peg, slipped it on over her nightgown, and hurried to the door to open it. She stepped back, allowing Wolf and his master to enter her bedroom, then gently closed the door. It was all highly improper, but she did not protest the intrusion, for everything about her situation was already so irregular.
Phoebe pressed her forehead to the oak panel for several seconds before turning to face him. It had not been an anomaly; her earlier awareness of the man was still there. A flutter of warm sensations erupted in her stomach, and her heartbeat quickened uncomfortably. The blackness of his hair gleamed under the firelight, and the curls at his forehead and nape seemed damp. He had a straight nose and sharp, arrogant cheekbones that lent an air of aristocratic breeding. He had been outside in the rain, yet his simple white shirt and black trousers appeared dry. Trying not to dwell on the fact that he was not properly dressed, that she was in her nightgown, and that they were in a closed room, she lowered her eyes. It was then she noted he held a tray in his hands, and her stomach chose that moment to rumble its hunger.
He waved to the sofa by the crackling fireplace. They made their way over, and she sat into the cushions, absurdly pleased when Wolf hopped onto the sofa beside her and curled into her side. His master followed every motion with those beautiful eyes of his, yet she could read nothing from his expression. It was very unusual for anyone to be so self-contained, and not for the first time, she felt a pulse of curiosity.
The papers and inkwell he’d used earlier were on the small table between the sofas. He lowered the tray in front of her and took them up. When he had finished writing, he pushed the paper over to her.
I thought you might be awake and would like some company. Your maidservant also mentioned to the kitchens earlier that you tend to wake up in the night with the urge to eat. I brought you a slice of pound cake and some leftover roast meat from dinner. There is also a glass of warm milk.
“I have been unable to sleep,” she said, hating the way her throat ached. His kindness was surprising and very welcomed. “I am also hungry. Thank you.”
He smiled, and her breath caught. He was…too handsome. Wanting something to distract her from her absurd awareness, she reached for the small plate with the cake. Breaking off a piece with a fork, she popped the cake into her mouth. It was divine, and she ate a few more bites, terribly conscious that he watched her the entire time, and she wondered what flickered through his mind, as his thoughts drifted across his face. There lingered a faint cynicism in his expression, a hint of ruthlessness, and self-assurance. Phoebe was intimately acquainted with the merciless prejudice of high society and how terrible they could be when they decided someone did not fit into their image of perfection, wit, and grace. How did one get so confident with so much stacked against him?
He reached for a fresh piece of paper and scrawled something on it, and then he pushed it across the table. His gaze never left her face, but what thoughts were running in his head, it would have been impossible to have guessed. The viscount was truly an inscrutable fellow. She leaned over slightly to read.
Will you marry me, Lady Phoebe?
The plate, cake, and fork slipped from her hands and clattered to the carpet. “Marry you?”
He nodded.
The shock was tremendous and wouldn’t go away. She clasped hands together and fixed her eyes on his face. “Oh, no! Do you mean it? Or do you jest?”
He shook his head slowly. The eyes that watched her held a good deal of shrewdness.
“Yes!” she said quickly, all the fears, anger, doubt, shame, and uncertainty she’d been feeling for months pushed aside as crashing relief surged through her entire body. “Yes…yes, I’ll marry you. I am very grateful,” she repeated on a choked gasp.
Her hands were badly shaking, and she pressed them to her lips. “But wait, I…that makes no sense. You are…you…I…what is happening?” Then to her utter humiliation, she burst into tears.
Hating that she appeared so out of sorts, she surged to her feet and hurried toward the window. A finger fleetingly touched her shoulder, and she swiped at her tears before facing him. His expression was sober, and he handed her a note, which she took with trembling hands. Phoebe opened it carefully.
I know you are scared, and I am sorry for it. Thank you for agreeing to marry me, and I know the immense courage it took for you to journey this far without friends or family. We will have a marriage of mutual convenience, respect, and honor to each other. Your child will be mine, and I will not treat him or her any differently than if he or she was my own. I vow to take you and your baby into my keeping. Your safety and well-being, and whatever it is that you fear, I will take care of. I ask you to trust that I will handle this for you.
Hugh.
Her hands shook awfully, and Phoebe had to read over some bits several times. His name is Hugh, she thought inanely. Then she glanced up into the eyes that watched every nuance of her expression. “You knew I’d say yes,” she said hoarsely. Of course he did and had prepared this letter in advance, to reassure her, to offer his protection. Was this the same gentleman of wealth and distinction who wrote to her that he was indifferent to the more tender sentiments?
“What if…what if my baby is a boy? He would be your heir. I…I cannot do that…I…” She glanced away and closed her eyes. Phoebe desperately wanted to be selfish and shout yes! repeatedly. But did he understand to what he was committing? “What if my child is a boy?”
From the early age of fourteen, her mother had started to impress upon her that she must marry well and then provide her lord with an heir and a spare expeditiously. It made no sense that he would overlook the possibility and the implication of her child being a boy.
A thumb and forefinger gently pinched her chin and lifted her face. His touch jolted Phoebe, and another fierce tremble went through her entire body. Everything he could say reflected in his eyes. They darkened with unfathomable emotions, and it was as if she could feel his promise wrapping itself around her like a tangible entity. It was quite disconcerting, his undivided attention and unwavering regard. Her chest hurt with the effort to remain unaffected.
Do you believe me? his piercing gaze seemed to ask. And she did. God help her, despite her vow to never rely on any promise from a man again, she believed the one before her. The notion felt frightening. She only needed the protection and power of his name. Never once had she dreamed of any affection, love, trust, or anything extraordinary. That was what most tonnish marriages were—a simple, civil, and tolerable union.
From his letters, she understood what he wanted from his wife. Yet here he was offering to protect and claim her child as his. His gaze was fierce and demanding, willing her to accept his promise, willing her to see and have total confidence in his honor.
“I believe you,” she whispered, then she stepped forward and hugged him fiercely.
Phoebe did not know why she did it, only knew she had to, even if now that she had acted on the impulse, it was mildly awkward. Despite her belly in between them, she still managed to wrap most of her hands high around his back and press her face into his chest.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
He did not return her embrace; Phoebe gathered she had startled him too much. Finding herself flustered, she lowered her arms and stepped back. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I will never forget your kindness.” And I shall repay you however I can.
An indefinable emotion flashed in his eyes, and Phoebe admitted fainting was a possibility when his head lowered. His mouth hovered a mere breath from hers,
and something elusive whispered through her heart. Do not be a fool, Phoebe. This…whatever this was had nothing to do with the heart. It was a simple bargain of convenience, and she would eventually understand how he would use her as surely as she was using him. She dearly hoped he wanted a great deal, for Phoebe could not imagine how she could ever repay his kindness.
All thoughts scattered when he kissed the corner of her mouth. It was such a soft caress, yet her lashes fluttered closed, and she savored the touch of his lips to her skin. Everything about him comforted Phoebe at this moment…his soft kiss, his scent, and the gentle yet commanding way he clasped her chin had her heart shuddering in her chest. Another press of his lips went perilously close to her mouth. Then he placed his mouth perfectly atop hers.
Oh! The softest of whimpers escaped her, and he swallowed the small noise. His mouth moved on hers, so slowly, so gently. Her belly went hot with a frightful surge of hunger, confusing her.
“I don’t…don’t understand…it is just a kiss,” she mumbled against his mouth. She’d been kissed several times before and had felt nothing akin to this desperate ache, the wonderful and unexpected heat blooming through her body.
His fingers released her chin, his thumb brushed against her cheek in a feather-light caress, and it was then she realized he traced the path of a tear. Her stomach twisted itself into a knot, and her breath hitched at the weakness that assailed her. Then, to her relief, he stepped away, giving her the chance to reassert her walls that had alarmingly crumbled too soon and too effortlessly. He sketched a sharp bow, spun around, and walked away, only to falter in the center of the room.
Phoebe pressed a hand to her chest as if that would have stopped the furious pounding of her heart. She waited, though she was not at all certain for what. Suddenly her senses seemed more alive. Then he whirled around, and in two long strides, he was before her. This time he held her cheeks with both palms, lifted her face, and his mouth caught her cry of surprise.
Dear God.
It felt as if everything calm in Phoebe’s world was torn asunder. The stroke of his tongue against hers jolted through her body, set her heart pounding, and heated the blood in her veins. He tasted of all the passion she’d once dreamed about, and like fire, whisky, something wicked and delicious. In his touch, she felt the unspoken promise that she would be treasured, and to Phoebe the notion she might yearn for such a commitment from this man, this stranger, frightened her immensely.
Even as she responded to his kiss with flaming hunger and surprised wonder, she wrapped her heart in layers of protective ice, and she knew at that moment just as she must care and protect her child against all harm, she would also have to be diligent in safeguarding her heart from all false expectations.
…
He’d only meant to reassure that he would marry her, for he’d suspected the fears of an uncertain future would keep her awake. Hugh did not expect this—a surge of desire so powerful, the hands cupping her cheeks shook slightly. He was not a man with vast sexual conquests, only having had two lovers previously, but nothing had ever evoked his hunger this quickly or arrested all his senses with just a kiss.
It felt alarming and unquestionably evocative. He could feel the wild flutter of her heartbeat underneath his fingers pressed into the curve of her throat. With an inarticulate murmur, she slipped her hands around his nape and gripped his hair in a fierce clasp. The mound of her belly prevented him from pressing her body closer to his.
Hugh had never been the type of man given to flights of fancy. But the press of her mouth against his felt…as if it was meant to be. Her lips trembled against his, and he felt the shock that went through her when he nibbled along the seam of her lips.
Her kiss was heaven, a taste of sin, and another single shocking truth revealed itself when she gasped, parted her lips on a sigh of want and evident confusion, allowing him deeper.
She had never been kissed. At least not properly…not carnally…not like this.
Another whimper passed from her mouth to his, and he swallowed that small hungry noise, reveling in the beauty of her response. With a gasp, she pulled away from him, and he released her. In her gaze, he saw a similar need and a curl of fright. That bothered him. Passion was a good thing between them, and that should be enough to keep some spark in a marriage that might grow tedious. Especially considering he didn’t expect much to bloom in their union of convenience.
“Kisses are not supposed to feel like that,” she said, pressing the flat of her palm to her chest. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips were lushly swollen from his kisses. And her golden-brown eyes glowed with heart-stopping vulnerability.
A stunningly powerful rush of tenderness went through him. His fingers leaped to life before he thought. “Then what are they supposed to feel like?” Even though the kisses he’d had before had never been like this, a mere brush of her mouth had him aroused, as if he were once again a lad experiencing his first brush with passion—utter rubbish. With a deep breath, he mastered the fleeting, out-of-control sensation.
“I… Would you like to write it?”
A bite of frustration that he was not able to communicate freely went through him, a feeling he hadn’t had in years. Hugh shook his head and dipped into a short bow. Then he signed good night, turned away, and departed her room, very conscious of her gaze boring into his back.
It was quite unusual to Hugh that he was so aware of her. Even now, as he made his way to the library on the first floor, the taste of her lingered on his tongue, and he could still smell her scent of roses and jasmine. The slight weight of her against his body had been one of the most satisfying feelings he’d ever had. And she was to be his wife.
He entered the library, pleased to see the lamps were still lit and a fire shaved the chill from the large room. Sitting behind the exquisitely carved oak desk, he withdrew a few sheaves of paper, the inkwell and quill. A doctor and the best midwives needed to be summoned to the castle immediately. Hugh didn’t think Lady Phoebe had gotten the right care since her pregnancy began, considering that her mother had been determined to bury it as the most shameful of secrets. A quick letter with the relevant details was penned, folded, and stamped with the seal of the earl.
The keys to handling all his father’s business had been handed to him over two years past. Those in the area and even as far as Edinburgh knew that any letter sent from Glencairn Castle was really his orders. The old earl had stepped back, fully trusting Hugh to run the estates well and profitably. And he had done so, tripling their investment portfolios, investing in the new farming techniques and equipment at this very estate and at two of their estates in England. Their stables of horses and the stud farm he had set up were also among the most renowned in Scotland. He had taken the famed Winthrop wealth and added at least thirty percent to the total in the last few years.
Hugh had worked hard, liaising with stewards and lawyers, traveling to each estate personally to ensure work was done efficiently and profitably. That way, his father could go to his eternal reward secure in his heart that his estates and monies were left in capable hands. He was proud to know their servants and tenants would have an exemplary new lord.
He took up the decanter of whisky on the desk and poured it into a glass that he’d used earlier. Hugh lifted it in a silent toast. And now I am marrying, Father.
It was a daunting notion to face the old earl about his choice, knowing how his father would feel about the decision. Hell.
He knocked back the drink in one long swallow and released a silent breath. Then he reached for another sheaf of paper and penned a letter to a local clergyman several miles from Glencairn Castle. While almost anyone could perform their marriage, under Scottish law, he believed Lady Phoebe would appreciate marrying in the castle’s chapel and by a member of clergy, as was befitting to their ranks.
He quickly wrote the letter inviting the village Kirk to perform the ceremony and
sealed it for someone to deliver first thing in the morning. His immediate tasks completed, he stood and went over to the windows, where he tugged the drapes open to stare out into the starless sky. A light rain fell against the glass of the bay windows, and lightning forked dramatically across the sky.
There was a nameless restlessness in him. It was because of her, Lady Phoebe, and he did not know why he was unsettled. It wasn’t the idea of fatherhood or the immediacy of it that rattled him. When his mother had left, the twins had only been two years of age, and desperately frightened at the time, Hugh’s young mind had told him he needed to be there to provide his siblings all the reassurance that their mother would not be there to give them.
Is it truly the idea of being a father that makes me feel like this?
Now he had to inform the old earl and hoped he would learn to approve. If not…hell and damnation. What would he do if his father strenuously objected to the detriment of his health?
Would I let you go, Lady Phoebe?
Chapter Six
A distant rumble of thunder echoed in the air. Despite the threat of rain, Hugh suspected the old earl would be in his garden. A place he frequented since learning the failure of his heart was imminent. The doctor’s order that he should remain indoors, especially on a chilled evening such as this one, was often ignored.
Hugh made his way to the lavish and well-tended northern gardens, Wolf padding loyally by his side, disregarding the misting rain. The flowers had a faint sweet scent, made more fragrant by the light raindrops washing over them. He leaned slightly and ruffled Wolf’s hair, still astounded by the amazing twist of fate that had seen his best friend being taken in by Lady Phoebe.
Do you believe in the whimsy of fate or destiny?
Brushing aside the memory of that awed whisper curled through him, and a warm sensation shifted inside at her kindness. Wolf had been well loved and fed, and it was clear she had taken her responsibilities seriously. Wolf barked and raced over to the old earl. As expected, his father was sitting in the alcove, his face lifted to the sky, a telescope set on its tripod before him.
