by Stacy Reid
Chapter Thirteen
Phoebe raced across the lanes of her home, enjoying the power of the horse beneath her. It felt wonderful to be outdoors, basking in the wild scent of flowers and the rays of the sun. It had been only last week Dr. Edwards and the midwife had visited and had said that both her and her daughter were doing fine. The doctor’s permission to restart a more energetic normal life was something she had been hoping for. Her darling, Francesca Elizabeth Winthrop, was doing well at two months old and putting on weight. When the doctor had declared Phoebe to be fully recovered from the ordeal of the childbirth, she had been exultant.
She took the horse to the bluff overlooking the oceans and lifted her face to the sky. The season had changed, and autumn crept closer. Her parents, the duke and duchess, would be preparing to return to the country soon. Phoebe had replied to Richard’s letter a few weeks ago and had informed him of his niece’s arrival into the world. Hugh had also revealed that he’d not heard from the duke and duchess.
I shall not fret about it.
Her days were too busy with the joy of learning to be a mother to be consumed with the absence of responses to their letters. In a few months, they would be travelling to England and then to town for the season, and her marriage would then fall under the scrutiny of her powerful parents and society. There was no need to wish for it to happen any earlier.
Tugging on the reins of the horse, she turned him around and nudged him into a gentle trot toward the main house. She had only been riding for about an hour, but already Phoebe missed the wonder of her baby.
And Hugh.
The very thought of him was enough to bring a flush to her entire body and set her heart to racing. They had yet to consummate their marriage, and Phoebe felt as if each day she walked on a tightrope, waiting to fall off into something wonderful and frightening. His kisses were more ravishing than before—longer, deeper, as if he fought a battle only he understood.
Phoebe was on the verge of trying to figure out how to trick her husband into allowing her to tie his arms on their bed board, so she could take advantage and assuage her ever-present hunger for him. The very thought of being so salacious and improper brought a blush to her face.
Only yesterday morning, they had taken a stroll to their special meadow, where they had kissed passionately several times. She groaned, recalling how frustrated she had been by the whole encounter that she had pushed him into the brook. He had been astonished, then his eyes had narrowed in retribution. She had raced off laughing, but he had caught her, tumbling them to the grass and taking the brunt of the fall.
There had been a question in his eyes as he had peered down at her, and she had blushed like a silly miss, not certain how to tell him the doctor had implied they could resume marital relations. Phoebe wanted him to strip her naked and be wicked with her, but she had no notion how to seduce her own husband. That was all she had thought about for the last three days, and to her great mortification, all she did was blush whenever he caught her staring at him.
Hugh kissed her every chance he got, but the dratted man always stopped, even last night when she had rolled atop him and kissed him deep and carnally. She had felt his jerk of surprise, then he had stilled before tumbling with her and kissing her until she was giddy with delight and panting with need.
But the loud wail of Franny had doused their ardour, and she had hurried from the bed to the connecting door and into the nursery. The young widowed nursemaid they hired had been softly crooning to the baby and feeding her. Phoebe had waited then had taken her daughter, sat on the sofa, and sang to her. Her baby had chortled happily, and Hugh had stood in the doorway and watched them, his stare possessive and tender.
When she had returned to their chamber, he had gone, and she had fallen asleep waiting for his return. When she had woken this morning, his side of the bed had been warm, but once again she had missed him. Phoebe had belatedly wondered if he was avoiding her.
“Hallo,” a voice called, startling her.
She whirled the horse around to see a gentleman dressed in the first stare of fashion trotting toward her. Phoebe glanced toward the mansion, comforted there were a few gardeners out and about. She hadn’t ridden with Hugh or taken a footman. After all, she was still on Winthrop property.
The gentleman slowed once he reached closer, and if she was not mistaken, appreciation lit in the gaze that scanned her thoroughly. He was quite bold. A libertine then, one with dubious intentions.
“Your regard is not that of a gentleman,” she said, instantly irritated with that rakish admiration.
His brows winged high. “Forthright, aren’t you, Lady Phoebe?”
She stiffened and peered at him closer. He was a handsome man with unfathomable black eyes. His frame was not lithe like most men of the ton, but muscular, as if he was no stranger to hard work. “I beg your pardon, but do we know each other?”
He reached into his top pocket and withdrew a small necklace with a locket attached. He flipped it open, urged his horse closer, and lifted it up for her inspection.
The small picture in that frame was her a few years ago. Her heart hammered, and she glanced up at him. “Who are you?”
“Your brother sent me to bring you home.”
Phoebe gasped. “Sent you?”
“Yes.”
She shot him a suspicious glance. “And which brother of mine is this?”
“The only one you have living, Lord Westfall.” He swept the hat off his head to reveal a shock of dark blond hair streaked with auburn. “I’m Spencer, Viscount Malfoy. My friends call me Sparrow.”
She stared at him for several seconds. Phoebe did recall her brother telling her if he was ever unavailable and she needed help, there were three friends he had that she could always rely to help. The Duke of Wolverton, the Earl of Blade, and Viscount Malfoy. How was it that one of her brother’s trusted friends had found her here? “Lord Malfoy—”
“Please, call me Sparrow,” he said smoothly.
“I only allow a few such intimacies. You, my lord, are not one of them.”
A different sort of appreciation entered his eyes, one that she equally mistrusted.
“I am duly chastised and wounded, Lady Phoebe.”
Yet she heard the vein of mockery in his tone.
She casted him a cool, indifferent glance. “I cannot understand why Richard would send you here.” She still recalled his plan to squash her marriage to Hugh.
The viscount hesitated momentarily. “Your brother has been searching for you, Lady Phoebe, and to my knowledge only received one letter from you. It took some time for me to receive instructions from him because I was busy chasing shadows in Scotland.”
“I see.” Except she did not. “And what instructions are those?”
“To bring you home, of course.”
Irritation snapped through Phoebe. “I have assured Richard I am quite settled here. It is beyond the pale he would dare send someone who is not known to me with such a message.”
“You mistake the matter. There could have been no possible way for your brother to know that you were the author of any of your letters. It could have been done at the behest of someone dastardly who held you against your will.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, never thinking her brother would have traversed such a path in his reasoning. But it was entirely possible. He was thought of as one of the most ruthless men in all of London, and their father had always lamented that he associated with undesirables and cutthroats. She did not doubt her brother had sent someone for her, even if it infuriated her the way he had gone about it. Did he believe her to be under duress?
The viscount shifted his horse a bit closer. “Richard’s order was that I remove you from here and take you home at all costs.”
“If Richard wants me to visit him, he will send an invitation to which I have the right to refuse or a
ccept. I understand why he thought it prudent to send someone to ascertain my safety and whereabouts.” Regret clawed through her at the pain and worry he must have felt. If not for Evie’s difficulties with her pregnancy, she knew Richard would have come for her.
The viscount sent her a considering look. “I would like to return to London in a few days, Lady Phoebe. I suggest you prepare yourself for your travels.”
There was an undercurrent of something dangerous in the viscount’s tone, and she clenched the reins between her gloved hands. As if sensing her disquiet, the horse shifted and tossed his head a bit.
“I do not know you, and I will not be going anywhere with you, Lord Malfoy,” she said flatly. “If that was an invitation to accompany you to England, my answer is a most decided no. I trust you will convey my regrets to my brother and that I am safe and well taken care of. I will have a letter sent to him right away with a promise to visit soon.”
Something glinted in his eyes. It was hard to decipher, but she did not like it. Phoebe knew enough about her brother and the dangerous people he mixed with to feel a shiver of wariness dancing down her spine.
“I was afraid you would make it difficult,” the viscount murmured.
“If you come any closer, I will scream,” she warned. “I might also appear small, but I am a ferocious fighter.”
His eyes widened, and he held up his gloved hands. “I would never harm you, Lady Phoebe. To do so would be signing my own death warrant, hmm? But the only response Richard would accept is your presence in London.”
“Then perhaps you would prefer to return with me to the main house and allow my husband to provide the answer?”
Lord Malfoy went remarkably still. “Your husband?”
She lifted her chin. “Yes.”
His eyes widened with incredulity. “You’ve been missing for a little over five months but have managed to procure yourself a husband?”
And a child. But that she did not say, not knowing how he would handle that information, and it was evident to her Richard had not shared the circumstances under which she fled or the details written in her letter. He’d only given his arrogant order that she be returned at all cost.
The viscount sent her a calculating glance. “I presume this husband of yours would not allow you to return with me.”
She sent him a tight smile. You presume right. “I cannot own to his thoughts; it is best you meet with him to ascertain them.”
The viscount stared at her for a few moments, then unexpectedly the man tipped his hat, whirled around, and trotted off. “Good-bye, my lady,” he called out without turning around. “I shall convey your messages to Lord Westfall.”
“Please tell Richard that I shall write him,” she yelled.
However, the man gave no indication he heard her. With a sigh, she urged her horse toward the stables.
What are you thinking, Richard? Though his arrogance was a bit annoying, warmth filled her chest, for she knew he loved her. “I am terribly sorry I made you worry,” she whispered. “We shall all be in London soon, and I promise I shall make it up to you.”
…
Hugh stared at his wife’s retreating figure, an odd feeling pressing against his chest. He’d signed as she entered, “Who was that man?” and she dismissed his query with a simple, “I do not know him, and I dare say he is of little consequence.”
Yet he had observed their interactions. The way she had spoken to that man hadn’t seemed inconsequential. His wife had been tense, and that supposed stranger had crowded her too closely.
“I do not like this one bit,” the earl muttered, coming to his side. “She…she was like that, too. Your mother would meet men of all sort and then pretend ignorance.”
“Phoebe is nothing like that woman.”
He harrumphed suspiciously before his face creased into a smile and joy lit in his eyes. “Let me have my granddaughter.”
That heaviness turned into a ball of ice, and Hugh’s entire body chilled. He dutifully handed Franny over to his father, glancing out the window toward the lawn. That man and his horse was a speck in the distance.
“Investigate it wisely,” his father said in a grave voice, completely at odds with the faces he made to the baby.
Hugh lifted his fingers. “There is nothing to investigate.”
“Katherine did the same. Met with…met with her lovers right under my nose. Your viscountess knows that man…to my old eyes, they seemed intimate.”
“And if they are, it does not have the power to affect me or our plans. You forget her role in my life.” He kept his face carefully composed, but Hugh was startled to realize his heart was pounding and an odd sensation he never felt before assailed him.
What in God’s name is this?
Ignoring the thumping in his heart, Hugh made his way to his study. Once there, he spent an hour going over some ledgers and investment reports that had been sent to him from their various estates across England. Try as he might, he could not immerse himself in his work. His thoughts kept returning to his wife, the flush on her cheeks when she had come inside earlier, the hesitation before she had answered his query. But worse, he was stuck deep in the emotions that had assailed him…no, feelings that were still darting through him. What were they? How difficult they were to unravel, given their perplexing and strange nature.
With a grunt of irritation, he leaned back against the high wingback chair and closed his eyes. Visions of his wife crowded his thoughts, and the ache in his heart grew to shocking proportions. It belatedly occurred to him that the notion she might have fibbed affected him. Too much, given the almost physical nature of how his damn chest hurt.
He came out of his relaxed pose and withdrew from his top drawer a sheaf of paper, an inkwell, and a quill. He would write her a letter, without dwelling too much on what he wanted to say, and perhaps then the truth of his emotions would reveal itself.
He wrote for several minutes before he paused to read his words. Bloody hell! He really hadn’t thought about what he wanted to say.
Dear Phoebe,
I like you.
Why hadn’t he demanded a reason for her evasiveness with the man on the horse? Instead…I like you. He placed the paper on the table as if to hold it any longer would burst it into flames. He folded his arms across his chest and peered at it with a scowl.
Do I trust you, is that it, my wife? Have I allowed you inside a part of me that no one else has and not realized it?
A knock sounded, and before he could ring the bell to summon the person, the door was jerked open and his wife framed the doorway. Her loveliness and her smile pierced his heart as she hurried into the room.
She lifted her hand and signed as she spoke. “Father has taken Francesca to the nursery. He is reading to her. Would you like us to take a walk by the seaside? We have at least two hours before dinner is announced.”
At his silence, she faltered and smoothed the front of her gown. Against his will, he found his gaze lingering on her face. Her sweet pouting lips, even at this distance, drew his attention and made his heart beat a little faster.
Was this the face of a woman who had met with a lover earlier? He questioned himself despite feeling the kernel of doubt and wanting to smash his fist into the desk. Immediately, he surprised himself by dismissing the idea as foolish. She had not done anything to deserve his mistrust, and he had been a damned fool to allow the old earl’s ramblings to place it in his heart.
He lifted his hands. “You look…very pretty.”
A faint wash of pink spread across her cheeks, and Hugh realized he had never told her that she was pretty before or that her eyes were the finest he’d ever seen or that her smile had the ability to possess him to be foolish…whimsical.
He stood, and his fingers leaped to life as he spoke. “You have the loveliest smile…whenever I see it, my heart…I feel warm.�
� He felt clumsy with his compliments, but something urged him to be unrestrained in this moment.
She giggled, and he fancied it was one of the loveliest sounds he’d ever heard.
“You flatter me, my lord. I promise such artful compliments will get you everything.” Then she winked.
He smiled at her cheekiness, stood, and skirted around the oak desk to the front where he sat on the surface.
She arched a brow. “You seemed different, Hugh.”
His lady wife did not say his name enough. And he did feel different. It was as inexplicable as it was unfathomable, and Hugh only knew he would not shy away from its perplexities. In truth, he wanted to understand exactly what he felt toward his wife, so he could know if he should ruthlessly guard against this weakening or if he should cherish it.
Beware, my boy. The old earl’s warning drifted through his thoughts like a pervasive wasting disease. He formed a mental fist around those insidious teachings and crushed them. Any decisions he made would not be because he was manipulated, but by his own calculation.
“Tell me truly, what are your favorite pastimes?”
She tucked a wisp of hair behind her hair, tugging his attention to her cleavage. She wore a fine, pale yellow day gown with ruffled sleeves. Now that she was no longer swollen with child, her figure had revealed itself to be a delicate, graceful beauty. Her cheeks were no longer sweetly rounded; her facial bones were delicately carved and slanted with elegant cheekbones, her mouth full and lush. The set of her chin hinted at her stubborn nature, and he often fought the temptation to dip his head and brush a small kiss right there. Her jutting breasts and narrow waist had featured in many of his dreams as she visited him nightly.
“My favorite pastimes?”
He nodded, and she canted her head as she stared at him, clearly unable to reconcile his unexpected curiosity.
“When we walk along the cliffside or to our meadows. I enjoy those moments immensely. I cannot express the joy I feel in spending time with Franny daily.”
“What about before we met?”
