The Heart of a Scoundrel (23 page)

“The Marquess of Rutland is—”

Not wanting to hear any more of what Honoria felt Edmund was or wasn’t, she stepped into the room, effectively ending the remainder of Honoria’s sentence.

Both of her friends stared at her and then jumped to their feet. “Phoebe!” they both greeted, with far too much cheer.

“Where were you?” Honoria asked with feigned nonchalance as they all took their seats.

Phoebe leaned over and picked up the teapot, pouring herself a tepid cup of tea. “Where was I?” she asked slowly. They would find out. It was inevitable. The whole of polite Society strolling the grounds of clogged Hyde Park had likely passed word of the marquess’ courtship on to the nearest peer who in turn had passed it on to servants. Yes, it was only a matter of time before they discovered his very public courtship—and his offer of marriage. She bit the inside of her cheek. Why could her friends not see the man that Phoebe did?

“Yes, as in where have you been these past few days?” Phoebe would have to be deaf to fail and hear the hurt underscoring Honoria’s question. Since they’d found each other two years ago, they’d been fast friends who were always together. Until Edmund.

“The museum. I went to the museum.” She was a coward. There was nothing else for it.

“Deuced dull,” Gillian muttered, reaching for a raspberry tart. She added it to her plate and then proceeded to eat the confectionary treat.

Honoria’s shoulders drooped. “The museum.” An almost giddy laugh escaped her. “Museums are perfectly safe and a proper outing.” Would she be so magnanimous in terms of those outings if she were to discover the marquess had been there?

“Whyever would a lady care to be stuck indoors at a dark, dusty building when she could instead be at Hyde Park amidst the flowers and the greens and the sunny skies.” Phoebe’s hand shook and liquid splashed over the sides, spilling onto the table.

“Are you all right, Phoebe? You seem very distracted.” Before she could respond, Gillian looked to Honoria. “Doesn’t she appear distracted?”

“She appears distracted.”

They stared at her with matching expressions, teeming with suspicion. With a sigh, she set her cup down and then smoothed her palms over the skirts. They were her friends and deserving of the truth. “I—”

“It is him, isn’t it?” Honoria groaned. “You’re thinking of him, even now.”

“I’m not.” Pause. She hadn’t really been. Rather, she’d been ruminating as to the best way of informing her skeptical, cynical friends of the gentleman’s worth. “Er…that is, thinking about whom?”

An inelegant snort escaped Honoria’s lips. “You go all wistful and starry-eyed which can only mean the marquess is occupying your thoughts.”

Phoebe stole a glance at the open door and then hastened her gaze back to her friends. A desperate need to let these two people who’d been her friends when no one else had been drove back all annoyance and regret she’d carried for their narrow-minded judgment of Edmund. “He—” Phoebe tightened her fingers about her cup. “He advised me to avoid him.” She began there.

Honoria blinked.

Not allowing either woman to speak, she rushed ahead. “He warned me he is dangerous.” Beyond that, however, she could not share the pieces she’d glimpsed and now privately carried—intimate parts of who Edmund truly was, that she’d share with no one—not even her dearest friends. To do so would be a betrayal of this man who’d let her into his solitary world.

“Perhaps he is not altogether a liar then,
oomph
.” Honoria glared at Gillian who’d nudged her in the side.

Before they could bicker with one another over Edmund’s worth or even that none-too-gentle nudge, Phoebe set her cup down. “Why would he do that? Why would he warn me if there was not more to him?”

“He wouldn’t,” Gillian supplied helpfully.

She nodded. “No, he wouldn’t.” Phoebe held up a staying hand when Honoria made to speak. “I’d have you both be the first to know.”

Honoria stitched her eyebrows into a single line. “To know what?”

Before her courage deserted her, Phoebe said, “The marquess asked to marry me.” Her pronouncement may as well have drained the last trace of life from the room. Stark, stoic silence met her words. Honoria’s shocked, disapproving stare was powerless against the excitement running through her.

The jaded young lady shook her head back and forth repeatedly and touched her fingertips to her ears as though she tried to sort through the quality of her hearing.

She started when Gillian leapt to her feet and sailed over in a flurry of skirts. “Oh, Phoebe,” she exclaimed, sinking down into the seat beside her. “I am so very happy for you,” she said claiming her hands and giving them a squeeze. Then her smile dipped and she looked frowningly over at Honoria. “Surely you are still not questioning the marquess’ motives?”

Phoebe held her breath in anticipation of that reply. Shock, concern, suspicion all marred the delicate planes of Honoria’s face. “I…” She wet her lips. “I’ve paid attention to the gossips and the warnings my aunt has given me to avoid him. I want you to be happy,” Honoria whispered. She held her palms up as if in supplication. “I do, but it is with that reason, that fear of your happiness, I worry as to his motives. Does he love you?” Honoria held her gaze. “And more importantly, do you love him?”

Phoebe shifted under their scrutiny. “I…” There had been no talk of love.
I want you…
. “I do not know if he loves me,” she said at last. It would seem she had more traces of her father in her than she’d ever wished for she would wager both her happiness and heart upon the hope that he’d love her in return. “I love him,” she said softly, freed by that truth. “And I believe he will come to love me.”

Her friends looked at her for a long moment and then some of the tension left Honoria’s stiffly held shoulders. “I do not doubt it. How can anyone not help but love you, Phoebe? Forgive me for being skeptical. I wish you and the marquess only happiness and love.”

Except, as they carried on their visit, Phoebe did not know why her friends’ words had only roused the faint misgivings stirring at the back of her mind.

T
he following morning, as promised to Phoebe, Edmund drew his black stallion to a halt before the Viscount Waters’ townhouse. In the light of day, with space between him and Phoebe, he acknowledged the practicality of this visit, and more, the logicalness of the offer he’d put to her father. With her gentle lavender scent no longer clouding his senses and that full, delectable mouth made for his, he’d been able to divorce those earlier, tumultuous sentiments she’d unleashed within him from the emotionless reasons to make her his marchioness.

Edmund dismounted from Lucifer and with reins in his hand, eyed the front of Waters’ townhouse. The curtains rustled from a floor-length window and Phoebe peeked around the fabric. Their gazes caught and held.

There was no emotion involved in this decision. Nothing but an insatiable lust, a desire to make her his. Then she winked at him and with a slight wave of her fingertips, dropped the curtain back into place and the heart he didn’t know still beat thumped hard in response.
You bloody liar
. There was nothing practical or logical in making Phoebe his wife and yet he wanted her anyway—would have her anyway. A primitive male need filled him. For in doing this, in marrying her, she would belong to him in ways she’d never belong to another. Edmund’s stare landed upon the viscount’s waiting servant.

The liveried groom blanched and darted his gaze about, seeming to contemplate escape, and then ultimately sidled closer to claim the reins.

Edmund started past the young man and climbed the viscount’s steps. The old butler who was fast becoming a familiar face opened the door in anticipation. A slight smile lined his aged cheeks which he quickly buried. “My lord,” he greeted and stepping aside, he sketched a bow.

Edmund shrugged out of his cloak then handed it off to a waiting footman. “I’m here for the viscount.” He withdrew a card and held it out to the butler, who took it and eyed it a moment, before nodding and motioning him forward.

“If you’ll follow me.”

The other man didn’t wait to see if he followed and moved at a surprisingly brisk pace down the corridor. Edmund tugged at his lapels and trailed after the man. He gritted his teeth at the quick movements that strained the muscles of his leg.

Alas, their journey was not to be a quick one. “Rutland, my friend.”

He winced at the jovial greeting issued by the lady’s younger brother who stepped into their path. Tamping down a sigh of annoyance, Edmund executed a stiff bow. “Barrett.”

Except, that crisp, laconic utterance proved little deterrence. “Were you coming to call?”

By the hopeful glint in the young man’s eyes it registered. He blanched. By God, the pup thought he was here to see him. He opened his mouth to deliver the blunt, coolly aloof response he would have at any other point in his life—before her. Edmund caught himself and forced a grin, the expression painful. “I’ve matters of business to attend with the viscount.”

“The viscount?” Barrett scratched his brow. Then he widened his eyes with a dawning understanding. “The viscount! My father. Of course. Yes.” He all but jumped sideways in his haste to clear once more the path to the viscount’s office. “I’ll allow you to attend your business.”

Anxiety turned in his gut and he was grateful when the butler resumed the path once more. These people and their emotions, their unfettered smiles and… He shuddered, and their goodness that he did not know what to do with. All these sentiments were as foreign to him as ancient tongues. He quickened his pace and with each step that sense of disquiet grew. Until young Barrett had stepped into his path mere moments ago, he’d failed to consider that in wedding Phoebe, it brought additional connections and obligations. She brought a brother and a sister, an absent mother he’d not given thought to before now, and those friends. Guilt knotted in his belly. One of those young ladies whom he’d intended to wed and who he’d ultimately see ruined for her connection to Margaret, the Duchess of Monteith.

The butler stopped beside the viscount’s office door and Edmund came to a stop behind him, staring at the wood panel as the servant rapped once.

He’d spent eleven years considering how he’d be avenged for Margaret’s defection and the humiliation she’d brought him. Yet, since Phoebe had snagged herself upon Lord Delenworth’s spear, revenge had been the furthest thing from his thoughts. Instead, he’d been consumed by this need for Phoebe. When she belonged to him in both name and body, then he could reclaim control of his ordered world. Only then could he know that no other bastard would lay his hands upon the satiny softness of her skin…or own her heart.

The butler shot an apologetic glance over his shoulder and then knocked once more. “Enter.” The servant shoved the door open. “I said enter,” the viscount thundered, his words however died at spying the figure framed behind his overly loyal servant in the doorway.

Waters’ cheeks turned ashen as he remained frozen in the seat behind his desk with his fingers wrapped about a decanter of brandy.

Edmund sent a single eyebrow arching up and the decanter slipped from the man’s chubby fingers as he scrambled to his feet. The butler wisely backed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

“R-rutland,” Phoebe’s father stammered, scurrying out from behind his desk like a rodent racing about in search of a new hiding place. “I-is, d-do you require my daughter’s whereabouts because I don’t—”

“I do not,” he intoned on a silken whisper that drained the remaining color from the usually florid cheeks. In a deliberate show of disrespect, he flicked his gaze up and down the other man’s fat torso and peeled his lip back in a sneer. “I’ve come for other reasons, Waters.” Shrewd enough to not give the viscount any indication he was in possession of the only person or item Edmund had any desire of, he flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his immaculate black sleeve and strolled over to the window. He clasped his hands at his back and peered down into the streets, presenting his back to Waters. “I’m here for your daughter.”

The crystal pane of the window reflected Waters’ furrowed brow. “My daughter?” The notorious reprobate scratched his bald pate. “I-I already told you I didn’t know where she was. I can find out.”

He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “And I’ve already told you I’m not looking for the lady’s whereabouts.”

Confusion made the other man reckless. “But you said…” Then his bulging, blue eyes went round with a slow understanding. “Ah, my daughter.” His jowls shook with the force of his laughter; the sound crude and raucous, as he emitted great snorting gasps like a pig wallowing in its own filth. “You want the younger one, do you? I told you, my Justina is a lovely girl. She’ll make you a good wife.”

His patience snapped. Edmund spun around. “I’ve already told you. I want to wed your eldest, Phoebe.”

Waters cocked his head. “Wed, you say?”

*

Phoebe paced a path before the empty hearth, while periodically stealing a glance at the loudly ticking ormolu clock. The untouched volume of her Captain Cook’s work lay forgotten on the mahogany side table.