Claimed by the Rogue (29 page)

Her temper flared. “A question you have no right to ask.” Leaving the bed behind, she marched past him to the window. “I was a fool to allow you here in the first place, an even bigger fool to so much as consider crying off my engagement.”
 

Following her over, he looked as though she’d slapped him. “In that case, you might ask yourself what you’re about here with me.”

“At the moment, I’m showing you the door—or rather the window.” Giving him her back, she struggled with the window sash, which suddenly seemed to be sticking.
 

A huff sounded behind her. Moving her out of the way, he pulled up on the frame and slid the window open with apparent ease. Turning toward her, he demanded, “Is this truly what you want from life? Marriage to a man who means to set you upon a pedestal and treat you as though you have no more will or intellect than…than that china doll?” Mouth twisting, he jerked his head toward the shelf holding the toy and several other childhood mementos.

Phoebe turned to him, her chin lifting. “There are worse fates.”

At least china dolls didn’t have hearts to be broken.

Chapter Twelve

For two years Robert had endured the hell of slavery, of waking up each morning and falling asleep each night to the knowledge that his body, his being, was the property of another. There’d been violations upon his person both great and small, floggings that had flayed the flesh from his back and robbed him of the barest shred of dignity. Over time, he’d become convinced that his heart must be as scar-toughened as his skin. That one slight female, Phoebe, could fell him with little more than a word or look was nearly beyond belief.
 

Her declaration the previous night of having been with Bouchart had nearly driven him to his knees. Nor was the blow only to his pride. Climbing down from her window, he’d felt as if his heart had been slashed to ribbons and his hopes burned to ash. The image of her lying naked beneath his rival—touching him, pleasuring him, loving him—was almost beyond bearing.

As tempting as it was to cede the field to the Frenchman and walk away, this time for good, he couldn’t. The fact remained that he loved her still, as much—more—than ever. At this point, thwarting her marriage to Aristide was no longer a battle of wills, a contest to be won. It was a rescue mission. Even if he couldn’t claim her for himself, the least he could do was save her from a monstrous marriage. If only he could find a way to penetrate the seemingly impenetrable armor she’d put up about her heart…

Propped upon pillows in bed, he was working his way through an urn of coffee when Caleb entered, interrupting his brooding.
 

“What have you there?” Looking up, Robert gestured to the silver tray upon which a single cream-colored square rested. “Don’t tell me some old biddy actually came to pay a social call? If so, pray tell her I am not ‘at home.’” It seemed he had waited the entirety of his adult life to say those words and now that he finally had, they brought him little relish.

Jaw set, Caleb continued holding out the tray.

Robert waived him off. “I’m in no mood for society of any sort.”

Caleb didn’t budge.

“Burn it for all I care.”
 

A disagreeing grunt answered.
 

“Oh, very well, seeing as you insist.” Robert reached for the note—and nearly upended his glass.
 

The Hanover Square direction was the Tremonts’.

He broke the seal and unfolded the personalized vellum.
 

Sir:

Pray call upon me at two o’clock. Be assured that you will be welcomed with all due warmth and cordiality.

Yours, Phoebe

He read it again, this time aloud, pausing to ponder each word as though it represented a hieroglyphic from the Rosetta Stone.

“What do you think it means, Caleb?”

The manservant rolled his eyes.

Beyond the oblique assurance of welcome, it was as if the previous night’s verbal bloodletting had never taken place. Though a relief, the inconsistency made him curious. It had been six years since he’d seen anything in Phoebe’s hand. Her last letter had been the one in which she’d enclosed her miniature. Unfortunately, paper and ink had not survived the sea waters nearly as well as metal and glass, leaving him to rely on faulty memory. He recalled her handwriting as spare and orderly, the only affectation the little flourish she gave to the “P” when signing her name. The present note seemed to hail from a less sure hand and one prone to extravagant loops and the odd splashes, yet the “P” in “Phoebe” was left perfectly plain. But then a person’s penmanship often changed over time. His certainly had.

A broad-backed brown hand tapped his arm. “What is it?”
 

Caleb set the tray down upon the bedside table and signaled what by now Robert knew meant,
I will go with you
.

Robert shook his head. “Thank you, my friend, but no. This is something I must do alone.”
 

A flurry of grunts and flailing hands followed. At times such as this, Robert could feel his friend’s frustration, his anger, as though it were his own.

“Calm yourself, Caleb. ’Tis only tea.”
 

The Arab answered with a firm shake of his head.
 

“You act as though I’m about to hurl myself at the lion’s mouth, and I can’t say that you’re mistaken. True, Lady Tremont may detest me as much as she ever did, but her husband and son tolerate me well enough.” The only person with whom he need curry favor was Phoebe.
 

The gaze honing in on Robert’s was unmistakably imploring.
 

Giving in, Robert said, “Very well, you may drive me, but I go in alone.”

He dressed with care and realized he was almost nervous. Bloody hell, he
was
nervous. By now, navigating his way through Mayfair was second nature. Turning over the team’s reins to Caleb and confining himself to the carriage interior was bloody torture, but he kept his word. Despite the meandering pace Caleb set, he still reached Hanover Square a full quarter of an hour early. He climbed down from the carriage and proceeded to the columned entrance. Ascending the few short steps to the door, he saw that the knocker was turned down, signifying that the inhabitants were not “at home” to visitors. If Phoebe had in mind another clandestine call, midday was an odd time to arrange it. Robert hesitated and then took hold, bringing metal bashing against wood. Scurrying footfalls answered within. The door opened. Instead of the very proper butler, a buxom housemaid stood on the threshold.

“I’m here to see Lady Phoebe,” Robert announced.

She stepped back for him to enter. “She’s just popped out for a bit, but she bid me say she’ll be back in a nonce.”
 

Her voice, though nondescript and bearing a Cockney’s broad vowels, struck him as familiar. Seconds later, he realized why.
 

“You’re Lady Phoebe’s maid, are you not?” He scoured her apple-cheeked face, wondering how much she might have heard.

She bobbed a quick curtsy. “Name’s Betty, sir, though I’ve been considering changing it to Bette. It’s French, you know.”
 

Unorthodox as it was for a servant to chat up a guest, Robert couldn’t find it within him to fault her for it. Whatever notions of privilege he’d begun with, the years of enslavement had knocked out of him.
 

Stepping inside, he said, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Betty but tell me where has Wilson got to?” Stickler for propriety that Phoebe’s mother was, Robert couldn’t imagine her countenancing a mere maid answering her main door.

She shrugged. “He takes the stage to see his sister every other Wednesday. He won’t be back before nightfall.”
 

Robert hesitated. Something didn’t feel quite right. With no other servants in sight, the house was shrouded in a tomb-like hush. “In that event, I should call another time.” He took a backward step in preparation for leaving.

A firm hand fell upon his forearm, yet another untoward liberty. With her foot, she kicked the door closed behind them. “Oh no, sir, you must stay. My lady will be back at any time now, and she’ll have my head if she misses you. Now follow me, and we’ll get you settled cozy as can be whilst you wait.”

He nodded and followed her through the foyer and into a side parlor. She led him over to a wing chair by the window, all but shoving him into the seat. “Will you take a sherry to ease your wait, my lord?”

“No, thank you. And I’m not a lord. Not even an honorable.”
 

Had he possessed the preferred pedigree, there would have been no need to “hare off to parts unknown” six years ago. Looking back, he allowed that a stronger man would have stood his ground—and fought for his lady.
 

She giggled. “You seem right lord-like to me and handsomer than most.”

Was the chit flirting with him? The bold eye she was giving him certainly made it seem so. For the first time, he studied her as something more than moveable scenery. Most of her fair hair was tucked beneath a lace-edged cap, but wisps had worked loose to frame an apple-cheeked face that was, he supposed, passably pretty. If she were in the market for a protector to supplement her wages, she would have to look elsewhere. He’d never so much as considered taking a mistress into keeping. Regardless of how matters hashed out with Phoebe, he didn’t mean to take up the practice now.
 

His gut instinct, his
third eye
as those in the East often spoke of it, called for him to leave at once, and yet he lingered. What Phoebe had to say to him must be vital indeed for her to call him to her when both her mother and the butler were out. Brash plans flooded his mind. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. So far as he knew, Gretna Green still operated its chapel. Or, if Phoebe preferred, he would head for Doctor’s Commons at once to procure a special license and they could marry wherever they wished. In two or three days, they might be sharing a bed as well as the rest of their lives.
 

Aside from the ticking of the ormolu clock perched atop the mantel, the atmosphere was eerily quiet, steadily still. “I believe I’ll take that sherry after all.” More so than him desiring a drink, pouring it would give the girl an occupation other than hovering.

She brightened. “I’ll fetch it straightaway.” She darted across the Persian carpet toward a Pembroke table, upon which a decanter and several glasses had been set. Back to him, she busied herself with pouring the drink.

Turning away, Robert took the opportunity to peer out the window, willing the carriage conveying Phoebe to return.
 

Betty bounded over and held out a very full glass. “To your health, sir.”

Robert accepted the drink. “Thank you.”

Rather than withdraw, she waited.

“You needn’t stay to stand guard. I promise I shan’t snaffle the silver or make away with the Dresden figurines beneath my coat,” he quipped, his puzzlement tinged with annoyance. Beyond anything, he detested being made to feel a prisoner.

She rolled back her lips and laughed, the sound putting him in mind of a nag’s braying. “You’re a caution, sir.”

Clearly Betty was determined to take full advantage of her unsupervised circumstances. “In all seriousness, won’t you find yourself in trouble for being here?” He couldn’t fathom Lady Tremont would look kindly upon one of her house staff lolling about the parlor making free with a guest, even if the guest in question wasn’t precisely welcome.
 

The girl lanced him a sly look. “What her ladyship doesn’t know shan’t hurt her—or me, either.” She laughed again.

“I suppose you have a point.” Settling back against his seat, he fortified himself with a swallow of sherry. “Where did you say Lady Phoebe went?” She hadn’t said but that was beyond the point.

“Lady Tremont all but dragged her and Miss Belinda to the shops—fittings for her wedding gown and trousseau and such—and well, you know how determined her ladyship can be.”

Indeed he did. Dispirited by the reference to the upcoming wedding, he swallowed another mouthful of the spirit before asking, “Are either Lord Tremont or Lord Reggie about?”

She shook her head. “At their club, I’m afraid.” It seemed there was not a single family member at home, hence the downturned door knocker.
 

“Pray don’t let me keep you from your duties,” he said, casting his gaze to the door leading back into the hallway.

This time she seemed to take the hint. “As you wish, sir.” She bobbed a quick curtsey and backed out of the room.

Relieved to be left alone with his thoughts, Robert sipped at his drink. In her note, Phoebe had promised him welcome, a most cordial reception. He could only think that she must mean it. Despite the bad turn things had taken last night, playing the coquette wasn’t in keeping with Phoebe’s character.
 

Yet again, he wondered how the previous night had gone so horribly awry. The fair fiasco he fully owned as his fault, but after… He couldn’t shake the feeling that the revelation that she’d allowed Bouchart to bed her had been aimed at pushing him away. Had his lovemaking frightened her so much? Or was it her own feelings that she feared?