The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (39 page)

“I wonder if you will ever speak of it,” Ava muttered.

Phoebe sighed. “What is there to say, Ava? I told you everything. I loved him, and he will never speak to me again.”

“Yes, you told me everything. But did you tell him?”

“You know I did. I wrote it all in the letter that I left for him. I told him about the blackmail and the reforms and how I believed I had no choice but to do what I did. I told him everything,” she said adamantly. How much she loved him, how desperately sorry she was for what had happened.

“If he can’t accept it, then there is nothing to be done for it. I just think…” Ava’s voice trailed off.

Phoebe turned and looked at her sister. “What? You think what?”

Ava shrugged a little. “That if he loved you, he’d forgive you.”

Phoebe had thought the same thing, and she turned abruptly, swallowing down the tears that were building. “Stop, Ava, stop right there. There is no point in such speculation. I haven’t heard a word from him because he can’t forgive me.” When Ava didn’t speak, Phoebe looked at her in the reflection in the mirror.

Ava shrugged again. “He wasn’t exactly innocent, was he?” she asked quietly.

“Ava, please,” Phoebe said wearily.

“You know what else I think?” Ava asked, eyeing Phoebe in the mirror. “That is the one gown you must wear, darling. Look how it enhances the color of your eyes. You are so beautiful, Phoebe.”

Phoebe didn’t feel beautiful. She felt ugly. And when she looked in the mirror, she saw a very sad woman full of regret.

The Murdoch soirée was not Will’s first foray into London society, but it was certainly the most august. He’d been surprised by the number of invitations that had been extended him, particularly given the reputation of his family and what had come to be known as the Summer Scandals in and around Bedfordshire.

But it would appear that Will’s reputation for being unmarried, titled, and in possession of a fortune was enough for any number of mothers and fathers in the haute ton to turn the other cheek. Will was beginning to believe he was the last bachelor in all of England.

He might very well be the last bachelor in England, for he could hardly bear the thought of a courtship now. The loneliness inside him had only intensified since that black night he’d been sent reeling. Joshua’s betrayal of him was enough to drive a man mad, but Phoebe’s deception had been…devastating.

Lady Phoebe Fairchild, the sister-in-law of the Marquis of Middleton and the Earl of Radnor. Not a seamstress. Not a servant. A woman from the highest circles of the aristocracy, playing at some game and using his heart as her pawn.

Once he’d realized her chicanery, he’d suddenly recognized the signs of it that he’d missed. She hadn’t remembered where she’d lived in Paris because she had never been to Paris. She was reluctant to speak of a husband she never knew. She claimed to be from the moors, but then cited Berwick-upon-Tweed as the village where she was raised. He’d thought her too refined for her position, and worst of all, he realized, he had taken her virginity that afternoon at the ruins.

What a bloody fool he’d been. A bloody, naïve, ignorant fool.

To make matters worse, he’d discovered how very painful love could be. He’d never imagined such pain, but it woke him in the middle of the night and kept him from sleep, for he had loved Phoebe. He had loved her.

He’d still not recovered. But he had forgiven her.

He’d read the letter she’d left him after the debacle with Joshua had been repaired and the guests had all left. He’d understood the words that explained what had happened to make her do such an extraordinary thing—the death of her mother, her attempt to help her sister and cousin. How she had been caught up in a lie that had continued to build. And Will couldn’t help but admit to himself that part of him was relieved she was not a seamstress, and therefore unattainable for him in some respects. She was in truth someone he could love openly, could marry without censure.

But part of him could not help but ache at her betrayal. He relived every moment they had shared, wondering why she hadn’t told him at one point or another. He wondered what was a lie about her and what was real, and made himself mad trying to guess.

He did not respond to her letter. He couldn’t. He was still reeling from all the events of that night, of the betrayals he had suffered between Joshua, Alice, and Phoebe. He had spent a fortnight moping about, cleaning up Joshua’s mess, and wishing he were in a desert, or on a mountain—anywhere but in England.

Yet he continued to make his way—numbly—through supper parties and soirées, still intent on his duty. Tonight, he would force himself to dance with the debutantes, to remark on the weather and the cuisine, and to try once more to find a woman with whom he might spend his life.

But he had not counted on the breath being knocked clean from his lungs, for the very ground on which he was standing to begin to roll, making him feel ill. Perhaps it was a bit myopic of him, but Will had not counted on Lady Phoebe Fairchild attending the soirée.

Truthfully, the Murdoch soirée was not as bad as Phoebe had feared. She danced once with Lord Harrison, another of Middleton’s bachelor friends, and rather enjoyed speaking with an old friend, Emily Rothschild, who titillated her with the scandal of one Grace Holcomb, who had defied her father’s wishes and married a sheep merchant. But it seemed a rather romantic story and Emily assured Phoebe that Grace’s husband, Mr. Barrett Adlaine, was very handsome and prosperous.

“I wish someone like that would take a liking to me,” Emily said wistfully.

“They will, Emily!” Phoebe said, laughing. “In just a matter of a few months, we will embark on another Season full of dashing gentlemen.”

“But they are all taken!” Emily pouted. “All but him, and the queue has already begun.”

“Who?” Phoebe asked, and turned to look where Emily nodded.

She looked right into Will’s hazel green eyes. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression cold. She froze—her body simply froze. She was incapable of moving. But oh, how her heart started in leaps and fits.

His golden hair brushed his collar, his sideburns were long and trimmed against his cheek. He was wearing a black suit, impeccably tailored. He was beautiful, impossibly handsome.

“Do you know him?” Emily asked excitedly, nudging Phoebe with her shoulder. “He’s only just arrived from the country, you know—my father called on him yesterday. He’s terribly handsome, is he not?” Emily sighed.

“I, ah…yes, he’s…he is handsome,” Phoebe stammered. She couldn’t speak properly. Her limbs suddenly felt like lead, her feet mired in quicksand.

“Quite handsome,” Emily said again, very wistfully. When Phoebe did not answer, Emily gave her a sidelong glance. “Well, for God’s sake, don’t stare at him,” she whispered, turning away.

But Phoebe couldn’t help staring. Her heart was floundering, her palms growing damp. She had dreamt of him so often, and here he was, not ten feet from her.

“Phoebe!” Emily hissed.

Still, Phoebe did not move. She smiled. Briefly, tremulously, but she smiled. At the very same moment, some people stepped between them. When they moved again, Will’s back was to her. He may as well have cut her heart from her chest and ground it into the carpet. It hurt no less than that.

How Phoebe managed to endure the rest of that night, she would never know—he was everywhere she turned, laughing with friends, dancing with ladies, and looking so beautiful that she wanted to cry. Yet every time his gaze landed on her, a hard look would shutter his eyes, and he would turn away.

He reviled her. He despised her. And Phoebe thought she would perish from shame and hurt and the most intense longing she had ever felt in her life.

She just wanted to be gone, to hide until this interminable, wretched night was over. She was so caught up in Will that she did not see Alice until she appeared at her side. “Alice!” she exclaimed, startled.

“Good evening, Phoebe,” Alice said smoothly. She was wearing one of Phoebe’s creations and looked very well. “How do you do?” Her decorum was as stunning as her sudden appearance.

“I…I am well, thank you.”

“I am surprised to see you,” Alice said. “But I had hoped that I would.”

Phoebe nodded and swallowed hard. Whatever Alice had come to say, she deserved it, and she steeled herself, waiting. “You look very well,” she remarked.

“Thank you,” Alice said, with a bob of her head. “I am to be married.”

Phoebe blinked.

“Surprised, are you? I have accepted a match with Mr. Samuel Remington. You remember him, do you not? He was the only gentleman not put off by my scandal,” she said with a hint of a smile.

The news was startling. “Are you…are you happy?” Phoebe asked curiously.

“As happy as one can be about these things, I suppose.” She shrugged insouciantly. “It might interest you to know that Joshua and Caroline Fitzherbert married just a fortnight after you left. Naturally, given the scandal, it was prudent that they marry straightaway.”

Another stunning piece of news. Phoebe wanted badly to ask after Will, but did not dare speak his name aloud.

“Jane and I are to be presented to London society with the hopes that Jane will secure a match. Unfortunately, after my scandal, Jane’s prospects dimmed…and everyone was so certain she’d be the one to emerge from it all unscathed. She swore she’d never forgive me…but then, she had not yet seen London.” Alice smiled a little. “Roger has purchased a commission in the Royal Navy. He’ll be joining them after Christmas.”

Phoebe’s thoughts were tumbling over themselves—she was too unhinged to respond.

“What do you think of our news, Lady Phoebe?” Alice asked.

“I think it is splendid,” Phoebe said. Her mouth was dry; it felt as if her throat was closing. “How does…how is…?”

“Will?”

Phoebe shook her head and cleared her throat. “Your father.”

“The same,” Alice said evenly. “The doctors have said he might remain in his state for years before succumbing.”

Phoebe nodded. An uncomfortable silence spread like water between them.

“Won’t you ask about him?” Alice asked quietly.

She meant Will. Phoebe wanted to ask, God knew how she wanted to ask.

“He is sullen still,” Alice offered without waiting for Phoebe to find the courage to ask. “But I think he’d be cheered to speak to you.”

“What?” Phoebe exclaimed, and quickly shook her head. “No, Alice. I cannot. I dare not—surely you must know what a complete disaster I have made of things.”

“Surely I do,” she said matter-of-factly. “But you once showed me friendship at a time I desperately needed it. Now I have the opportunity to return the kindness.”

Phoebe eyed her warily. “He hates me.”

“Well, he cannot hate you here without risking another scandal, can he? And who is to say what he thinks? He certainly hasn’t said. Perhaps he does not hate you at all.”

“You do not understand what you are asking of me!”

“Oh, but I do,” Alice said quietly. “I do know. I may perhaps understand better than anyone.”

God help her, but Alice looked so earnest. So determined. And when she linked her arm through Phoebe’s and gave her a little tug, Phoebe did not resist. She felt her feet moving. She was moving, walking, on Alice’s arm, to Will.

She thought she might faint from trepidation.

Will’s back was to them. He was talking to a pair, men or women, Phoebe could hardly guess—she couldn’t take her eyes from his back. When they reached him, Alice tapped Will on his shoulder. He instantly turned, his smile warm and loving for Alice—and then he saw Phoebe.

The moment he saw her his smile faded and the expression in his eyes turned cold. He said something to the people he was talking to and then turned slowly to face her.

“You remember Lady Phoebe, do you not?” Alice asked slyly.

He looked at her eyes, then at her mouth. “Of course.” He politely inclined his head. “How do you do?”

“M-my lord,” Phoebe managed, and curtsied.

“Phoebe, won’t you introduce me?”

Thank God, it was Ava, appearing from nowhere at Phoebe’s side. She put her arm around Phoebe’s waist and smiled at Will. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“May I introduce Lady Middleton,” Phoebe said. “My sister. Ava, this is…” This is him, he who is everything. “Lord Summerfield of Bedfordshire, a-and his sister, Lady Alice.”

“A pleasure to meet you both,” Ava said cheerfully, and beamed at Alice, then at Will. “From Bedfordshire, are you? Are you in London long, then, my lord?”

No, Ava, no, Phoebe silently pleaded with her sister. She knew her too well, knew that she would extract any information she could glean.

“Only a month,” Will said. “We should like to be in the country before the weather turns too cold.”

“Wentworth Hall, I presume? I have heard it is beautiful,” Ava continued. Alice snorted a little, but Will looked at Phoebe again. She could read nothing in his eyes—he was carefully expressionless, she thought.

“I think it is,” he said, and clenched his jaw tightly. His eyes flicked to Phoebe’s throat and for the first time since seeing him again, she saw a hint of emotion. It was just a flicker, so brief that she couldn’t be certain. Her hand fluttered to her throat and necklace. She’d forgotten—she was wearing the scarab. She wore it every day—it was the only thing she had of him.

“We have renovated the hall completely and it is quite improved,” he said, his gaze flicking to her décolletage and to her eyes again for a breath of a moment.

“Oh, it must be divine. What do you think, Phoebe?” Ava asked, surreptitiously pinching her at the waist.

“I think…I know it is divine. I am certain of it,” she said softly.

“Lady Alice, may I compliment you on your gown,” Ava blithely continued. “It is beautiful.” She dropped her hand from Phoebe’s waist, moving to Alice’s side.

“Thank you,” Alice said, giving Phoebe a curious look. She was wearing a gown Phoebe had made.

“I’ve rarely seen such careful needlework,” Ava said, putting her hand on Alice’s back and forcing her to turn away from Phoebe and Will. “It is very elegant. One cannot find such elegant gowns in London any longer. One must send to Paris,” she said, moving Alice away from Phoebe and Will. “But I know of a modiste who can be persuaded, from time to time, to make such elegant gowns as yours.”