Chapter 16

16

N either Phoebe nor Emily spoke a word until they were safely back in Emily’s rooms and the girl climbed into bed, shuffling her legs around Marigold’s dozing, sprawled-out form. Phoebe had taken the few minutes of silence to try to regain some order in the chaos that pounded through her head. While half-numbed by the initial shock of what— who —awaited her in Lord Rockliffe’s bedchamber, she’d at least possessed the wherewithal to extricate Emily from the ugly, acrimonious scene. But beyond that, she found herself at a loss.

She should think of some reassurance, something to make everything better. Except how was she to do that when, once again, her life was crumbling to pieces?

You have only yourself to blame . The admonition rang in her thoughts, voiced in unison by Aunt Harriet and Uncle Martin . Then by Ambrose . Even by departed Eugenia . They all jeered at her, the feckless girl who never learned her lesson. Who couldn’t stop dragging disaster down on her own head.

She rummaged through the books on Emily’s bedside table, a choking lump forming in her throat. Read . That’s what she’d offered, and if she could manage nothing else, she needed to do at least that much. If she could only keep her voice from breaking.

“ Miss Windham ?” Emily pushed herself back up on her elbows, and Phoebe paused, turning to the wide amber eyes that peered at her in the candlelight. “ You don’t need to read aloud. But I wonder if … if you’d sit with me a few moments.”

“ I’d be happy to.” Phoebe lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, and only when seated did she realize just how weary she’d become. Like she could lie down herself and not get up for a very long time. Yet she managed a thin smile as she reached for the candle snuffer to extinguish the bedside light. “ Try to sleep now, all right?”

Emily gave a tiny nod, the faint flutter of her dark lashes against pale skin the last thing Phoebe saw before the room became dim. For some reason, the sight caused a pang in her chest. She’d known Emily only a short time but already felt an undeniable attachment to the girl. Wanted so much to give her reasons to smile again. The thought of not seeing her anymore … of Emily sitting in her bedchamber alone each night … Phoebe couldn’t let her mind keep traveling that way or her shaky facade of calmness would dissolve in a shower of tears.

“ Miss Windham ?” Emily whispered her name again, her shadowed outline remaining upright, her eyes two huge, glimmering pools in the dark. “ You’re not leaving Beaumont , are you?”

Phoebe’s aching chest constricted, causing another painful jolt. “ Not until you and your papa wish it.” She tried to sound light. Tried to ignore everything she’d sent crashing down around her and the regret that seeped to her core.

Emily hesitated, and while it was impossible to make out her exact expression, Phoebe could tell that she hadn’t stopped looking. Assessing . Phoebe could give all the assurances she liked, but Emily was far too astute not to recognize that something was amiss elsewhere in Beaumont Manor .

In the end, though, her hand fell upon Phoebe’s , and she dropped back onto her pillow, uttering nothing beyond a goodnight. For an indeterminate amount of time, Phoebe sat motionless, keeping hold of the slender fingers and listening to Emily’s breathing become soft and regular.

Not until you and your papa wish it . She hadn’t lied to Emily . Yet no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t forget how that time was coming all too soon.

As it turned out, the end arrived shortly before noon the next day. After remaining with Emily until long after the girl had drifted off, she’d then retreated to her own room, spending hours tossing and turning until sleep finally claimed her sometime around dawn. Consequently , she’d woken with a start to bright midday light and had leaped, disoriented, from bed and to Emily’s rooms across the corridor. Only to find no one there but a chambermaid, who explained that Mrs . Connelly had taken Lady Emily to the village for the afternoon, and that Lord Rockliffe would like to see her in his study at her earliest convenience.

She’d expected as much. Not under those exact circumstances, perhaps, but she’d known a confrontation was coming. With a pounding heart, she fetched one of her high-necked black dresses—a relic of her half-hearted mourning that covered her like an ineffective shield—and pinned back her disheveled hair. The mirror revealed dark shadows beneath her eyes and a sickly cast to her skin, but what was she to do about it? The reflection was nothing but an accurate depiction of how she felt.

By the time she reached the study door, her pulse was out of control, and blood rushed through her ears. Even so, she’d steeled herself for what was inevitably to come.

“ Phoebe .” He let out her name, low and guttural, the moment their eyes locked. He’d been in the midst of pacing, studying the floor as if it held answers, but her presence in the doorway—the small knock she hadn’t dared delay in giving to the frame—caused him to halt in the middle of the room. He made a gesture with his hand, the motion strangely rigid. “ Come in.”

Despite the heaviness in her legs, she obeyed without hesitation, for again, what benefit would she find in prolonging the inevitable?

This room was where it all started . As she crossed the Aubusson rug, the burgundy and blue tones made so much richer in daylight, the thought niggled at her, creating an ache in the vicinity of her heart. This was where she’d signed the employment contract. Where she’d dropped the book upon the floor. Where their lips had first connected and they’d collapsed into his wing chair in a flurry of passion.

Well , it seemed this room would be where it all concluded, too . She stopped at a suitable distance from him—close enough that they could easily speak, far enough that she didn’t imagine his heat radiating toward her or his crisp, masculine scent—and folded her hands upon her skirts. Waiting .

“ Are you …” He paused to glance toward the window and clear his throat, and as the sun streaked upon his features, it revealed them to be as shadowed and haggard as her own. “ Are you well?”

“ Quite well.” Her words were both hollow and a terrible lie. Yet to voice anything else would be fruitless.

He made another indistinct sound in his throat. Motioned to his desk, where two leather chairs were placed to one side for those who sought an audience with the marquess. “ Would you like to sit?”

“ No , thank you.” She held herself stiffly, willing her limbs not to waver. This shouldn’t take long, and she didn’t need the false comfort of a chair. Besides , it was best she stay positioned to make as hasty an exit as possible.

At her refusal, he didn’t move to sit, either, but stayed where he was—both too close and too far away—with his arms pressed tightly to his sides. “ First of all, I want to make something clear.” He paused for agonizing seconds, his eyes flashing with something potent but unnameable, until all at once, words burst out, laced with fire. “ I don’t give a damn about what Letitia Burville has to say regarding her visit to Beaumont Manor .”

She remained quiet, her memory flashing back to the affronted lady’s shocked gasp. To her look of derision. To her acidic reproof. Phoebe didn’t want to care about those things, either. Yet how could she do otherwise when last night’s events had changed everything? Lord Rockliffe must recognize that as well as she did, must know what it all meant. And so, she waited again for what would inevitably come next, her heart beating with painful thumps.

“ However …” Sure enough, the word arrived after another beat of silence, and he drew in a breath, his fingers curling into the edge of his breeches, drumming up and down the wool. “ My opinion on the subject isn’t the only thing that matters.” His tone quieted, grew brittle, and he stopped again, looking at the floor. The window. Back up at her. His body, of course, was as large and powerful as ever. Yet in his features, she could see uncertainty. Trepidation . That flash of vulnerability that made him appear less like an imposing marquess and more like an ordinary man who struggled.

Well , in that respect, she could lighten his burden and speed up the process for them both. “ You don’t need to continue, my lord. I’m not naive as to how the world works.”

The lines of his face hardened into a look of suspicion, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “ In what regard?”

She could tread delicately around the subject. Say nothing else whatsoever and remain a passive listener, just as she’d done at the vicarage when her family’s censure came hurtling her way. She didn’t want to do that with him, though. Not now. Years of pent-up hurt and frustration rushed to the surface, and suddenly, she couldn’t hold them in. “ I’m the daughter of a deceased baronet. I no longer have a position in society. A home. Even a family on which to rely. I’m nothing but an accidental governess who behaved with impropriety. As a result, I’m dispensable. A regrettable dalliance, and a problem easily carted off?—”

“ Jesus , Phoebe , stop it.” He took a rapid step toward her and then stilled, his fingers clenching into fists. “ Do you really think so little of what I feel for you? That I planned to use you at my convenience and then send you on your way as if you meant nothing?”

He shuddered, his mouth twisting as if he were in agony. “ You’re not fucking dispensable! You’re one of the only people on earth who can make my daughter smile. You are the only person who sets fire to my blood and makes me feel like maybe there’s still a spot of brightness left beneath all the goddamn misery. I should have held that as sacred. Dealt with the longing that refuses to subside from afar. Instead , I was selfish and acted on it, knowing full well I could never do the honorable thing by you.”

“ Of course you couldn’t, my lord. You needn’t chasten yourself on that account, for I knew it from the beginning.” She managed to speak softly, even as she inwardly trembled, fighting through shock to process his declaration. Her heart was foolish enough to flutter before the cold bite of reality set in. He could feel for her what he liked, and she could long for him in return. It wouldn’t change one unavoidable fact. “ You’re a marquess and I’m a governess?—”

“ No .” He cut her off in a heartbeat, his blue eyes shining with a pained intensity unlike she’d ever seen. “ Never because of that. The title follows me around like a damn curse. It means nothing. It doesn’t make me worthy or change the ways I’m lacking. It cannot make me fit to wed you.”

She sucked in a sharp burst of air, the room suddenly wobbling before her. Wed you . Impossible words, ones she hadn’t been bold enough even to dream. But why … Her eyes began stinging, her throat growing so tight that the question came out as a choked whisper. “ Why would you say that?”

“ Because ,” he shouted, his skin coloring, the cords of his neck growing exceptionally taut. The sunlight coming through the windows made his hair blaze like bronze, made each rigid contour of his face blaze along with it. Until suddenly, his gaze shifted to the floor, shadowing his features, and his shoulders drooped.

“ Because ,” he repeated to the carpet, much lower this time. When he looked back up at her, it was as if all the vehemence had poured from his body, leaving only bone-weariness. “ I cannot sire children.”