Chapter 20

20

P hoebe would survive if she could just keep moving. She clung tight to the carriage bench, absorbing each rattle, feeling each dip and bump in the road shoot to her roiling stomach.

Stillness would crush her. However , if the carriage’s wheels continued turning, taking her away from the vicarage and Ambrose , she’d be back at Beaumont Manor where she could … she could …

Oh , she didn’t know. Perhaps she needed to return to the village instead, to catch a stagecoach, to search every inch of Suffolk , and if that proved unsuccessful, then all of England .

But suddenly, she could do none of that, for the bile in her throat rose higher, her stomach heaved precariously, and she banged on the ceiling until the carriage did the one thing she desired least, though it had become dreadfully necessary: stopping.

She wrenched open the door, stumbling into the tall grass beside the road and sinking to her knees. At once, she found herself retching onto the ground, her stomach twisting, turning upside-down, until her insides became empty and raw.

The coachman’s worried call came from behind her, and she could hear his body shift and jump down to the dirt, but she held up a hand, warning him not to come any closer.

She needed a minute. Just a few moments to gather herself and make her quivering legs rise. To climb back into the carriage and get moving again, to find what she’d lost, to make sense of a world where the last seven years had been a lie.

A sob tore from her throat before she could stop it. She pressed her palms to the ground in an effort to steady herself, trying to suck in a few deep breaths, but the air hit her lungs quickly, sharply, and another sob broke free. And another. They kept coming, overtaking her body at a relentless pace, until she was powerless to do anything but sit and watch her tears fall upon the long stalks of grass.

She became vaguely aware of more noises rising in the distance. Hooves , she registered, as the rhythmic beating against gravel drew nearer. However , the sound couldn’t drown out the blood pounding through her head. Nor could it negate the frenzied drumming of her heart.

She didn’t turn to look even when a cloud of dust wafted toward her and the hoofbeats abruptly halted, replaced by a horse’s whinny close enough to ring in her ears. Only when boots thumped against the ground behind her, bounding over gravel and into the grass, hitting the periphery of her vision, did she tilt her head. She’d seen those boots before, recognized the polished black surface that now contained a film of dirt. Without looking the rest of the way up, she knew that Lord Rockliffe stood above her. That he’d come to find her.

Something inside her seized and broke, and whether the resultant emotion was despair or relief, she couldn’t entirely say. She tried to push past it, to utter a greeting—some faint thread of normalcy—but when she opened her mouth, nothing emerged but another sob. Her elbows crumpled into the grass, and she faced the ground again, fighting for air that wouldn’t come.

She caught the flash of motion when his boots shifted, and in the next moment, he was on the ground beside her, his large body leaning close as he settled on his knees.

“ Phoebe .” Strong hands cupped her face. Coaxed her chin upward until she was peering into steely blue eyes and a jaw that looked to be carved out of granite. “ Did someone hurt you?” The words were dark, strangled, and even through the haze of her tears, she could see the thundercloud that washed over his features. The dangerous tic in his jaw.

She managed the tiniest shake of her head. Because no, Ambrose hadn’t hurt her, not in the sense he meant. Aside from a few unwanted presses of his clammy palm upon her arm, he hadn’t touched her.

The hurt came from what Ambrose had so carelessly revealed. As if the despicable ruse he and his sister had created made little difference. As if, with a few sloppy, drunken words, he hadn’t changed the trajectory of her life.

But how was she to explain that all to Lord Rockliffe while sitting on the edge of a field with her breaths quaking and catching? How did she find the words to reveal the secret, long shuttered deep within her heart, that was now mixed with a lie?

It turned out that the marquess didn’t await further explanations, for suddenly, his arms wrapped around her, and he lifted her off the ground.

Her body stiffened from the surprise change in position, and she knew she should protest, get back on her own two legs, resume the search that couldn’t stop until she’d proved successful. Yet something about his sturdy chest felt so comforting. So safe . Shock had ravaged every one of her muscles and nerves, and instead of fighting the weariness, she succumbed to it, letting her head fall against his shoulder. Letting her tears flow and the miserable, choking sobs burst from her throat.

Lord Rockliffe marched back to the road as if she weighed nothing and uttered something to the coachman; the exact words, she couldn’t distinguish. Whatever they were, the coachman nodded and turned to the carriage, whereas the marquess approached his impressive black gelding, easing her onto the animal’s back.

She managed to twist her head, blinking at him as he vaulted up behind her.

“ It will be faster this way,” he murmured, pulling her close so her weight rested against his chest, taking the reins in hand.

And then, they were off at a gallop, over the familiar road that eventually led to a tree-lined drive. The stately facade of Beaumont Manor awaited them, no different from when she’d left it mere hours ago, providing another striking reminder that everything else in her world had since changed.

A groom stood waiting, ready to take the horse the instant Lord Rockliffe pulled to a stop beside the front portico, and the marquess was equally efficient at jumping to the ground and scooping her back into his arms.

During the short journey, she’d managed to get her sobs under control so all that remained were a few erratic gulps and shudders. She let him carry her nonetheless, resting limply against the protective heat of his chest as he bounded up the stone steps, spoke a few hurried words to the butler who greeted them in the entrance hall, and continued to the staircase.

She was so addled. So tired but nowhere near a point of being able to rest. So uncertain that if she did try to walk, her legs would hold her up and not buckle beneath her.

However , above it all, her mind hooked on a fresh spark of unease, and she raised her head off his shoulder, trying to scan the corridor beyond. “ Emily ?”

“ Shh .” His breath hit her skin, a soothing stream of warmth, and his supportive arms tightened around her, his pace never faltering. “ You needn’t worry about that. She isn’t due home yet, and Mrs . Connelly has instructions to see to her for the rest of the day.”

Phoebe sank back again, the movement causing her breath to momentarily hitch and stutter. At least she could rest secure in the knowledge that on top of everything else, she wasn’t involving Emily in the turmoil. Not today, at any rate. Not until she determined what to do. Where she needed to go …

It occurred to her that they were no longer climbing stairs but winding through a familiar corridor. The same hallway where she’d once scurried after him and he’d reached for her hand. The same doorway where he’d spun her around and claimed her lips.

He flicked the latch and pushed the heavy oak door open, bringing her into the quiet safety of his bedchamber. Setting her down atop the dark brocade counterpane that covered his bed.

She took in tiny gulps of the warm, still air—air that smelled faintly of him—watching as he lowered himself to his knees, setting to work on unlacing her half-boots until he could tug them free. The stockings beneath had become bunched, dusty, and damp, and he must have noticed, for he dealt with those next, pulling them off her aching feet. Not urgently, like when he’d removed her clothing while in the throes of passion. His movements now were slow. Careful . Gentle motions to rid her of the articles that had grown uncomfortable and disheveled.

She peered down at herself, to the horrible bombazine dress that had become caked in dirt and dotted with stray pieces of grass. The awful, somber dress that she’d kept plastered to her body as a sign of respect for her deceased cousin.

The woman who’d taken from her. Who’d lied to her.

Her hands flew to her back, her unsteady fingers tearing at the garment that suddenly threatened to constrict her lungs.

Lord Rockliffe came to his feet, leaning toward her on the bed. “ I’ll assist you?—”

“ I need to get it off.” Her voice came out unnaturally high and frantic, but she couldn’t calm it, couldn’t stop her clumsy, desperate attempts to claw the dress away from her skin. “ I cannot wear this detestable thing any longer.”

He placed his sturdy hands upon her back, and in an instant, the material sagged, allowing her to push it down her body and shove it onto the floor. That was better—so much better—yet sobs threatened again, rising in her throat, choking her.

He grabbed at the laces of her stays, releasing her from the garment, allowing her chest to rise more freely as she sucked in a deep, trembling breath. But it was too late. Her tears poured to the surface and spilled over, despondency consuming her once more.

The bed dipped as he sank down beside her, and his arms enveloped her, nudging her into the protective embrace of his chest. Holding her as she cried.

She allowed herself a moment to simply rest her head there while her body shook. The broadcloth beneath her cheek quickly grew wet, but he didn’t seem to mind; indeed, his grip on her tightened, and his fingers traced calming circles over her back. In a world where nothing else was right, his embrace felt comforting. Safe . Like one she never wanted to leave. Nonetheless , she didn’t sink more deeply against him or let her tears intensify. Rather , she found the strength to push back the bitter lump in her throat and straighten her spine, for every second spent inundated by sorrow was another second spent without striving for answers. Without knowing her child was safe.

She blinked rapidly, trying to make her vision clear as she tilted her head to look at him.

“ Phoebe .” The way he said her name was tentative, soft. Yet in the next instant, his features became shadowed again, the dangerous lilt returning to his voice. “ You may not feel ready to speak yet, nor do you need to. However , you can perhaps imagine the conclusions I’m beginning to draw, and if you give me even a single nod to confirm them, I will happily locate Sir Ambrose Windham and make this his final day on earth.”

“ No .” She shook her head, her stomach giving an unpleasant lurch. As much as she never wanted to look upon Ambrose’s detestable, smug, lying face again in her lifetime, she couldn’t risk him coming to harm. Because what if there was a chance, however minuscule, that he did know something, and the information could somehow be cajoled out of him?

“ I might need him … he might know …” Defending the man was vile business, and the words burned her chest. Yet it was all for a reason, one she could conceal from Lord Rockliffe no longer. “ He might have information about the child. My child.”