Chapter 14
The drizzle tapped impatiently at the window.
Fanny had long since retired, leaving Phoebe to pretend to read, pretend to embroider, pretend to breathe like a rational creature.
When pretending had outworn its welcome, she tried brushing her hair, straightening the room, even praying for composure.
Nothing helped. Nothing quieted her pulse.
Nothing softened the memory of his arms around her.
He had only caught you from falling, silly goose—little more than a trifle!
With a huff, she snatched up a taper and lit it with the mantel candelabra, the tiny flame trembling as though complicit in her impropriety.
“Just one letter,” she whispered to herself. “One. And then I shall sleep.”
But of course, her desire had nothing to do with reading letters.
She slipped into the corridor. The manor was dark and full of echoes: low moans of wind buffeted through chimneys, the hiss of rain dying against mullioned windows and stone.
She hastened her steps, eyes darting from one shadow to another, willing the doors to remain closed and her movements to haunt in ghostly silence.
By the time she reached the study door, her heart had lodged in her throat. A hand to her hair reassured it was still coiffed. A smoothing palm to her gown affirmed she had not wrinkled the muslin with impatience. A touch to her feverish cheek confirmed she must be terribly flushed.
She raised her hand to knock. Hesitated. Lowered it again.
Foolish girl. He does not live in the study. Why would he be here so late into the evening?
Sensibility teased that he may have lingered in hope she would arrive with tea as she had done before.
Sense replied it was no longer afternoon.
All in the house were abed. No woman would dare, not so late into the evening.
He must have retired long ago, either because he did not expect her at all or because he had quite given up any hope of her returning.
With that, her confidence soared that he would not answer, and she could retreat to her bedchamber like a sensible creature.
She raised her hand to knock. Hesitated. Knocked.
Almost at once, before her hand fell back to her side, the door opened.
The dark antechamber in which she waited, illuminated only by the bruised blue of her taper, brightened, bathed in a fiery glow as the warmth from within swallowed the shadows.
Framed by the doorway, basked in a golden halo of candleflames, stood Mr. Ellison, coat off and shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows.
Their eyes met, and she saw in his expression neither disapproval nor surprise, but rather an inquisitive, nay, affectionate welcome. He had been waiting for me.
“Miss Whittington…” His voice was deeper than usual, resonant, intimate. “Is everything… are you well?”
She swallowed. “I… yes. I am well.”
Neither moved. Neither spoke. Their gazes tangled.
“I cannot stop thinking about…” Afraid she would lose her courage, she finished in a rush, “the letters.”
His brows notched.
How transparent the excuse! Her cheeks heated.
“The ones Fanny found,” she clarified needlessly. “Not letters I have written or received because I have not written any, which is not to say I was expecting to receive letters, either, or that these letters…”
She let the madness trail as she inhaled a deep, shaky breath.
Better to stick to the plan than fling herself upon his person.
Whatever he must think of her now, there was no retracting words or steps.
“It would be terribly improper to open a letter not my own, more so to open one so late in the evening… but…” Her voice dropped.
“I shall lose sleep and sense if I do not.”
In his eyes, she saw a tumult of emotions—tenderness coupled with something far more dangerous.
“Improper…” he began, pausing as though first to taste the word, and then, on finding no objection to its spice, he continued, his gaze holding fast to hers, “Miss Whittington, if we cross the point of propriety, I am fully prepared to share the consequences.”
Her heart pounded, wobbled, and nearly seized.
He stepped back, inviting her entry. She slipped inside, narrowly brushing past him, the scent of cedar, wax, and man enfolding her, the warmth of his person close enough to feel, dangerous enough to unsettle.
Candelabras framed the settee. Shadows stretched long across the floor, darkening the corners. His coat hung over the screen before the hearth, a reminder of their embrace. Her breath caught.
“Please,” he said, gesturing to their usual table. “Sit.”
She hesitated for one breath, then sat at the settee instead, setting her candlestick on the tea table.
Although she did not look at Mr. Ellison to gauge his reaction—not with her chin raised, shoulders back, and confident composure in place, a woman who knew what she was about, in stark contrast to the sniveling maiden he had witnessed at the study door moments before—she was aware of his every movement.
What she had not expected was for him to do exactly what she wished.
The settee cushion dipped next to her. He sat close enough that the edge of his sleeve whispered against her arm. Gooseflesh tickled across her skin.
“Thank you…” she said, “for seeing me.”
His answering smile was quiet, sincere, almost undone. “There is nothing you could ask for that I would refuse.”
Pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat answered her pulse.
Then she glanced back at the tea table. Piled next to an abandoned book he had left facedown were the unopened letters. He had been waiting for her!
But did he understand she had come for him, not the letters? She hoped he did. She hoped he did not. Carry on with the charade, Phoebe, before you make a cake of yourself.
“Just one,” she said, her eyes on the letters.
“Just one.”
They looked far more intimidating than they had earlier. She did not want to open them. What were they to her? The words of a stranger she had rejected and then finally accepted out of desperation. Nothing could be gained from this.
They both reached for the top letter, their hands grazing.
She retreated.
His hand hovered, a question awaiting an answer.
She nodded, heart pounding.
He chose a letter at random, then held it between them.
For a moment, they both stared at it, neither moving to open it, neither speaking, both watching the candlelight quiver across the unyielding paper.
Behind them, the rain tapped anxiously at the windows.
The silence felt as fragile as glass, too easily shattered by spoken word.
Phoebe exhaled, slow, unsteady.
With a sweep of his thumb, Mr. Ellison broke the seal, the wax crackling. As the letter unfolded, they both leaned in, their shoulders nearly touching.
Outside, the storm sighed.
Inside, a tempest swelled.
Between them, the letter’s edges unfurled. The candleflames leaned forward, straining towards the contents. Graeme angled the paper, uncertain whether he ought to read aloud or let her gather courage first.
A braved glance at her profile answered him: rather than read, she studied her folded hands, as though in search of fortitude.
He cleared his throat. “‘Sunshine of my declining years,’” he began.
Miss Whittington choked on a startled laugh, her tone incredulous, her blush mortified. “Oh dear. He did not hold back, did he?”
“Apparently not.” He continued, “‘I think of no one except you. How cruel is life to keep us apart?’”
She snorted, amused but flustered. When he glimpsed the upcoming lines, he thought better of reading another word aloud. He handed her the letter. Their hands brushed. Neither withdrew.
Over her shoulder, he skimmed the shaky script.
The letter was short but embarrassingly intimate.
Her cheeks flushed as she read, and Graeme found himself torn between watching her reactions and deciphering more of the late earl’s lyricism.
Nothing in the letter was improper, merely…
extravagant. So extravagant, he shifted on the settee, uneasy with the strange blend of envy and sympathy stirring in him.
He knew she had reached the end when she read aloud, “‘You shall be well cared for, my beloved. If I cannot have you in life, then in death, I can leave you assurance.’” She folded the page with careful precision, pressing the creases as if to seal in the words.
“I think one letter is enough for tonight.”
“Quite enough,” he agreed, his voice raspy.
She set the letter on the tea table and drew her hands back to her lap. “It is strange to think he wrote those things. Such… devotion.”
“Stranger still,” Graeme murmured, “to reconcile these sentiments with a man I understood only to be stern.”
“Stern?” She looked up, astonished. “You are generous! He terrified me, if only from his portrait.” Her lashes fluttered.
“How wrong of me to mock him if this is how he felt. All this time, I thought he wanted a young bride, any young bride, to thwart his great-nephew. I never imagined he… imagined me into some sort of Madonna.”
He angled his head sharply. “Miss Whittington, you owe the man nothing, least of all guilt.”
“Perhaps not, but I do feel guilty. If he imagined me to be the creature he describes, then… well, I ought never to have rejected him, or accepted him, or anything. I am hardly ‘sunshine,’ Mr. Ellison. More like a badly-behaved lantern.”
He chuckled, hoping his humor would wash over her like a balm.
Her answering smile flickered, then dimmed. “And yet… I admit I am relieved. There is an intensity about him, from portrait to poetry. There is ownership in his gaze, possession in his words. If he felt so strongly, I fear he would have tried to claim me, body and soul.”
Without thought, he reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers, the warmth of their palms heartening and sure. “You would not have been safe in such a marriage.” His tone surprised him, protective and fierce.