Chapter 14 #3
She snorted indelicately. “I should like to know what Papa would think of you. He sent me here to snare an earl. What would he say if I brought home a fellow tradesman turned solicitor?”
He stepped back, brows arching again. “Bring me home? I show you a kindness by inviting you into the garden to paint, and you now think I’m wrapped about your finger, a lovesick swain, counting flower petals in hopes you’ll accept my proposal? You are bold, Miss Phoebe Whittington.”
She stepped towards him with a sashay of her hips. “I could win your heart if I wanted.”
“With what? Your crooked twig?” he motioned to her easel.
A sly smile and another step forward. “Magnetism.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Going to mesmerize me, then?”
With another harrumph, she crossed her arms. “You must be one of those men who is not swayed by beauty rather by money. Papa always said men lusted after one or the other. And Papa is always right.”
She teased, of course, as she was enjoying their game, enjoying it immensely, and judging from his expression, he too was enlivened by the exchange.
“Yes,” she continued, “I believe I shall leave a note of apology to the Earl of Collumby that he must find a new solicitor, at least for the interim, because I must abscond with his man of business.”
“If you desire painting lessons, my dearest, you need only to ask.” This time, he stepped forward, the space between them closing. “And what do you suppose your father would say should you present me as the preferred suitor over a newly inherited peer of the realm?”
“Whatever he says, he shall be right. He’s always right, you see.” With a satisfied smirk, she added the winning quip. “Not even Freddy could fool him.”
And then her words dawned.
The world around her froze, as if even the leaves dared not rustle.
Her breath escaped in a whimper, taking with it the last of her resolve.
A hand cupped her elbow. She blinked.
“Allow me to guide you to the bench,” said a distant voice, a tender voice that warmed the chill inside her. “Do you have any hartshorn with you? You look faint.”
She hissed at the insinuation she needed smelling salts, but then realized she was still so stunned to have spoken his name allowed—and to Graeme!—she had not hissed after all, only wished too. The hand cupping her elbow held fast. Please don’t let me go.
Without thinking, she reached to clasp his other hand, holding it as a lifeline. Graeme waited, silent and patient.
She inhaled.
She exhaled.
What was the point without trust? And so, she chose to trust him.
“What is beauty without sense?” she asked. “If you’re even half as serious as you jest, you deserve to know the truth.” Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. “About Freddy. About… about the elopement.”
Phoebe took her time. Graeme did not press her, only squeezed her hand.
“Time is not an indicator of affection, I’ve learned. He courted me for some time. Freddy, that is. Only in secret, as Papa hated him and forbade him from seeing me, insisting he was a wastrel, a roué. But Freddy courted me with feverish persistence. For months.”
If she thought she could share the tale with detached neutrality, she was mistaken. Every detail still stung, from his lies to her naivety. Why did Papa have to be right? She resented that most of all.
“I loved him. Foolishly. Entirely. I trusted him more than anyone. And he wanted… not me. Only the money I would bring.” At least she did not cry.
Curiously, her eyes remained dry, and the heartache she expected never squeezed.
The sting was only the humiliation of gullibility.
“He convinced me he neither needed nor wanted my dowry… claimed he would inherit a windfall, and that alone would sustain us, but I did not care, only that he swore to love me. I was fool enough to believe he loved me for me.”
Her breath hitched.
“I was desperate to escape Papa. It would be a lie to say that did not sway me, but I believed so madly in true love then that I would have chosen the promise of love over a thousand aristocrats or purses of endless wealth.”
Her throat closed around the memory.
“By the time I realized he had lied, everything was already lost. Reputation. Dowry. Friends. Even myself, I suppose.” With a dry laugh, she added, “I jested with you, but the truth is, I really do only have my beauty to recommend me now. Papa does not forgive, and certainly not after discovering I quite literally jilted the Marquess of Pickering at the altar to follow Freddy on a madcap and ultimately failed elopement to Scotland.”
Bracing for judgment, she raised her chin to look at Graeme.
“And now you know the sordid scandal and why I came to Shropshire.”
Graeme watched her with a gaze so steady, so compassionate, she nearly broke. “Phoebe,” he said softly, bringing her hand to his lips. “You are not ruined.”
She looked away.
“I mean it.” He brushed his lips against her knuckles, feather-light. “What that man did says everything about him. Nothing about you.”
Her vision blurred, but she held fiercely to her composure.
“Thank you for trusting me,” he added. “I am honored.”
In a struggle to find her voice, she whispered, “I don’t know why I told you.”
“I do,” he murmured.
She blinked up at him, rapidly trying to dispel the onset of tears over his kindness.
“Because you have a brave heart,” he continued. “And because someone needed to tell you the truth of yourself. You deserve far more than you were given.”
She bit her lip. Her heart was unfolding too quickly, too openly, and it frightened her.
“To ease the weight, I have a confession of my own.” His gaze turned back to the easels, his thoughts miles away.
“When my sister was around eight,” he began, his tone heavy, “she attempted to teach me to paint the neighbor’s cat.
I produced an unfortunate creature, perhaps best resembling an elderly mole.
To spare the household the anguish, we buried the sketch in the garden.
To this day, neither of us has spoken of the tragedy. ”
Phoebe laughed. It was a tiny, watery laugh, but it was real and could not be helped. Graeme looked back at her with such gravity, she laughed harder still until her side hurt.
“So, you see,” he said, “I understand that harsh feeling of failure.”
“And you understand sisters,” she added, quite meaning women, but she knew by his compassionate eyes, he understood precisely what she meant.
“And sisters,” he agreed.
They tidied the brushes together, their hands touching frequently, each contact sending a frisson of heat through Phoebe. When she finally turned to leave, she hesitated, wishing to linger a while longer.
As did he.
“Until tomorrow?” he asked, voice low.
One breath.
Then two.
“Until tomorrow,” she promised.
He reached as though to retake her hand, but stopped himself, and she nearly leaned forward to clasp his, but recovered. Their eyes met, a question left hanging, a longing left unspoken.
At last, she stepped back.
As she turned to leave, she felt his eyes on her, watching her follow the garden path back to the manor, his gaze warmer than the sunlight in her hair. When she glanced over her shoulder, just once, he was still watching her.
Still waiting.
Still hers.
Though neither dared name the feeling.