Chapter 18
The setting sun pooled long streaks across the antechamber, deceptive in their implied warmth.
The walls were cold to the touch. Phoebe stood before the study door, smoothing a hand over her gown with a fluttery exhale she could neither control nor hide, not even from herself.
She had not meant to come here. Truly, she had not.
In her defense, it was not after dark this time, but that did not make this visit any more proper.
She had gone up to her chamber after the garden walk, intending to read or sew or do some other ladylike and sensible activity befitting a woman who had just admitted that she wanted more from a man, an admission that did not mean she admired or idly fancied him, rather wanted him, heart-first and helplessly.
It was too soon to call this love, too soon to think the word marriage, but she did want that something more that would determine if those could be on the horizon, if this could be something enduring.
She wanted it to be. Oh, how she wanted it to be.
Heart full, she had reached for paper instead of an embroidery hoop. She had written a few hesitant words, intended to be confessions of her heart. But she ripped up the note almost immediately. Then tried again. And again.
The letter—that foolish, hopeful letter—now held folded in her hand, pressed against her palm. She had no intention of giving it to him directly; good heavens, she was not that brave. But she could leave it on his desk, quietly and discreetly. A note of fondness, of… possibility.
Heart thudding, she knocked lightly and waited.
No answer.
“Graeme?” She opened the door a sliver.
Silence.
He was not there. Relief and disappointment tangled as she stepped into the room.
The late afternoon light poured through the tall windows, casting a haze.
His teacup still sat on the tray, a book facedown on the settee; he had only stepped out for a moment, then.
She swallowed, nerves alive and skittering.
Leave the note.
Do not linger.
Do not, dear heaven, overthink.
She approached the desk. His chair was slightly askew, as though he had risen in haste.
Papers lay in gentle disarray, a ledger half-open, the blotter pushed to one side.
Something about the sight made her smile: he had been restless, too, after the garden tryst. Was he thinking about the same possibilities as she?
Or was he concerned over the earl’s impending arrival, fretting over preparations and, possibly, wondering how to rationalize his romance with a woman who had been a guest of the house?
Clutching her note, she reached for an empty corner near the blotter where she might set it in bold view, unmistakably propped when he returned. She leaned it against the blotter, just so. Hmm. Perhaps it needed—
—a single sheet, half covered by the ledger, caught the faintest movement when she nudged her note.
A curved flourish at the top… and…
Miss P.W.
Another letter from the earl, then. She never wanted to see those dreadful letters again. But her eyes had already betrayed her, darting across the page, snagging on phrases before she even knew she was reading.
This was not another letter.
This was a bequest.
Looking around her to ensure she remained alone, she angled the page just enough.
Provision for Miss P.W… unentailed wealth in the sum of approximately thirty thousand pounds… to be transferred upon presentation… my dearest companion of spirit… ensure she is cared for… a small cottage…
Phoebe’s stomach hollowed as she continued to scan the page, unable to stop.
I think only of your happiness… You deserve more than life has given you… I can leave you assurance…
Her hand flew to her mouth. No. No, this could not be real, could not be for her, could not—
But who else? Who else in Lobelia Hall carried P.W.
as her initials? Who else fit the situation and inexplicable tenderness of the late earl’s journal entries?
Her knees weakened. She sank into the chair.
In her ears, her pulse roared. This was not some whimsical affection or pleasant correspondence.
This was a legally binding promise, as well as a fortune.
But why?
The earl had never met her. She had never written to him.
Had Papa misled him, convinced of something never offered, that she was more than she was?
Oh, how tragic that a dying man had believed she would come to him any minute and be at his bedside, that although he contracted the marriage in hopes of begetting an heir, he had died with delusions of love, died expecting her to come to him before his last breath, the sunshine of his declining years.
Shame and guilt gripped her throat.
No, no, no, this could not refer to her, despite that Fanny had believed unquestioningly the initials on the letters had been hers, despite that even Graeme had believed the initials in the journal—Graeme.
Her breathing sharpened. She gasped violently.
Graeme had known.
Graeme had known before the journal, before the letters, of Miss P.W.
Graeme had known there was a bequest waiting for her, one that would tip the fates.
He had known all along.
And he had never told her.
Her pulse pounded in her ears, reverberating through her skull.
His kiss, his tenderness, the gentle way he said her name, all the ways he made her feel seen, valued, wanted—Good Lord above, she had been nothing but a purse to him.
Then she saw it all, clear as a summer day. Just like Freddy’s false sweetness, his devotion when her dowry had seemed secure, and then his abandonment when the dowry was lost. Her vision blurred, and her throat burned.
Tucking the codicil where she found it, she smoothed the ledger over top, so the paper lay exactly, precisely as before.
She would not allow him to know she had seen it.
She would not give him the satisfaction of witnessing her humiliation.
Oh, to think she had even confessed her gullibility to him when she told him about Freddy! How he must have laughed at her!
It was all about money. It was always about money. Papa was right.
Phoebe snatched her letter, the hopeful confession of adoration, folded it into a tiny square, all while swiping at her water-brimmed eyes, and tucked it into her stays to dispose of elsewhere.
What a time to be without a pocket or reticule!
Of one thing she was certain, he would never read her honeyed words.
Not now. Not ever. What a lark he would have to see how easily she had been swayed.
All her protests, yet she had walked right into his trap.
A few whispered words, and she had been convinced this was real, ready to jaunt yet again to the altar in the belief of true love, all so a greedy and penniless man could realize wealth.
Her heart hammered painfully as she forced herself to stand, gripping the edge of the desk, willing her strength to return so she could leave with dignity.
Heaven forbid any of the servants see her so undone.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry here.
Oh, she hated this room! He had embraced her like she mattered, all while knowing she was to be his inheritance, the quickest and easiest money earned, no need to slave for an earl as a man of business with such a sum.
She turned towards the door. Escape was her only option. She must leave before he returned. He must never know she had been there.
Graeme headed for the study, pulse thrumming an eager, boyish rhythm.
Since their moment in the garden, since her quiet admission of wanting more, he had been unable to think of anything except seeing her again.
So restless, he had roamed the hall in hopes of bumping into her, rehearsing a dozen pretty speeches on his ramble.
None felt adequate, but he was quite determined to set everything into motion.
Hand on the latch, he stepped inside.
Phoebe barreled into him, sending him stumbling against the doorframe. With a sharp inhale, he clasped her arm to keep her from tripping over him, she looking as startled as he.
When her gaze met his, he felt a queer tug in his chest he could not explain.
Her eyes did not brighten as they had in the garden when he approached her, rather they…
no, he could not put it into words. Something distant, something contained.
He was overthinking, of course. Nervous about confessing his growing affection.
Or perhaps she was embarrassed to be caught waiting for him? Yes, that must be it! Well, he would set her at ease. If only she knew he had been searching for her moments before!
“Phoebe,” he said, filling the single word with all the tenderness he possessed.
She stepped away, bowing her head.
“I hadn’t expected you would come here.”
With a whisper of a smile, she murmured, “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Never.” He held a hand towards the settee in invitation, every step measured so he would not seem overeager. “I was looking for you, actually.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.” He swallowed his fears, hoping to gather courage. “There is something I must tell you.”
She gasped a little sound of surprise, a wistful sound that made his heart soar.
Could she anticipate what he wished to say?
Had she come here to confess similarly? When she did not accompany him to the settee, he considered this a hopeful reaction.
After all, he was too restless to sit, as well.
Best to stand. Yes, she had the right of it.
“I mean to be honest,” he began, “and clear. These past few days, no, these past few weeks have… they have been among the happiest of my life.”
She listened, her lashes tremoring slightly.
“I know you have every reason to be cautious, every reason to doubt the intentions of men. I don’t want to press you, overwhelm you, or expect anything from you that you are not ready to give.”
She continued to listen intently.