Chapter 20
He almost made it out of the house without being stopped.
“Where are you going?”
Phoebe.
Aaron paused, his hat in his hand, and turned to face his wife.
She had been everywhere in the few days since they had pleasured one another and subsequently argued in the carriage, which had put him on edge even though she hadn’t brought up anything about him opening up to people since that night.
She had been scrupulously polite. It had been unnerving.
She was clearly still annoyed—that was the only thing that stopped Aaron from devolving into outright bafflement. But she wasn’t doing any of the things he had come to expect from an irritated Phoebe. She wasn’t fighting or arguing or even making any pointed comments.
She was just there. Acting suspiciously sweet.
Even worse than the way Phoebe was acting, however, was the way that Aaron was acting, at least inwardly.
Because he wasn’t angry with her.
Indeed, his anger had evaporated in moments. He’d been annoyed at her poking and prodding—because she didn’t truly understand danger, and he didn’t want her to. He didn’t want her to know the horrors that mankind could manage. He didn’t want her to see those things in her nightmares.
But he hadn’t stayed mad. Not nearly as long as he should have when she kept insisting on stirring up things that she should just leave alone.
So, really, it made sense in the greater scheme of things that she was asking him probing questions—that she was there, right when he was trying to slip away.
Aaron was tempted to answer brusquely, but even he had his limits, and he had to allow that it would be dishonorable and unkind to continue to push her away when they kept allowing themselves to be drawn together in great collisions of carnal longing.
He forced himself to keep his tone even.
“I am attending one of my ducal duties,” he said.
Phoebe arched an eyebrow at him, and his stupid, traitorous face wanted to curve into a smile. This was the most attitude he’d seen from her in days, and he felt strangely heartened at its return.
“Surely,” she said, “you could not have expected to put me off.”
This time, his smile could not be suppressed.
“I didn’t, not really, but this is a duty better handled alone.”
She put a hand on him in a confrontational sort of way, but this time, he was not pleased with the show of defiance because he suspected that it was designed to hide a flicker of genuine hurt.
Except maybe Phoebe was braver than he was, because she didn’t hide her feelings for long.
“Are you ashamed of me?” she asked in that same way—defiance, brazenness, and real worry beneath. “Do you wish that someone else was your duchess?”
“No.” The answer left him too quickly to be anything but the truth.
“Then let me come with you.” Her answer was predictable, and Aaron was braced for the words, but he had no way to brace himself for the soft earnestness in her gaze.
Aaron had stood before a wall of cannons aimed directly at him and not flinched. But now, in the face of his wife’s desires, he felt cracks begin to form.
“I’m trying to protect you from something… painful,” he said. It was more vulnerability than he’d ever given anyone, and he felt it stretch something inside him.
And Phoebe bent with him; he could see it in her face.
“I’m made of sterner stuff than you think,” she said, no longer pushing for what she wanted but rather extending an invitation.
He didn’t know how he knew what she meant, but he did.
He’d never been good at reading people like that.
Scenarios, yes. Battle plans, very much so.
But he’d never been able to understand his older brother, had never been able to predict when his father’s temper would boil over, had never known what his mother meant when she just gave him one of those distant, cool looks.
But Phoebe? He saw her more clearly every day.
That must have been the thing that made him agree.
“Very well,” he said. “How soon can you be ready to go?”
It arose that, when properly motivated, Phoebe could move very quickly indeed. She was back down in the foyer within five minutes, dressed, coiffed, and wearing her warm winter clothing.
He must have looked surprised at this swiftness because she gave him a withering look that somehow managed not to be unkind.
“I didn’t want to give you a chance to change your mind,” she explained with a cheerful shrug.
And, despite the grim duty ahead of him, he found himself smiling at her again.
He could feel the effort it took her not to ask questions as they climbed into the carriage and began rolling down the streets of Mayfair.
The freezing temperatures had finally abated, and the roads were rapidly melting, leaving a layer of dirty sludge atop the cobblestones.
It was hardly a winter wonderland, and Aaron had a strange pang of fondness for his country estate, where there would be nothing but white for months to come.
Phoebe fidgeted significantly.
“You’re really being very patient over there,” he remarked slyly, not looking away from the window.
“Don’t tease,” she said, kicking lightly at his ankle. She was hampered by the skirts, her carriage, and the sturdy leather of his boots, though, so it was not terribly effective as a deterrent.
He was glad to have her with him, he realized.
“We’re going to a home for men who have been injured by their time in the war,” he told her.
“Like Jacob?” she asked, immediately following his shift in tone, matching it with her own sobriety.
He shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Jacob’s body was harmed, and some of these men… Yes, they’ve been harmed physically, most of them, but many of them have been injured in other ways. They cannot live independently, and that is another wound in itself.”
She considered this, then nodded.
“I understand how that could be,” she said. “To go from a soldier—a man who knows himself based on his might, his ability to protect—to someone without autonomy? I understand that would be painful.”
“Yes,” he agreed, impressed with the ease with which she had understood. Most people who hadn’t fought didn’t get it. They either expected a man to be merely happy to be alive or treated him like an object of pity.
“And so, getting visitors helps?” she asked.
“Getting visitors helps,” he agreed, nodding. And then, because it was hard to have her see him so clearly, he added as a distraction, “And having a pretty woman come to visit will help even more.”
“You don’t need to flatter me, Aaron,” she said. “I’m already in the carriage.”
He couldn’t resist pulling her across the carriage to sit beside him. He couldn’t quite deny that she felt good, tucked up against his side.
The house where the soldiers lived was nondescript, though it had a lovely sloping lawn that overlooked a small pond.
Right now, it was more like a divot full of ice, but in the spring and summer, it was very nice.
Despite the chill, several men were standing around outside, some alone, some in small groups.
One was smoking a cheroot while leaning heavily on a crutch to make up for his missing leg.
Aaron checked on Phoebe’s expression as they disembarked from the carriage, inspecting her for any traces of pity. The men here were sensitive to such things.
But he found that she looked appropriately somber and faintly curious, though not in a way that felt exploitative or salacious. It was more the expression that she might wear when visiting any new locale.
And then she turned away from the house and gave him an encouraging smile.
“Ready?” she asked.
And to his surprise, he found that he actually was.
“That’s a trick,” said Mr. Daniel Gibbons, formerly a warrant officer in his Majesty’s navy, cheerfully as he threw down a card.
Phoebe groaned and threw her cards down on the table in dismay. Her partner, Mr. Charles Chime, formerly a sergeant in His Majesty’s army, copied her gesture with a grunt of dismay.
“This is why ye cannae trust the navy men,” he said slowly, his words somewhat distorted by several large scars that cut through his face. It had taken one of his eyes and done some damage to his cheek and nose, but he was quite a good whist partner.
Not good enough to stop them from getting trounced by Mr. Gibbons and his partner, fellow Navy man Mr. Russell Boll.
“As much as I’d like to blame our losses on anything other than my dismal gameplay,” Phoebe retorted as Mr. Gibbons shuffled the cards for their next set, “I am married to a navy man myself, so I shall have to seek another reason.”
The three men exchanged amused glances, any rivalries abandoned.
“Indeed,” said Mr. Boll, leaning back in his chair. “The Admiral.”
Phoebe arched a brow at him. Former soldiers, she had learned quickly during her visit, were as dreadful about gossiping as Society matrons.
They had clearly been curious about her from the moment she had arrived, but they hadn’t let their defenses down until after Aaron had stepped away and Phoebe had agreed to a game of whist. This had momentarily distracted them, as apparently, they sometimes struggled to find a fourth.
But now that Phoebe had raised the topic of her marriage, their curiosity was roused anew.
Phoebe was not about to be intimidated. They might be savvier than she when it came to battle, but she was the expert when it came to sidelong glances and sly little comments.
“Is there something you wanted to ask me, Mr. Boll?” she asked, crossing her arms.
Mr. Boll had all of his limbs, but one arm was in a sling. Some injury had caused it to be permanently unresponsive to his desires, but he tucked his uninjured arm behind the sling to mimic her pose.
“Indeed, there is, Your Grace,” he said. His expression was so grave, and his pause so pronounced that, for a moment, Phoebe actually got nervous. Then he grinned, revealing a chipped tooth that added character to his smile.
“How,” he asked in a low voice, “did you possibly manage to pin that man down?”
Phoebe was startled into a laugh that was far overshadowed by the guffaws from the other three.
“You’re terrible,” she accused.
Mr. Boll shrugged his good shoulder.
“There’s little for entertainment around here, but some well-meaning woman donated us a whole shelf of books that are, shall we say, daring.” Phoebe raised an eyebrow at him; Mr. Boll did not look at all sorry. “It has brought my romantic side to the surface.”
She rolled her eyes, but she already felt a sense of fondness toward the men.
Not everyone here had been friendly or eager to see her—not that she took it personally, given that they were all here for their own reasons and fighting their own demons—but these three were clearly very social, and Phoebe could tell that they were a bit starved for novelty.
As someone who had frequently been reckless enough to sneak out at night by herself, she could understand that desire perfectly well.
“I am afraid you’re destine for disappointment, then,” she said. “Ours is a very tonnish arrangement; we married for the practical reasons, not for romantic ones.”
She wasn’t precisely certain what Aaron’s reasons were, of course…
“Tosh,” said Mr. Gibbons.
“Nay,” said Mr. Chime.
“I cannot believe that,” said Mr. Boll. “There have no doubt been countless women offering themselves to the Admiral for practical reasons, and while I don’t doubt that your charms exceed that of any of those other pretenders—”
“This is a great deal of flattery,” Phoebe observed.
“—I cannot imagine that the fearsome Admiral Warson would marry against his own wishes,” Mr. Boll concluded triumphantly. “I did not serve under him myself, but his reputation is widely known. He is very respected.”
“Even in the army,” Mr. Chime contributed.
Mr. Gibbons looked at the other two like they were missing something important.
“And he’s rich!” he argued. “He’s a bloody duke—begging your pardon for the language, Your Grace—and he’s rich enough to pay for this whole damn place!”
“What?” Phoebe interjected, startled.
It was almost comical, the way all three of them froze then tried to look innocent.
Mr. Chime was the first to break, his gaze drifting toward where Aaron was sitting with one of the more severely injured men, a former infantryman who did little more than sit in his wheeled chair and gaze out the large picture window.
“Don’t look at him; he’s the one who is going to be cross about you revealing his secrets,” Phoebe chided. “Look at me—answer me.”
Mr. Chime did so with extreme reluctance.
“Technically, it is nae more than a rumor,” he said.
“Very believable!” Phoebe said.
He looked cheerful. “Really?”
“No,” she said flatly. “Aaron pays for… all of this?”
Mr. Boll let out an impatient huff. “He does, all right? But you didn’t hear it from us.”
Phoebe nodded her head in acquiescence to these terms.
Mr. Boll shook his head, apparently at himself.
“I’m gossiping with someone who calls the Admiral by his Christian name,” he muttered in his faint Irish lilt.
“Christ deliver me.” At his usual volume, he said.
“Yes, he pays for it all. And I’ve been here since before we lived in this house.
The place we were before…” He trailed off, but Phoebe could tell what he meant by his grim expression.
“Not good?”
“Not good,” he confirmed. “And we were always one ill turn away from losing that place, too. Then the Admiral inherits, becomes the Duke, and—” He gestured with his arm at their surroundings, which, while not luxurious, were spacious, clean, and well-maintained.
“I see,” she said.
Mr. Gibbons was looking between Phoebe and Mr. Boll with an air of great anxiety.
“But please, Your Grace,” he begged, “don’t tell him that we told you.”
“You aren’t in the military any longer, Mr. Gibbons,” she reminded him. “It’s no crime to talk, especially about things that are true. If it were, the entire ton would find themselves in Newgate before the day was through.”
Mr. Gibbons looked nearly offended.
“It’s not that,” he protested. “It’s that Admiral Warson… he’s the bravest bastard I’ve ever met.” He paused. “Begging your pardon again, Your Grace.”
She waved off the apology.
Mr. Boll was looking at her closely. “The thing you should understand, Your Grace,” he said carefully, “is that your husband saved the lives of half the men here—and that was before we came to this place. Most high-ranking officers sat safely during battle, but not the Admiral. We all owe him our lives.” He held Phoebe’s gaze.
“And it’s an honor to stand by him as we can. ”