The viscount shifted his horse a bit closer. “Richard’s order was that I remove you from here and take you home at all costs.”
“If Richard wants me to visit him, he will send an invitation to which I have the right to refuse or accept. I understand why he thought it prudent to send someone to ascertain my safety and whereabouts.” Regret clawed through her at the pain and worry he must have felt. If not for Evie’s difficulties with her pregnancy, she knew Richard would have come for her.
The viscount sent her a considering look. “I would like to return to London in a few days, Lady Phoebe. I suggest you prepare yourself for your travels.”
There was an undercurrent of something dangerous in the viscount’s tone, and she clenched the reins between her gloved hands. As if sensing her disquiet, the horse shifted and tossed his head a bit.
“I do not know you, and I will not be going anywhere with you, Lord Malfoy,” she said flatly. “If that was an invitation to accompany you to England, my answer is a most decided no. I trust you will convey my regrets to my brother and that I am safe and well taken care of. I will have a letter sent to him right away with a promise to visit soon.”
Something glinted in his eyes. It was hard to decipher, but she did not like it. Phoebe knew enough about her brother and the dangerous people he mixed with to feel a shiver of wariness dancing down her spine.
“I was afraid you would make it difficult,” the viscount murmured.
“If you come any closer, I will scream,” she warned. “I might also appear small, but I am a ferocious fighter.”
His eyes widened, and he held up his gloved hands. “I would never harm you, Lady Phoebe. To do so would be signing my own death warrant, hmm? But the only response Richard would accept is your presence in London.”
“Then perhaps you would prefer to return with me to the main house and allow my husband to provide the answer?”
Lord Malfoy went remarkably still. “Your husband?”
She lifted her chin. “Yes.”
His eyes widened with incredulity. “You’ve been missing for a little over five months but have managed to procure yourself a husband?”
And a child. But that she did not say, not knowing how he would handle that information, and it was evident to her Richard had not shared the circumstances under which she fled or the details written in her letter. He’d only given his arrogant order that she be returned at all cost.
The viscount sent her a calculating glance. “I presume this husband of yours would not allow you to return with me.”
She sent him a tight smile. You presume right. “I cannot own to his thoughts; it is best you meet with him to ascertain them.”
The viscount stared at her for a few moments, then unexpectedly the man tipped his hat, whirled around, and trotted off. “Good-bye, my lady,” he called out without turning around. “I shall convey your messages to Lord Westfall.”
“Please tell Richard that I shall write him,” she yelled.
However, the man gave no indication he heard her. With a sigh, she urged her horse toward the stables.
What are you thinking, Richard? Though his arrogance was a bit annoying, warmth filled her chest, for she knew he loved her. “I am terribly sorry I made you worry,” she whispered. “We shall all be in London soon, and I promise I shall make it up to you.”
…
Hugh stared at his wife’s retreating figure, an odd feeling pressing against his chest. He’d signed as she entered, “Who was that man?” and she dismissed his query with a simple, “I do not know him, and I dare say he is of little consequence.”
Yet he had observed their interactions. The way she had spoken to that man hadn’t seemed inconsequential. His wife had been tense, and that supposed stranger had crowded her too closely.
“I do not like this one bit,” the earl muttered, coming to his side. “She…she was like that, too. Your mother would meet men of all sort and then pretend ignorance.”
“Phoebe is nothing like that woman.”
He harrumphed suspiciously before his face creased into a smile and joy lit in his eyes. “Let me have my granddaughter.”
That heaviness turned into a ball of ice, and Hugh’s entire body chilled. He dutifully handed Franny over to his father, glancing out the window toward the lawn. That man and his horse was a speck in the distance.
“Investigate it wisely,” his father said in a grave voice, completely at odds with the faces he made to the baby.
Hugh lifted his fingers. “There is nothing to investigate.”
“Katherine did the same. Met with…met with her lovers right under my nose. Your viscountess knows that man…to my old eyes, they seemed intimate.”
“And if they are, it does not have the power to affect me or our plans. You forget her role in my life.” He kept his face carefully composed, but Hugh was startled to realize his heart was pounding and an odd sensation he never felt before assailed him.
What in God’s name is this?
Ignoring the thumping in his heart, Hugh made his way to his study. Once there, he spent an hour going over some ledgers and investment reports that had been sent to him from their various estates across England. Try as he might, he could not immerse himself in his work. His thoughts kept returning to his wife, the flush on her cheeks when she had come inside earlier, the hesitation before she had answered his query. But worse, he was stuck deep in the emotions that had assailed him…no, feelings that were still darting through him. What were they? How difficult they were to unravel, given their perplexing and strange nature.
With a grunt of irritation, he leaned back against the high wingback chair and closed his eyes. Visions of his wife crowded his thoughts, and the ache in his heart grew to shocking proportions. It belatedly occurred to him that the notion she might have fibbed affected him. Too much, given the almost physical nature of how his damn chest hurt.
He came out of his relaxed pose and withdrew from his top drawer a sheaf of paper, an inkwell, and a quill. He would write her a letter, without dwelling too much on what he wanted to say, and perhaps then the truth of his emotions would reveal itself.
He wrote for several minutes before he paused to read his words. Bloody hell! He really hadn’t thought about what he wanted to say.
Dear Phoebe,
I like you.
Why hadn’t he demanded a reason for her evasiveness with the man on the horse? Instead…I like you. He placed the paper on the table as if to hold it any longer would burst it into flames. He folded his arms across his chest and peered at it with a scowl.
Do I trust you, is that it, my wife? Have I allowed you inside a part of me that no one else has and not realized it?