When he said nothing, she lifted her chin, holding his stare with hers.
“I cannot tell when I started to fall in love with you, Hugh. I did…I do love you, and love matters so much.”
“Don’t.”
“Ambrose—”
“Don’t. I am not that man, and I will never be that man.”
Her chest rose and fell raggedly.
Then to her shock, he lurched from his seat to sit beside her. Hugh cupped her cheeks, lifting her face to his so he could press his mouth to her forehead. The brush of his lips was cold, indifferent, and a knife to her heart.
Then he dropped his hands and signed. “You are my wife. You are my family. Of course, I will care for you always, Phoebe. But I am not interested in love or sentiments. I am not interested in how it makes people fools…how it breaks their spirit and how it makes them lose all semblance of self and pride. You knew this about me from my letters, so do not look at me with those wounded eyes, as if I have broken something inside you. I was never that man, nor will I ever be.”
Her lips trembling fiercely, she fought the need to cry. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks, and her chest burned with the effort to hold her hurt inside. If her husband had even cared a bit about the love that she felt for him, he would have offered something more than, “I am not that man.”
He had not offered any hope that their union might continue with the same tenderness as before, with the same joy and anticipation of a new day.
I was never that man nor will I ever be.
She tried to bring back her earlier resolve that she was quite fine with a marriage that only existed for mutual benefit, but that belief could no longer be held in her heart. Every smile, touch, kiss, conversation between them had altered her. And she suspected he had been, too, but instead of welcoming it, he had grabbed it into his fist and shattered that budding love.
And for the first time in months, Phoebe eased back away from him, into the shadows of the carriage, and silently wept.
Chapter Nineteen
The softest of kisses brushed against Phoebe’s nape, and she closed her eyes against the pain and pleasure that caress wrought. Her husband stroked the side of her arm over the silken sleeves of her nightgown. That brought a lump in her throat as she fought the urge to cry. Burying the useless emotion, she turned in the cage of his arms and twined her hands around his neck. They had returned from England to their home in Scotland a little over a month now, and each day it was hammered in her heart that he would never fall in love with her.
Everyone in the household tried to honor the old earl’s wish by not swathing the mansion in black. But they had refrained from all social gathering, and each invitation that had braved the wintry roads from Aberdeen and Edinburgh had been declined. They privately mourned him and had no wish to return to Society until a full year had passed. Until that time, they had a reprieve from the malicious rumors they might face. But it reassured Phoebe greatly that her brothers and his influential friends would stand boldly ready to welcome the Winthrops into their folds. The hurdles they would endure would still be tremendous, but Phoebe was willing to brave it all for dear Caroline.
She traced his full lips with her finger, thinking of the polite routine they had fallen into and how, while comfortable, it felt empty. Each morning they would break their fast together, then he would spend an hour or more with Franny before he disappeared behind the closed door of his office. There he would stay for hours, until the dinner bell rang. Other times he would leave the estate and only return at the lowering of the sun. Their dinner conversations were about the weather and sometimes about her meetings with the solicitors she had invited to help with the construction of Hope, the tentative name of her charity. It had sunk deep into her bones that what they now had was a normal ton marriage. He had no expectations of her, and she should have none beyond the polite courtesy, his name, and money.
So many ladies would be satisfied and find their happiness in the arms of a lover. That very notion was repugnant to her heart and honor. How could so many in society accept a marriage without love and affection as the normal way of things? How could anyone scoff at a love match?
He nipped at the finger across his lips before sucking it into his mouth. Her knees weakened, and she moaned, sagging against him. He released her finger. A tug at the strings of her nightgown bared her throat fully and the mound of her breasts. Their chamber was cast in more shadows than light; still she risked glancing up, for Phoebe could not look into his beautiful eyes anymore without a dagger tearing into her heart.
Whenever our gazes collide, your eyes are so carefully contained. How do I bear staring at you?
He gripped her hips and lifted her in his arms, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips. Within a few strides, he had them tumbling on the bed, her nightgown pushed to her waist, his hot lips at her throat.
Whenever we make love, you do not kiss me anymore.
She closed her eyes against that pained awareness. Her husband hadn’t kissed her lips since London. Wicked heat curled low in her belly, and even as he reached between them and notched his manhood at her wet aching entrance, her body quivered in delight and her heart cried at its emptiness. The duality of the emotions wrecked her. A wild cry ripped from Phoebe as he buried himself to the hilt in one stroke.
She held him to her, agonizing pleasure pummeling her body as he loved her with sometimes slow and torturous strokes, then wicked and ravaging plunges. When they found their pleasure together several moments later, she turned to her side, pillowing her hand beneath her cheek. The bed dipped as he disappeared, then he returned with a washcloth to clean away his seed and lowered her nightgown.
Her heart pounded, and she shifted to lay on her back and stare at the darkened ceiling.
She had been enduring his civility and the polite indifference, which only thawed briefly when he took her to heights of bliss. And she was not the sort to endure anything for long without acting. Phoebe had long accepted that she was reckless and impulsive, and if she wanted contentment in her marriage, perhaps she should fashion a reckless plan that would allow her husband to fall in love with her.
What did ladies of the ton do to make gentlemen write poems and sonnets in their names? And artful love letters.
Perhaps she could write a letter and ask Evie. As Evie had regaled Phoebe at the celebratory ball after her wedding, she had been in love with Richard for so very long, but her cold-hearted brother had been impervious to Evie. That was until she had boldly taken the reins and decided to seduce him into noticing her.
But you already come to my bed every night.
She truly had no notion what to do.
Hugh lay beside her, and several minutes later, she could tell that he was still awake. He rolled to her, gripped her hips, and tugged her onto his chest. This he did every night, for she refused to curl into his arms anymore. If he wanted her there, he would damn well reach for her.