Yet he did not wrap his arms around her or kiss her forehead as he had done in the past. Though her back was pressed to his chest and she could feel the beat of his heart against her skin, there was a divide that seemed impossible to cross.
He had drawn an invisible line, and nothing she had done had breached that line or his impenetrable silence on the matter. Phoebe could no longer pretend or ignore the truth. Their previous relationship had been altered indelibly and might never return.
Phoebe closed her eyes and pressed a trembling finger to her lips. She recalled each wonderful memory: how they had laughed while they raced together, the lanterns in the sky, the sweet and tender way he would kiss her, the beautiful way he had played the flute…and then she allowed the images to disintegrate as if fire had burned them to ashes and then the wind picked them up and scattered them across the wasteland.
I can tell that everything is different between us. You say nothing, but you do not have to. I feel the distance in your every touch, in your lack of kisses, the way you hold me in the night. It says though we are in the same room…the same bed, we are miles apart, and you are not interested in ending that distance.
She closed her eyes to trap her tears, but they still leaked, ran down her temple, and onto his chest. A tight tension wound through his frame when he felt her tears, and the sudden pounding of his heart echoed through her body. Yet neither of them moved.
“Do not expect me to love you forever when you are indifferent to me,” she whispered in the stillness of the dark. “I will not suffer for my heart to break daily.”
Thud.
His heart felt as if it had slammed against his ribcage. Yet he did not move. A massive boulder of loss pressed against her chest. It hurt, somewhere deep down, that she did not have his love and her presence in his life was merely tolerated. All the feelings she had been bottling inside these last few weeks as she still smiled brightly and went about her day broke. Fierce and complex sensations tumbled through Phoebe, and an unrelenting fist closed itself over her heart.
How utterly silly I’ve been in hoping for more from another gentleman. But I am to be blamed, for I willingly deceived my own heart. Never once had Hugh promised more than a marriage of convenience. Phoebe resolved to lock away the foolish hope she’d had in her heart and never allow it to resurface.
…
Hugh’s feet crunched in the snow as he held a very bundled Franny in his arms, strolling back to the main house, a playful Wolf yipping by their side. Once the weather proved pleasant, he would take his daughter for a walk, for she loved the outdoors. She would always perk up, her gaze staring about in wonder as she babbled her pleasure. He peeked down at her, and he could barely see her rosy cheek through her swaddle.
He felt his wife before he saw her. His reaction to her nearness couldn’t be explained; it simply was. Hugh’s heart would race and the fine hair at his nape would prickle. The soft footfall indicated she was near, but he did not turn around. This morning she hadn’t joined him when he walked with their daughter. And last night. He closed his eyes against the memory, but the words had been interred in his thoughts and had been haunting him since she spoke them.
Do not expect me to love you forever when you are indifferent to me.
The pain in her voice had profoundly shocked him, for he had not meant to hurt her. That had never been his intention, yet he had thoughtlessly done so. Every action had been about ensuring she did not matter too much, but she still mattered—surely she saw that. Yet there was an air of melancholy that had been increasing daily, and to witness it gutted him. It mattered to Hugh that Phoebe was happy, that she was contented with her lot as his countess. That mattered to him as breathing was necessary. Yet he thought it ridiculous that three simple little words, “I love you,” could be what she needed to hear.
Is that what you need from me, my wife? I love you?
He hadn’t forgotten her sweet, fervent cry when he had been buried inside of her. Hugh often lingered over that declaration, wondering at the way his heart pounded when he recalled the instant those words had left her lips and the dread he had felt that she might expect a return of such sentiment.
Despite his vow to be alert to the danger she presented, Hugh ensured he treated her with care and respect, yet frustratingly he could see that for his wife and her romantic sensibilities, it was not enough when their union was more than what most ton marriages owned.
It was idiotic. What the hell did saying, “I love you,” have to do with a good marriage? They were just words. They held no power or benefit, so why did she want them? And why am I unable to admit to them? He wondered if he were to sign it, that would make her feel better. Franny chortled, and he peered down into her dimpled smile. A fierce emotion swelled in his heart, and he found himself bringing her close to nuzzle that small bit of exposed cheek. She yawned, and when he brought her to his chest, she snuggled against him with a sigh of contentment.
Do I love you, Franny? This feeling that I must protect you against all harm and be there for you in every way, is this love?
He loved his daughter, Hugh knew, for it was a similar emotion he felt regarding Caroline, William, and his father. So why was it so difficult to think of his wife and love in the same breath?
A startling awareness wormed through his heart, faltering his steps.
Because you are the only one whom loving can break me if I should allow it. If I love you…my love for you would turn you into my reason and if I should lose you…what, then?
Memories he hadn’t allow himself to recall in years surfaced, and he willingly closed his eyes and walked through them. He saw her…his mother, the love she had for him, evident in the tender way she would kiss and sing to him. He felt it, the ravaging pain when he had curled on the floor of his bedroom and cried for her for days. He saw the old earl, in the gardens sobbing when he thought no one was around. The shame in Caroline’s eyes when she sat by the lake, staring at her reflection and wondering aloud at the identity of her real father before sobbing her heart out. All because of love. So much pain because of that bloody word.
More than a word, something unfathomable whispered through him. Hugh scowled. If it was more than a word, he had no notion what the hell it represented, having never felt this ephemeral love. Hating that he was twisted inside, he turned around. His wife was a vision in a red redingote with a similarly bright red bonnet, a vivid contrast to the pristine white snow she trudged upon. Phoebe’s head was lowered, her brows gently furrowed, her thumb of one hand caught between her teeth as she read, with evident anxiety, her novel. Her eyes grew wider, the thumb slipped from her hand, and she pressed that palm to her chest, and to his amusement, she did a twirl.
So it was a happy ending, then.
On her second twirl, she noticed that he watched her. That bright, delightful smile dimmed, shadows growing in her eyes. The steps that came to him no longer hurried as they usually did, as if she couldn’t wait to be with him. Now as she strolled over, those steps were tentative and unsure.