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Shock blossomed through her in a chilly wave. Along with sorrow and fear.
An Earl.
Albury was a title spoken in hushed whispers in her father’s study whenever he met with his political cronies and fellow business investors. It was a title long held by the Winthrops. She had never met the family out in society nor heard their names mentioned anywhere else. Supposedly, they found the frivolity of the seasons beneath their notice.
A gentleman with such a bright future ahead would have his duty to the title and the realm. Such a man, of course, would never marry a lady who was so irrevocably ruined…even if she was the daughter of a duke with an inheritance of fifty thousand pounds. The urge to cry shuddered painfully inside her chest. Phoebe was out of her element—out of her mind more like it—to have arrived on a stranger’s doorstep without an invitation. And why? Because of precisely ten letters. Never more had she felt the weight of her age and inexperience.
“I sent you a letter, one of utmost importance; however, I was unable to wait for your reply to my query. I needed to depart England immediately.” On the week’s journey, she had lived with the possibility his answer might have been no. Based on their exchanges, she knew she was not at all the kind of lady he wanted to marry, even though she had never understood the reasoning behind his requirements. She had been so desperate, afraid, and fiercely protective of the life growing inside her that every prudent consideration had been tossed to the winds, and she had acted, hoping that she was doing so with courage and not with stupidity.
The reality of her situation and just how naive she was in the ways of the world rested on her shoulders at that moment—heavy and uncompromising. Nothing felt familiar, and nothing felt safe. And Phoebe felt more alone than she’d ever been in her nineteen years.
Her throat aching, she stopped only a few feet from him. She dipped into a curtsy. “I believe we should dispense with our…sobriquets. I’m Lady Phoebe Maitland, daughter of the Duke of Salop.”
His gaze sharpened. That should be enough to ensure she was offered shelter and be treated with all courtesy until she came up with another plan.
“Welcome, Lady Phoebe,” the butler intoned.
After an almost imperceptible nod of the butler’s head, three footmen appeared and made their way to the coach behind her.
At the lack of welcome, her heart grew heavier. “Please forgive me, my lord.”
A rough bark from the carriage halted her speech. Thank heavens, she wasn’t all certain what she had been about to say. The stranger before her stiffened, his eyes growing wide.
“Oh! I do hope you like dogs. He was sleeping inside the carriage, and he is a huge beast I did not wish to wake without first securing permission.”
The viscount touched her shoulder, a quick brush, but the shock of it had Phoebe peering up at him. But he wasn’t looking at her. His palm was pressed flat against his chest, and his breath clearly held. Phoebe swore he still did not breathe when he stepped around her as the massive dog leaped from the carriage in one graceful bound. But he did not run to her. No, Wolf darted forward with the power of his legs taking him over to the man who had sunk on his knees and held out his arms in a few leaps.
Phoebe stared in astonishment as the dog crashed into the viscount, who held on to him as if his life depended on it. Wolf was so excited, his barking had devolved into soft and slightly high whines, his tail wagging in a manner she had never seen.
It was a reunion.
A powerful one, too, for the man held the dog’s face, peered into his eyes, and rested his forehead against the beast. They stayed like that—the viscount uncaring the graveled driveway would ruin his pants and Wolf silent as they stared at each other. Another jolt went through her when the dog placed his massive paw over each of the viscount’s shoulders then rested his large head onto said shoulder.
They were hugging. The beauty of it stole her breath.
Sarah hurried to stand beside her. “I cannot believe what I see, milady! They seem to know each other.”
“He…he is the master who wrote the letter to care for Wolf.”
The viscount stood, the dog pressed against his side as if he would never leave him and faced her.
“Wolf…he is your dog?”
He nodded then pressed two fingers over his heart, tapped once, then dipped into a brief but elegant bow.
“But I thought you were on your death bed?” she said, dazed.
Then the truth of his situation struck her. The viscount could not speak.
The silence felt awfully awkward, then the butler cleared his throat, dragging her eyes to him.
“It had been a very trying time, milady, and the doctor’s report was dire. However, after several days abed, milord rallied, to everyone’s surprise but exceeding gladness, and is now quite well.”
She shifted her regard to the viscount…and he was just staring at her. Her mind groped for something, anything else. “Do you believe in the whimsy of fate or destiny?”
That she hadn’t meant to say; it sounded so very silly to her ears.
Humor lit in his eyes, and unexpectedly he smiled. The incredible sensual beauty of it struck Phoebe. Her cheeks went hot, her throat and belly, too. Her heart tripped, and butterflies wreaked havoc with her stomach. What is this feeling?
