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“Perhaps the young lord will marry you,” Sarah proffered hopefully.
“He is the future Lord of Albury! Such a man would never marry me once he learned my secret.”
Those words settled low in his gut, hard and heavy. Another secret.
He knocked on the door three times. It was shortly opened by the maid, who dipped into a quick, respectful curtsy. Lady Phoebe stood and hurriedly wiped the tears from her face. She was still clothed in her cloak, though her gloves and bonnet had been removed. Was she still cold?
Hugh entered and lifted his chin toward the hallway, a clear signal that he required to speak with her lady alone. She glanced at her mistress, who nodded slightly before hurrying from the room, but careful to leave the door ajar.
Hugh smiled and pushed the door closed into her startled face.
“Viscount Huxley,” Lady Phoebe admonished, glancing at the door behind him.
He walked over to where she stood by the sofa and sat on the cushion close to her, leaning forward to rest the ink and inkwell on the small walnut table. There was a pause before she lowered herself beside him but shifted so there was space between them. Hugh glanced at her, almost startled by her closeness. He could see the wild flutter of pulse at her throat. He couldn’t help staring at her, a regard she returned, almost shyly. The
re was a stubborn pride in the set of her small chin, and her golden eyes were truly the prettiest he’d ever seen. Those eyes were a wide pool of pain, with vulnerability and uncertainty etched on her face as if rendered by a loving artist’s gentle brush, yet he also saw delicacy and strength.
Her gaze lowered to his hands, and it was then he realized he was tightly clutching the papers. To his great annoyance, heat crept up his neck. Facing forward, he opened the inkpot, dipped in the quill, and wrote.
Before he could push the paper over for it to be read, she shifted closer and dipped her head. The unexpected closeness sent his pulse skittering. He turned his head slightly. She was staring at him.
The tension that leaped inside him was unusual and unexpected. The fingers that pushed a few artful curls kissing her rosy cheeks behind her ears trembled. Then she lowered her gaze to the paper.
I got your last letter.
Lady Phoebe sent him a swift upward glance, searching his eyes. Then she reached for a paper and quill, her fingers colliding with his. The feel of her hand was an immediate assault on his senses. God, she was soft.
Hugh faltered into stillness and lifted his gaze to her. She was staring at their fingers, and her cheeks pinkened even more.
Slowly, as if he might bite, she withdrew her fingers and lifted her regard to his. “I…I thought to write my response as well. Very silly now, I see, but…but I did not think, I… Oh, I am more nervous than I thought!”
Her voice broke, and she glanced away toward the fire for several moments. Not foolish, but she was nervous. With a small smile, he pushed the paper across the table to her and held up the quill.
He saw the tension lifted from her shoulders, and the soft sigh which escaped her lips did the most unexpected thing. It traveled to somewhere inside of him and stayed. That could be the only reason to explain the decidedly odd weakness assailing him.
She dipped the quill in the inkwell, blotted, and then wrote. I wondered if I arrived before my letter. The reason for my presence is very clear to you, then.
Well, he hoped that was what the awful scribble said. Their gaze collided, and he quickly looked at the paper again and then back at her. Hugh scrubbed a hand over his face, and then one of the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard reached him. She’d giggled before quickly slapping a hand over her mouth. She lowered that hand to softly say, “I can see that you are horrified with my script. Growing up my tutors and governess were equally appalled. I shall speak, then.”
He pressed a hand over his heart and wilted against the sofa to communicate his relief. Her smile widened, and her eyes…they peered at him as if she didn’t know what to make of him. Hugh understood. He didn’t know what the hell to make of his own actions. Brushing aside the uncharacteristic need to lessen her worry, he reached for the paper and wrote. Why do you wish for us to marry?
Her cheeks turned a darker shade of red, but she still lifted her chin and met his curious stare. “I require a husband most urgently.”
Her quiet, solemn tone settled into the chamber. Another quick scrawl on the paper and her gaze lowered to the table.
You were compromised.
Her chest rose and fell on an unsteady breath. “Yes.”
You are the daughter of the duke of Salop.
“Yes.”
Does he know you are here, Lady Phoebe?
She stared at him for a long moment. “No.”
Your family has considerable influence in Society.
