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I must think about this carefully.
Opening the door to her own private parlor, she entered and left the door ajar. Immediately, she felt soothed, and she walked over to the escritoire by the windows. It was one of her favorite things about the room. One of the walls was made up entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows. Sunlight poured in, bathing the room in a bright glow.
Phoebe lowered into the chair by the writing desk, determined to complete her letters today. She had already written Richard, informing him of her marriage and to which family, assuring him that she was safe. It had been more difficult to compose a letter to the duke and duchess. Several times she had attempted it, to only give up and crumple the paper. Today she would send that letter. She withdrew a sheaf of paper, with the quill and inkwell.
Dear Mama,
I write to inform you that I am married, and—
A breath shuddered from Phoebe, and she lowered the quill. And what? That pain and doubt she’d believed buried roiled deep in her heart. “And what, Mama? What do I say?” She crossed out the words, lowering her forehead to the desk.
A soft noise had her jerking up and turning around. The viscount hovered in the doorway with Wolf faithfully by his side, and she realized he’d deliberately made that noise to alert her of his presence. Phoebe carefully stood and dipped into a quick curtsy.
“Wolf,” she said softly, and he barked and bounded over to her.
Phoebe laughed when he jumped up and licked her chin. “Up,” she said while using the hand sign to command him.
It was a wonder she did not tumble back when he placed two of his paws on her shoulders. She hugged him quickly then released him so he could trot back to his master. There were days she missed him awfully. He had been her loyal friend for several months, and while he visited her often, he spent most of his time with Hugh. Sometimes she would stay in this very room and watch as they rough roused on the lawns. At those moments, it would astonish her to see the viscount smiling and so playful.
That quick greeting with Wolf over, she observed Hugh had a note in his hand. He lifted it up so she could see it and then walked further in the room to rest it on the small walnut table between the sofas. A lump formed in her throat. He had only meant to deliver the note, and from his mode of dressing, he would call for his carriage soon and be away for the rest of the day.
Where did he go when he left the manor? There would be nothing more mortifying if his affections were engaged otherwise and that attributed to his polite distance. She loathed the very idea of it, and she was painfully aware she was not able to demand he give up his lover should he have one. Even her father had a mistress, and the duchess turned a careful blind eye to it. Phoebe had always sworn she would never marry a gentleman unwilling to give up his chère amie.
“Do you have a mistress, my lord?” she blurted. Every prudent consideration had been tossed to the winds; she simply had to know.
His eyes flared wide, and Phoebe could see that she astonished him. “If you will forgive my boldness,” she said, some amusement curling through her, though she was careful to keep her composure. “I am curious to know if you are one of those gentlemen who keeps a chère amie along with a wife.” Then I can better understand my expectations.
He shook his head slowly and canted his head left, staring at her. Then he lifted his hands and made a slashing motion. She knew that to mean no. Relief hit her and, with it, a lifting of spirits.
“That is good, as I’m not the sort of lady who would tolerate such unfaithfulness in a marriage.” There, in the event the notion occurred to him in the future.
It appeared again, that small twitch of his lips and the provoking humor in his brilliant gaze. Clearly, she had amused him. Phoebe took a step toward him. She wanted him to challenge her, maybe demand how she would dare to stop him if he decided to take a mistress. With a sense of startlement, she realized she wanted to cross witty swords with him…as they had in their letters.
Phoebe could tell that he wanted to say more, and she saw the moment he changed his mind. Disappointment rushed through her. He dipped into a bow, and she hurriedly stepped forward.
“Do not leave!” Good heavens, she was losing all sense of her promise to be a proper wife. Proper wives did not question their husbands about lovers, nor did they command them to stay in a room. Blast it!
He regarded her with a slight crease between his brows.
“I have papers,” she said, waving at the table. “If you wish for us to converse…I have papers.”
His expression smoothed, he made his way over to her and looked down. With a frown, he took up the paper she had been writing on, and with a gasp she snatched it away from it. “Not this one!”
He made a motion with his hand.
Phoebe paused. The need to learn his language had blossomed through her so they could talk so much more freely. A few mornings she’d asked Caroline to teach her, but those lessons were brief and not enough for what she wanted with him. “Are you asking me why?”
He nodded once. She peered up at him, wondering why she had asked him to stay. While she appreciated his kindness, there was a reserve about him, one that cloaked him like a dark shadow and appeared impenetrable. Phoebe wasn’t certain he was aware of it. Though he was pleasant, he exuded nothing else.
Once again, her heart squeezed. She had chosen to marry this man. She did not expect love or any such nonsense, but they could be friends, if he was willing to try. “It is a letter I have been trying to write to my mother…and father. Every day I come here, and I start to write it, but I cannot seem to finish it.”
An arrested look appeared in his eyes. He made the same sign as before, and she tentatively lifted her hands and mimicked him. “Why?”
He formed another symbol.
“I know that to mean yes,” she murmured.
He nodded, his eyes unexpectedly warm and curious. At her silence, he reached for the quill and scratched on the paper.
