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“And when he is no longer a curiosity?”
“He is too wealthy for that to happen. Even I have heard about the Winthrop wealth. It is rumored in the millions.”
That jolted Phoebe. She hoped that enigma and his wealth would be enough to pave the way when their mourning period was over.
“How old is Winthrop?” Richard murmured
“Five and twenty.”
“He is ruthless for one so young.”
“So are you,” she whispered. “And so is Father. Perhaps I was destined to fall in love with a man with a similar inclination.”
Richard’s eyes sharpened. “So you truly love him?”
She pressed a hand against her stomach. “Frightfully so.”
“I can see that I have little need to worry about your safety.”
She smiled.
“I will worry about your heart,” he said gruffly.
Phoebe’s eyes widened to hear her once-cynical brother speak so casually about matters of the heart. His apparent weakness for Evie was something Phoebe would never get used to seeing. “What about my heart?” she murmured.
“While he is protective of you, Albury does not look at you like a man in love,” he said with brutal frankness. “You must protect yourself, Phoebe. You might be unwilling to admit it, but that man had ulterior motives for marrying you. I do not want you to hide from it and leave yourself open to pain.”
She flinched as a quiver of pain arrowed through her chest. Phoebe did everything to hide the torment digging at her heart. “He is frightfully contained with his emotions, but I assure you not only is he protective of me, but he treats me with kindness. He also desires me quite a lot.”
Richard scowled and tugged at his neckcloth as if she made him uncomfortable at the mention of her husband desiring her.
“Protection and kindness are not love,” he retorted.
She wanted to yell at him that he should leave her some hope. Why did she feel so horribly vulnerable and scared? “Perhaps they are the beginning of it.”
Her brother hesitated, and his gaze lowered briefly to her hands. It was then she realized she had them clenched tightly around the edges of her skirt. She released her dress as if she had been singed and smoothed the wrinkles.
“If you ever need to breathe…come to me, Phoebe. My home is always open to you, and no one can take you from it unless you are willing.”
She nodded and walked over to him to press a kiss to his cheek. When she moved to walk away, he enfolded her in a hug. “I love you, poppet.”
Tears formed in her eyes. The last time Richard had been this affectionate and called her poppet was before Francis had died.
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
A few minutes later, she went outside to see her husband waiting patiently in the hallway, the viscount nowhere to be seen. Hugh turned at the closing of the door and held out his hand. Her heart thumped as she placed her gloved hand in his and allowed him to sweep her away from her brother’s residence to the waiting carriage outside.
Once they were settled inside the carriage, she leaned her head against the squab, painfully aware that his stare had not left her person. Never the kind of person to shy away from scrutiny, she lowered her gaze to his. A strange stirring began in the pit of her stomach and drifted lower.
His gaze moved to her mouth, his desire to kiss her a tangible thing. Phoebe went over to him and sat in his lap. She twined her hands around his neck and kissed him. He responded immediately, but her heart went cold.
The unrestrained passion he normally kissed her with was missing. It was just as ravaging and deep, rousing her pleasure, but something was missing.
“Tell me what is wrong,” she whispered against his mouth. “Share with me.”
There was a terrible air of indifference around him. His face was inscrutable, and she hated that contained emotion.
“Such oversentimentality is not necessary in our marriage.”
