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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.
Holding Franny securely to his chest, he signed with the other hand. “Will you walk with me?”
There was the barest hesitation before she nodded. They strolled in silence for several minutes, and it did not feel as sublime as their previous strolls, which had hinted at so many mysteries to unlock between them. The air felt tight with tension and uncertainty.
“Phoebe, ahoy!”
The shout of Caroline had his wife spinning around and waving.
“I will see what Caroline wants,” she said with a quick smile that did not brighten her eyes.
As he watched his wife’s retreating figure, something painful lodged against his stomach, and the heart he thought untouched grew heavy with an indefinable emotion. The loss of how wonderful, carefree, and passionate she had been in the beginning tore through him with agonizing force.
Once there had been trust in her eyes and a sweet arousing fire of such hunger. A craving for that irrepressible smile and the improper way she would sometimes laugh and run without shoes tore through him. And by God, he longed to hold her close to him, to kiss her again, to play by the meadows…but he had given all that up, but this…this was the first time the loss of it almost brought him to his knees.
How hadn’t he realized the bitter cost?
…
A week later, Hugh rode his horse with speed along the lanes leading to his home. He needed to speak to Phoebe, even though he was not certain what he wanted to say. To distract himself with thoughts of her, he had taken on the menial task of mucking out the stalls of his stables, the workmen looking on with a sense of shock. Normally, he worked until his muscles burned and the sun had lowered in the sky. But today, it was barely noon, and he stopped. Thunder had rumbled in the distance with the threat of rain, and it had felt imperative that he return home.
The stablemaster’s wife had brought the man luncheon, a simple fare of potatoes and fish, but Henry hadn’t been able to stop smiling. The tender way he had taken her hand in his and led her to the side of the stable had dragged Hugh’s feet closer so he could observe them. Whatever they spoke about had delighted the wife, for she had swatted his hand and laughed before hugging her husband. Hugh had touched his arm, recalling a time when Phoebe would lightly punch him or how she would loop their hands together as they strolled by their meadow. His damn throat had burned, and to his shock, his eyes had smarted.
