Hennie sat back and patted her belly. “Yes, it was. Clean up. There are two pails of clean water just outside—one for washing and one for rinsing. Don’t go too far from the stoop. As I said, the wolves won’t hesitate to make a meal out of you.”
Phoebie knew wolves didn’t inhabit England anymore, but she would pretend otherwise. As far as she knew, there were no fierce animal predators in Britain. But didn’t mean there weren’t people out there wanting to hurt her.
After she cleaned up and washed the dishes, she came back inside the cabin to find Hennie stoking the fire. “You can take the bed in the room there,” she said, pointing with a wrought iron poker. “I will sleep out here by the fire. My old bones need the heat.”
Phoebe knew she lied. Hennie needed to sleep out here in case she tried to escape, though she wouldn’t actually do it—at least not in the dead of night. Maybe during the day, if the opportunity arose. And she hoped it would. What would Weston do when he found she’d gone? What would Emma do? Would they believe she’d never leave willingly, no matter what lies her uncle and aunt told? Tears slipped from her eyes as she allowed them to fall. She went into the tiny bedroom and closed the thin curtain that separated it from the main room of the cabin. She shivered at the sudden cold and opened the curtain again. Having heat was better than privacy. She climbed beneath two scratchy wool blankets and pounded the pillow, trying to fluff the feathers. Finally, she rested her head, pulled the covers up to her chin, and told herself she was warm and not shivering. It felt like she was back in the attic. As sleep took over, she saw two golden-brown eyes glowing in the dark—eyes like Weston’s, but these belonged to an animal with a long snout and a big mouth full of sharp teeth.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The morning after the dinner party, Oliver ate his breakfast in his chambers, told Byron to have his horse brought around, and dressed in riding clothes for his trip to see the archbishop. He had gone over in his mind at least fifty times what he would say to him. Although he believed it didn’t matter much what he said; it was the sum of his donation that would persuade the archbishop. He left Weston Hall on Wind and traveled to Lambeth Palace, the residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
To his shock, he was received by the archbishop in the archbishop’s drawing room immediately upon arrival. “Good morning to you, Weston.”
Weston bowed. “My Lord Archbishop. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”
“Take a seat. On what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
Oliver sat on the edge of the seat and looked directly at the archbishop. “I am here to request a special license to marry.”
The archbishop frowned. “I would’ve thought you’d given up on marriage.”
His damn neckcloth was suddenly too tight, and he fought the urge to tug on it. “It is my duty as a duke to marry and produce heirs. I also met someone, Miss Phoebe Windham, and I wish to marry her immediately. Actually, it is imperative that I marry her to keep her safe.”
“Safe from who?”
“Her aunt.”
“Who is her aunt? Are you accusing her of being a danger to her niece?”
Nothing was going as he had expected. “No. Never mind. Forget I said anything. Will you approve the license? I have a sizable donation to give you for the church.”
The archbishop rose and went over to a desk, sat down, took out paper, quill, and ink, and took meticulous care writing on the parchment. He folded it, poured hot wax, and pressed his seal to the license. “Come here. It is done.”
Oliver stood and approached the archbishop. Before he took the offered license, he handed over a banknote. “Thank you.” He bowed. With the license now in his possession, the heaviness in his chest eased. He hurried to his waiting horse, mounted and headed in the direction of Greenwich House.
Oliver had tossed and turned most of the night as he relived the time in the garden with Phoebe and then later in her room. How sweet and sensual she was. How she responded to his kisses and his touch. There were many reasons for an immediate wedding—keeping her safe, giving her a home of her own, providing her with a sense of belonging. But there was one more thing: he didn’t think he could wait much longer before making love to her again. Everything inside him told him this was right, and they were each other’s destiny.
Even at ten o’clock, the streets were bustling, and it took longer than usual to reach Greenwich House. His relief at having the license safely tucked inside his jacket pocket vanished, replaced by tension that coiled through all his muscles. Greenwich House felt like a poison. He felt tainted every time he visited. Lady Greenwich radiated toxicity. He’d never met such a vile, fake, and selfish person. And he couldn’t wait to never have to deal with her again. He hated knowing Miss Windham lived inside their walls.
When he arrived, he was thrilled when a groom stood outside. He dismounted and handed the reins off. “I will not be long.” He hurried up the stairs, knocked and waited for thebutler to answer. When he did, the butler welcomed him inside. “Wait here. I’ll see if Lady Greenwich is receiving visitors this morning.”
Several minutes later, the man returned. “This way, please, Your Grace.”
He followed the butler up the stairs and into the same drawing room he’d been in twice before. He hoped this would be his final time.
The butler announced, “The Duke of Weston.”
“Please come and sit across from me, Your Grace,” Lady Greenwich said with a fake smile. “I’ve requested a fresh tea tray. It should be here momentarily. Meanwhile, take a seat and tell me why you have graced us with your presence this morning.”
Even though his body didn’t want to move, Oliver went deeper into the room, and just before he sat down across from the countess, he bowed. “Thank you for receiving me. I’ve come to call on Miss Windham.” He decided to keep the special license information to himself for now. When he saidMiss Windham, the countess wrinkled her nose, and her eyes narrowed distastefully.
“I’m afraid Miss Windham ran away in the middle of the night.” She pointed to a slightly crumpled piece of paper on the table between the settee and his chair. “Read it for yourself. I can’t believe she just left without a word.” Lady Greenwich dabbed at pretend tears with her lace-trimmed handkerchief. “The ungrateful girl.”
When he picked up the paper, his hands shook as he scanned the few words.
Forgive me for leaving, but I cannot fathom marrying the duke. I want to live, not die.
Phoebe Windham
