Page 71 of Make Mine a Marquess

A strange tug centered in Phoebe’s chest. “He likes you.”

“He has gas,” Rachael said.

They all laughed.

Rachael unwrapped the toy train and looked up at Landon as if it were made of solid gold. “Thank you, my lord. My boy will love it when he’s old enough to play with it.”

On the way home, Phoebe and Landon walked side by side. “How did you know they would like the train?”

“People are people. They must have their basic needs met. And beyond that they want to be needed, appreciated, and not forgotten.”

The simple words were not so simple coming from a titled man. “You’re not a normal aristocrat.”

“Thank you.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “How do you know I meant that as a compliment?”

“I’d like to be seen as a man, not just for my title.”

His logic was hard to refute. “I thought you would say because I’m not a titled lady myself.”

He lowered his voice. “Do titles matter that much?”

Yes, according to my mother. “Easily spoken by one who has one.”

“True.” He watched her as they walked. “You seem angry. Why?”

She was. But mostly at herself. She knew the reason behind her sudden maddening frustration. This was the last time she would see Sarah Smith and the women. Once she married, she would not have a reason to travel to this country village. Willard didn’t have an estate here. She could send money herself from London, of course, but that wasn’t the same as visiting in person and watching Edward and Archie grow if they stayed in the house. And what was really bothering her?

It was the last time she and Landon would visit together.

Chapter Nineteen

The morning of the country ball, the ladies chattered with excitement. Rather than be thrilled by the event, Phoebe woke with a sense of dread.

They would remain another day to recover from the late festivities, then her family, along with the other guests, would travel back to London. Precisely four weeks thereafter—after the banns were officially read—she would be wed. The thought froze in her brain, and her gut tightened in a knot.

How could she have changed so swiftly? She’d wanted to become Lady William Willard. She wanted an aristocratic marriage, a mutually beneficial businesslike match, void of passion. Her experiences with that emotion as a sixteen-year-old girl had led to near disaster. By the grace of God, she’d avoided pregnancy, but it had been a scarring experience.

Willard might have his faults. The memory of how he’d mistreated the elderly housekeeper was still fresh in her mind. And he’d prohibited her from bringing along her beloved pet, Mimi. Still, he offered his name. She’d gain the title her family desperately wanted and she’d manage her household as she saw fit. She didn’t fear bankruptcy, knowing her father held the ultimate purse strings. In turn, as a baroness, she’d also have respectability that she could use to help with her chosen charity. Details were all mapped out in her mind.

Then Landon had returned from the dead and sought her out in the gardens. She’d thought him a rogue and a liar. She’d been wrong. He was responsible, caring, and heaven forbid, exciting. He made her feel things, dangerous yearnings that she’d worked so hard to suppress. He’d also made her want him so badly she ached with it.

“Phoebe, darling. Why aren’t you dressed? Where is Anne!” Her mother sailed into her bedchamber with the aplomb of a military sergeant. “We must not be late.” She pulled on the bell cord so hard, Phoebe marveled it didn’t fall upon her head.

Anne arrived breathless and apologetic and, together, the two women dressed, coiffed, and fussed over Phoebe.

Phoebe wanted to scream—she could slip into her own stockings—but they would hear none of it. As she sat before her dressing table, Anne styled her hair in an elegant chignon and artfully arranged a few blond curls to frame her face. She’d even applied rouge and color to her lips.

When it was over, Phoebe was thrust before the cheval dressing glass.

“You look fetching, Phoebe.” Her mother smiled. “Lord Willard will be fighting off the other gentlemen wishing to dance with you this evening.”

Phoebe understood that, along with the members of the house party, neighboring nobles and landowners would attend the ball. She looked in the glass, turning left and right. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried on the blue silk gown, but it was the first time anticipation didn’t shiver down her spine and stir her vanity. She felt bereft and empty.

Her mother fluffed the hem of Phoebe’s skirt. “Now don’t wander in the gardens with the baron without me or another matron as a chaperone. Your future is secure, and we do not seek unwanted gossip.”

Since Phoebe had no intention of wandering the gardens alone with Willard, she nodded. “I understand, Mother.”