Page 94 of Make Mine a Marquess

Phoebe appeared in her father’s study, her hands folded in front of her, her composure a fragile shell. She prayed her face revealed nothing. “You asked to see me?”

Her father turned away from the window. A crease marred his wide forehead, his dark eyes drawn and level beneath thick eyebrows. Her mother, who never drank before the evening meal, sat in an armchair, a glass of Madeira in hand. The scandal sheet rested on a nearby end table.

“The betrothal is over,” her father announced in a flat tone, “There will be no wedding.”

Phoebe blinked, hoping to look shocked. “Whatever for, Papa?”

“We will find you another titled husband. One who isn’t rotting in the Tower as we speak.”

Her mother made a high-pitched noise of distress. She fanned herself and downed the Madeira in one swallow.

“Mother?”

“It appears that the baron had something to do with a ship fire, the same ship his cousin, the Marquess of Landon, had been traveling on.”

“What?!” Phoebe did her best to cry out and show the requisite shock. She could never confess she knew, had known since overhearing Landon argue with Willard after he’d left her bed.

“It’s not an appearance. The man is guilty,” her father said.

“We must disassociate ourselves from the baron.” Her mother’s fanning became more furious. “Immediately.”

Phoebe knelt by her mother’s feet. “I know how much you wanted a title for me and for the family.”

“Dearest Phoebe. You are a dutiful daughter. We will suffer some scandal. Lady Delmont and others from the house party knew of the betrothal. I can only hope it will help that the banns had not yet been read.”

“I’d like to see Beatrice.” Phoebe hadn’t had a chance to speak with her since leaving the house party.

“Of course. Send for her today.” Her mother patted her hand. “I’m glad to see you are not heartbroken.”

She was. Just not over her former fiancé.

…

Beatrice burst into the parlor in a rush of swirling skirts, red curls, and a worried expression. “Sweet Lord, I heard what happened! Lord Willard is under arrest for attempting to murder the marquess by causing the ship’s fire.”

Phoebe had stayed strong the entire carriage ride home. She hadn’t revealed a sliver of her inner turmoil to her family. She hadn’t even cried in the privacy of her bedroom. But here, now, with her cousin and close friend, the floodgate that had held her emotions tightly constrained burst open. She let out a pathetic cry as tears blurred her vision then streamed down her cheeks.

Beatrice immediately hurried forward and hugged her. “Oh, Phoebe. I’m so sorry.”

Phoebe clutched her as she cried and sniffled. “I need a handkerchief.”

Beatrice reached inside the reticule dangling from her wrist and pulled out a fancy embroidered one.

Phoebe shook her head. “I’ll ruin it.”

“I don’t care.” Beatrice thrust it into her hands.

Grateful, Phoebe dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose.

“I’m not sorry about the broken betrothal,” Beatrice said.

“I’m not, either.” Phoebe sniffled. “Rather, I’m relieved.”

“Is your relief because you didn’t care for the man?”

“I admit my feelings for Willard had changed during the house party. But my relief is mostly because he is a horrible man. Because of his greed, twenty-three sailors and the captain died. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he still had intentions to kill the Marquess of Landon.” Her sobs subsided.

Beatrice blinked. “He did? The scandal sheets failed to mention that.”