Page 98 of Make Mine a Marquess

She would consider Scotland. But first, she needed to see to other things. No matter her heartache, she was still fortunate to have a roof over her head, sufficient food to eat, and lovely clothing. The basic necessities should never be taken for granted. She was not the only woman to fall for a deceiving man.

Others, she knew, were not as fortunate, and she had a last opportunity to pour her heartache into doing good.

She found her mother in the breakfast room. “Good morning, Mother. I’d like to go to the dressmakers.”

Her mother set down her teacup and brightened. “Phoebe, darling, I’m happy to hear it. Your father and I have been worried about you.”

Phoebe lowered her eyes to her hands. “I apologize if I haven’t been myself lately.”

Hillary stood and hurried to her side. Her brow furrowed and concern shone in her eyes. “Nonsense, Phoebe. It is expected. You must know we never suspected a thing regarding the baron. We never would have consented to his offer for your hand.”

“I know, Mother.”

Her mother let out a breath. “Are you certain you are feeling up to venturing out?”

She wasn’t. But not because of what her parents believed. At the worry on her mother’s face, she felt a stab of guilt. “I understand Scotland is cold and my aunt’s home may be drafty. I could use warmer dresses.”

Her mother’s eyebrows drew together. “We haven’t yet decided on Scotland.”

“What is there to decide?” Phoebe asked. “I can’t withstand the looks from others.”

Her mother bit her lower lip. “Oh, dear. It is our worst fear.”

“The ladies will undoubtedly gossip behind my back,” Phoebe said. “I am the woman whose betrothed plotted the murder of his marquess cousin. I can pretend to ignore the cruel magpies. It’s the others…the sympathetic ones that are my undoing. I do not want to be known as that one.”

“Oh, dear,” her mother repeated.

“You must understand.” Of all the women who were concerned about appearances, Hillary Dawson was a prime example. She’d been consumed with her daughter marrying the baron and gaining a title for years. Every step taken had been meticulous.

But again, life never went as prearranged.

“I will miss you terribly,” her mother said.

“It will only be for a year until all the malicious gossipmongers are onto the next Season’s big scandal.”

Her mother grew teary eyed. “I never expected this misfortune. Your father’s business will undoubtedly suffer as well.”

Phoebe’s attention snapped to her. Phoebe had only seen her mother cry once, when a great uncle had died, and Hillary had wept at the funeral. Even then, there had been no hysterics or unstoppable crying. As soon as they were indoors, she’d stopped.

Her mother dabbed at her eyes, sniffled, then nodded. “A year should be sufficient. As for today, the dressmaker is a good thought. I’ll have Burke summon the carriage.”

Phoebe’s desire to visit Madame Annette was twofold. It was true she needed warmer clothes for Scotland. But she would use the visit as a guise to have Madame make additional dresses for the charity. Let her angst be poured into a worthy cause.

Leaving the charity, even temporarily, would be difficult for Phoebe. The girls who benefited from the clothes and the money would have one fewer benefactor.

But Phoebe had no choice. Staying would be too difficult. If she glimpsed Landon at a ball or party, she didn’t know what she’d do. If she were hundreds of miles away, temptation wouldn’t rear its ugly head, and distance would heal a broken heart.

…

Landon waited across the street from the Bond Street dressmakers. A wooden sign picturing a needle and spool of thread swung in a breeze. Beneath the image, the sign read Madame Annette’s Dress Shop. The large bay window featured two mannequins, one wearing a maroon day dress with a ruffled hem, the other a white ball gown with an overlay of gold tissue.

He shifted on the bench of the hired hackney. He could feel the old springs in the bench. The conveyance was far from the luxury of his own carriage with its supple leather and padded bench. But the occasion called for anonymity, and he could not risk being identified in his black lacquered carriage.

Aram’s words had struck him.

Your soul was not blackened by the ship’s fire. Vengeance had not permanently damaged him. He was good enough for Phoebe. Worthy of her.

But how to convince her?