Page 19 of To Hunt the Hunter

“How to make you see sense,” she muttered under her breath.

“I beg your pardon. How to what?” he asked, as she’d deliberately spoken too quietly for him to hear. She was surprised he’d heard that much.

“Nothing.” She glowered at the bowl of syllabub in front of her, wondering if she should push it away in protest at his stupidity, but she did love syllabub, and it wouldn’t stop him being stupid, so that was a waste. Huffing, she picked up her spoon and took a defiant mouthful.

“You’ll get indigestion if you scowl at your food like that,” he observed.

“I don’t care.”

“You might if you curdle the cream.”

Phoebe snorted in disgust. “You can’t curdle the cream with a look, no more than you can pretend you’re not in love with Matilda. Both things are so obvious it’s ridiculous!”

There was the kind of silence that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and her cheeks grow hot, but she wouldn’t apologise. Instead she snatched up her bowl and spoon and ran from the room, slamming the door behind her.

***

Matilda swallowed, not knowing quite what to do or say.

“Perhaps I’d best go after her.”

She got to her feet, but Lucian reached out and took her hand.

“No,” he said. “No, let her go. She’ll find Pippin. Our cook is a wonderful source of comfort. Not to mention fresh biscuits.”

“She was here when you were a boy, I believe?” Matilda said, hoping to steer the conversation to safer ground as she sat down again.

Lucian nodded. “I’m not sure how I’d have survived if not for Pippin. Mrs Frant and Denton too, actually. They are far more loyal than I deserve, I’m sure.”

“I doubt that’s true. If people are loyal, it is because they wish to be, because you’ve earned their trust, and their respect.”

“Or because they are too kind to be anything else.” He smiled at her, releasing her hand and she let out a breath.

“She’s afraid your—” Matilda had to pause for a moment, to take a breath and start over, well aware she overstepping the mark. “She is afraid that when you marry, your wife will not want her here, that she will be the cause of resentment or antagonism.”

His face darkened. “This is Phoebe’s home and I am her guardian. There is no question of her ever being anywhere else. It will not be a cause for argument, for it is not something I will negotiate over.”

Matilda could not help but smile a little. There spoke the marquess.

“What?”

She shook her head, knowing it was not her place to interfere. Too much had been said already.

“No,” he insisted. “You have an opinion, speak it.”

Why was she doing this to herself? She would have wondered, except it was not for her, it was for Phoebe.

“Lucian, no matter how big this house is, your wife will become a part of your family, of your and Phoebe’s lives. She will be with you at mealtimes. It would be natural for her to involve herself in Phoebe’s world, perhaps to choose her clothes, or take her on outings.”

“And so?”

“And so, if Phoebe is correct and your wife resents her, how many opportunities to make the poor girl’s life unpleasant will present themselves during the day? Conversely, if Phoebe takes your new wife in dislike, as she seems determined to do, she will make the poor woman’s life a misery.”

Lucian frowned at his wine glass, twisting the stem back and forth between his fingers. “And what would you have me do about it?”

Matilda laughed. “I have not the slightest idea, but you must choose carefully. It is all very well to say your marriage will be for power and land and breeding, and whatever other lofty ideals your title demands, but just remember Phoebe is caught up in the mix too, and that your decision will affect her, whether or not you mean it to.”

She knew the words were edged with bitterness, but she could not help that. The last thing she wanted was to speak of his marriage, but she would endure it for Phoebe’s sake.