The Heart of a Scoundrel (29 page)

Father and daughter stared at one another in silent mutiny. At one time, his withering glare would have riddled her with fear. Not any longer. For as much as Edmund’s betrayal had destroyed her, it had, in other ways, strengthened her.

Justina looked between her silently fuming father and Phoebe. She furrowed her brow in confusion. “I don’t understand. Don’t you want to wed the marquess?”

That innocently spoken question snapped her from her furious reverie. Phoebe nodded, praying the subtle gesture was convincing enough to her ingenuous sister. “I do.”
Or I did at one time.
That was close enough to add some truth to the lie.

Another rap sounded at the door, more tentative than the previous. With a dark curse, the viscount leaned over and tossed the door open. He didn’t wait for the assistance of the servant but leapt from the carriage with a surprising agility for such a cumbersome man. Her mother lingered. She continued to wring her hands together, her face twisted with unease. She looked as though she wished to say something, but then avoiding Phoebe’s eyes she accepted the servant’s assistance and allowed him to hand her down from the carriage.

She made to follow her mother down when her sister quietly called out. “I will miss you, you know.” Phoebe paused. A sad smile formed on her sister’s lips. “Our house is really quite dreary when you are not in it and I dearly wish you didn’t have to go, but certainly understand you must and envy you more than a little,” she finished, speaking more to herself with those last handful of words.

Phoebe’s heart wrenched. “I will always be here.”

“No, no you won’t,” Justina said with that calm practicality that hinted at the woman she was becoming. “You will be here.” She motioned to the menacing townhouse. “But that is fine. It is time for you to live your life free of us.” She held Phoebe’s gaze. “We are not yours to protect and care for.” She leaned across the carriage and placed a kiss on Phoebe’s cheek. “But I will love you forever for always trying.” Tears flooded Phoebe’s eyes. God, she was turning into a veritable watering pot. “Bah, no tears. Now, go.” With a flick of her hand, she motioned to the open doorway. “It is your wedding day. Mustn’t keep the marquess waiting. I suspect a man such as he is unaccustomed to being made to wait.”

A man such as he…

How often were those same words uttered about Edmund? A man such as he… Society, the
ton
, her friends, her family, even Phoebe carried so many conceptions of who he was. None of them favorable. But who was he really?

She slowly disembarked from the carriage and lifted her gaze up the tall shadow of his home. The faintest flutter at the top right window caught her notice. Bold, unrepentant and unashamed Edmund stood at the floor-length crystal pane with his hands clasped at his back, his possessive gaze trained on her. A shiver ran along her spine at the coldness that was so a part of him, evident even with the space between them. She made her way toward the handful of stairs framed between those snarling lions. She’d wager her very soul that no one would ever truly know who Edmund, the Marquess of Rutland, was.

“Well, come along,” her father wheedled from the opened doorway.

Squaring her shoulders, she continued her same, sedate pace, refusing to allow her father, or any man, to have one aspect of control of her decisions.

The irony of that was not lost on her as she climbed the steps and was permitted entry by the ancient butler. In a matter of moments, she would, by English law, belong to a man in every aspect that her mother belonged to her father. Her insides twisted into pained knots as she shrugged out of her cloak and scanned the expansive foyer. Phoebe studied the black marble floor flecked with white, the gilt handrail, and then she raised her gaze to the sweeping ceiling with a crystal chandelier at the center. How did anyone dare light the candles upon such a place? She swallowed hard at the dark opulence of Edmund’s world.

Her skin pricked with the feel of someone’s eyes upon her and she lowered her stare.

The wizened butler, with his shock of white hair and wrinkles that marked his face with the age of time, looked at her with a surprising gentleness. She fisted her skirts. Then, this man of advanced years in the marquess’ household likely knew she entered the devil’s lair. “If you will follow me,” he spoke in even tones, conveying no hint of his thoughts or feelings. Much like his employer.

Wordlessly, her family followed along behind the butler, down corridor after corridor, turning right and then left, until she was spun around. Would she ever find her place in such a dark mausoleum? For all the ugliness that came in being the daughter of the Viscount Waters, her home had been a happy one. She peeked at the row of portraits she passed of ancestors with chiseled cheeks and aquiline noses that marked them as ancestors to the current marquess. All equally cold and unfeeling on the canvas, captured by an artist from long ago. How could there ever be happiness here with this man who would have her at all costs but for no reasons that were beautiful or, at the very least, good or honorable. His had been a matter of revenge and possession and now…ownership.

With each footfall, the panic pounded harder and harder in her breast until her feet twitched with an involuntary need to flee. The butler drew to a stop before an open door. And they arrived. Phoebe passed her gaze around the massive library. She located her brother who’d arrived earlier by horseback. Andrew grinned widely like a madman who’d just found his way out of Bedlam. Her throat tightened at the trusting innocence of even her brother who believed in the worthiness of Edmund. Unable to meet Andrew’s smiling visage, she looked to the gentleman beside him who stood with a book in his hands. The vicar. The man who would say the words to forever link her to Edmund, the man whom she’d given her heart to and had only been fed lies and deception for that gift. Her panic redoubled and she looked quickly away from the bespectacled man of God. Her gaze collided with Edmund’s. The butler opened his mouth to announce her family, but then dissolved into a fit of coughing. His wizened face turned red from the force of his efforts.

From where he stood, at the window with his arms still folded, Edmund gazed at Phoebe with a hard, inscrutable stare. He shifted to the servant struggling to breathe. “That will be all,” he said with a harshness that brought a frown to her lips.

The servant inclined his head and then turned and left.

Her mother, ever the consummate smiler and maker of peace entered deeper into the room. She sank into a curtsy. “My lord, what a beautiful day it is for a wedding.”

He cast a dubious glance out the window at the gray skies but said nothing on her mother’s polite pronouncement, for which Phoebe was grateful. Her mother dealt with enough unkindness. She’d not tolerate it from this man.

“Rutland,” her father said smoothing his palms over the front of his jacket. “A pleasure to see you this day.”

Her bridegroom flicked a bored gaze over her father. With the sneer on his lips and the loathing in his eyes, her soon to be husband looked upon the viscount as though he were sludge dragged in on his boot. For all that had passed between them, at least they could come together in this regard. Edmund didn’t return the greeting. Instead, shifting his attention to Phoebe, he spoke to the vicar. “It is time to begin.”

As her family sought out chairs arranged at the front of the room, Phoebe’s pulse pounded in her ears, deafening. She eyed her family seated in a neat row like geese in Hyde Park on a spring day and then cast a last, desperate glance at the door. What if she left? Surely, the marquess could not very well proceed to marry her sister, this day or any other day, not after he’d been jilted by the eldest sister.

Her gaze locked on his harsh, unrelenting stare one more time…and she knew—this was not a man who’d give a jot for Society’s opinion. If he wished to wed, her, Justina, or the queen herself, the woman’s fate would be sealed. With a slow, steadying breath, she walked the remaining distance over to Edmund and the vicar—ready to be married to the man who’d shattered her heart.

*

Edmund stared at a point beyond the vicar’s head as the man rambled on and on with the words of God and fidelity and love and trust. Words that his parents, all of Society, had proven were worth nothing more than the pages of that black book they were written upon.

“Edmund William Amery Deering, wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her,” his stomach twisted. He loved no one. “comfort her,” what did an emotionally deadened man know of comforting anyone? “honour, and keep her in sickness and in health;” She would never fall sick. He’d not allow it. “and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

He paused to study this woman who would be his wife—his marchioness. Proud, silent, unmoving, she’d not cast another glance at him since she’d taken her place beside him in front the vicar. Fidelity, in a world where there was no honor, was a laughable clause put forth by the Church of England in an age-old vow. And yet, looking at the crown of her thick, auburn tresses and the smoky blue of her gaze…he’d not thought of bedding another and could not. Perhaps someday when he didn’t burn with this fierce need only for Phoebe. For now, she was all he wanted. Terror twisted in him.

“My lord?” the vicar prodded, giving him a pointed look.

“I will.”

The man nodded and then carried on with the same silly vows. There was the faintest pause before she pledged herself to him with that simple “I will”.

“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

The viscount inclined his head. “I, her father.”

At the immediacy of that disloyal cur’s words, a blanket of rage fell over Edmund’s vision. How easily this man would turn Phoebe over to him—an unworthy, undeserving bastard. How easily it could have been another. A growl climbed up his throat and the vicar swallowed audibly. The book slid from his fingers and he and Edmund and Phoebe knelt to retrieve it simultaneously. From their positions upon their floor, their gazes locked. She searched his face and he knew she was looking for words of him, from him. And he wanted to be the man to give her those words she deserved and more.

But he was not that man. Edmund swiped the book and climbed to his feet. He held a hand out to Phoebe and then turned the small, black volume to the other man’s care.

The ceremony continued without further interruption and with a final statement from the vicar he’d managed to rustle up, Edmund was at last married. He looked at Phoebe, frozen, her expression wan. His lips twisted in a bitter smile. Married to a woman who would rather see him to the devil than call him husband, but then she was his. And that would have to be enough to satisfy this hungering to possess her in all ways.

He grunted as Phoebe’s brother slapped him on the back. “Splendid day, splendid day. Days ago I called you friend.” He stuck his hand out. “Now I’ll call you brother.”

Edmund choked on his swallow. He didn’t have brothers. Or friends. Or family. Hell, he didn’t even have a single person he could bring to scratch to stand beside him on his wedding day.

“And you shall call me sister.” The youngest skipped over with her hand outstretched. Oh, God this one would find herself ruined within days of her entry into Society in a handful of years if she was not carefully guarded.

Phoebe stepped between Justina and Edmund and glared at him. Her sister slowed to a halt and looked with confusion back and forth between Edmund and Phoebe. “Phoebe?”

“It isn’t polite to take a gentleman’s hand,” his wife bit out between clenched teeth.

He took in the tight, white lines formed at the corners of her mouth and then a slow dawning understanding registered. Yesterday, when she’d overheard his discourse with her father, she’d believed he would wed Justina to settle a debt between them. But there was more to it. By God, she believed he desired her sister—a mere child. At one time that weakness would have proven useful; a seed of truth to manipulate and weaken her. Now, he detested the idea that she believed he could ever want another who wasn’t her.

An awkward pall of silence descended over the room and an eager desire to be rid of the entire Barrett brood with their misguided, misplaced beliefs in him. “If you will excuse me,” he said coldly eying each of the Barretts staring at him with such an eclectic array of emotions he was nearly dizzy—adoring younger brother, fearful viscount, uneasy mother, confused younger sister, and irate Phoebe. Suddenly, these five people, six with the vicar, was five too many. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said stiffly.

“Excuse us?” her mother parroted back. “The wedding breakfast,” she blurted.

“There will be no wedding breakfast.” There was no need to fuel this family’s erroneous conclusion as to the man he was. No, the sooner they were gone from his townhouse and life, the sooner he could go back to reclaiming his solitary world—with now just Phoebe in it.

Mother and youngest daughter looked back and forth between each other as though in a desperate bid to make sense of his words. Andrew Barrett’s faltering smile conveyed his disappointment. The viscount’s fleshy jowls communicated relief. Only Phoebe’s newly cynical eyes hinted at a woman not at all surprised that the man she’d just wed hadn’t the decency to coordinate a celebratory feast with her family.