The Heart of a Scoundrel (39 page)

Panic sucked her in a vortex and threatened to drag her in. Phoebe bucked and twisted against him in a bid to free herself, but he tightened his manacle-like grip on her.

“How sweet to have Rutland’s wife pleading,” he whispered cupping her right breast in his hard, punishing grip. And fury lit to life, blotted out her hopelessness.

“You bastard,” she hissed at the violation and jabbed her elbow back hard against him, but he laughed, that cold, merciless sound indicating he delighted in her struggles. She landed a hard jab to his midsection and the air left him on a whoosh. The viscount lost his grip on her. She ducked out from under his arms and sprinted for the door. Her heart pounded loud in her ears, the rapid, staccato beat deafening.

Phoebe stretched her fingers to the handle of the door.

Lord Brewer wrapped an arm about her waist and hauled her back so her feet left the floor and she kicked at the floor with the tips of her slippers. “You bitch,” he said with such emotionless calm that terror stabbed at her insides. The viscount threw her down upon the sofa with such force the seat knocked the mahogany side table. The rapid movement unsettled the blue, porcelain sheep. Lord Brewer grinned cruelly down at her and then came over her, shifting his larger frame atop her smaller one. He covered her mouth with his and she gagged as he thrust his tongue into her throat. The weight of him, coupled with his cruel kiss, crushed off her airflow and she scrabbled at his back in a futile attempt to remove him from her person.

He cupped her left breast this time and a groan escaped him. “You will enjoy it, I promise,” he said on a guttural whisper.

She bucked and twisted against him and his erection dug painfully into her belly. A convulsive shudder racked her frame. By God, what manner of man was he that he should be so aroused by her struggles? Her blank gaze slid momentarily from the monster above her as he worked a hand between them and undid the front flap of his breeches. Phoebe bit the inside of her lip so hard the sickly, sweet, metallic tinge of blood filled her senses. He shifted himself between her thighs and in one last frantic bid at freedom she punched him in the temple, landing an ineffectual blow.

God help me.
A sheen of tears blurred her vision and, in this moment, she hated Lord Brewer as much as she hated herself for her inability to stop his assault. With blood pounding loudly in her ears, she stared hopelessly up at the white-wash ceiling and she braced for the viscount’s swift, painful entry when he collapsed. Phoebe froze in shock and then she registered the slack-jawed man atop her frame. She swung her gaze to the stranger above her with her fingers outstretched, the blue sheep clasped tightly in her hand. The kindly-eyed blonde woman she’d seen earlier in Lady Wentworth’s ballroom stood above her, her mouth set in a furious line. With a slight cry, Phoebe struggled with Viscount Brewer’s powerful weight.

The woman sprang to action. She set the sheep down hard on the table. “Here, allow me to help you,” the woman offered and then with a grunt, tugged the viscount by the back of his jacket and rolled him unceremoniously to the floor where he landed with a loud thump.

Phoebe scrambled to an upright position. With shamed mortification burning her skin, she averted her gaze and attempted to right her gown and hair and a sob escaped her which she buried into her trembling fingers. She struggled to her feet and made a bid to step over the prone form. Then a dawning horror crept in. Her gaze flew to the other lady.

“He is not dead,” the woman said dryly. “Though it would hardly be a loss if he was,” she muttered. She held her hand out. “My name is Jane. I am the Marchioness of Waverly.”

Phoebe’s eyebrows shot up. Though she’d yet to meet the marchioness, she’d heard whispers of the scandal that had found this illegitimate daughter of the Duke of Ravenscourt wedded to the marquess. There was a slight challenge in the woman’s eyes, as though she expected Phoebe to find her in some way wanting. Alas, the young lady did not realize that she had long ago learned to look to each person’s worth. Phoebe eyed the other marchioness’ gloved fingertips a moment and then placed her hand in the woman’s, allowing her to help her over. “Th-thank you,” she murmured. Phoebe alternated her gaze between the unconscious man at their feet and her slippers. “I-I it was not…I…” She dropped her gaze to her mussed gown and captured her lower lip between her teeth.

“It was not your fault,” the woman put in. There was a steely strength to those words that rang with conviction and somehow calmed her. And this woman who’d weathered her own scandal rose even higher in her estimation. “No, it was not your fault.” The Marchioness of Waverly kicked the man with the tip of her slipper at his lower back. In his slumberous state, he groaned. “There are some men, however, who think a woman is there for their pleasures and it matters not what that woman wishes.”

That matter-of-factness spoke of a woman who knew. Phoebe’s throat worked at the sudden kindred connection she felt to this stranger. “Thank you,” she said quietly. With quaking fingers she struggled to put her hair to rights. “Please, let me.” Placing her gentle but firm hands on her shoulders, she turned her about and set to work rearranging the tangled tresses. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, as Phoebe flinched.

At their feet, the viscount emitted a long groan and she jumped. The marchioness took her by the hand and guided her over to the door. “Come with me. I will call for your carriage. Is your…?”
Husband.
Pain knotted Phoebe’s belly. Pink bloomed on the other woman’s cheeks. No doubt she recalled that Phoebe was the famed Marchioness of Rutland. Of course her husband was not present. “Do you have someone to escort you home?” the woman amended.

Phoebe gave her head a jerky shake, her gaze fixed on the gleaming, gold pendant at the woman’s neck. She stared absently at that heart. Her unwed friends had come with their chaperones and respective parents. Jane pulled the door open and peered out into the hall. With Phoebe in tow, she all but dragged her from the room, down the hall, and onward away from the White Parlor. Each step that carried her from Lord Wentworth’s and the remembrance of the viscount’s assault left her more and more freed.

They turned the corridor just as a tall, commanding figure stepped into their path. A startled shriek escaped them as the frowning, dark-haired gentleman looked back and forth between them with a question in his eyes. His gaze lingered a moment upon Phoebe’s torn gown and a dark glint flared in his eyes.

The marchioness slapped a hand to her heart. “Gabriel.” She looked to Phoebe and gave her a reassuring smile. “It is just my husband.” The woman returned her attention to her husband. “Gabriel, this is my friend,” her throat worked, “Phoebe, the Marchioness of Rutland.” His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he gave no other outward indication as to his shock at the legendary marquess’ new wife.

“My lady,” he greeted.

Phoebe managed to sketch a hasty curtsy. A panicky laugh bubbled up in her chest at the ridiculousness of the pleasantries here in the hall, following the viscount’s attack. Then, they were members of polite Society and were to wear a cool smile and calm expression even if the world was tipped upside down.

The marchioness cleared her throat. “Gabriel, will you see that Lady Rutland’s carriage is readied? I will remain here.”

He narrowed his gaze and looked down the hall, as though searching out the one responsible for her current state. She pressed her eyes closed at the humiliation of having this indignity witnessed by not one, but two, strangers. With a short bow, the gentleman turned on his heel and left.

A short while later, Phoebe boarded her carriage. As the conveyance rumbled away from Lady Wentworth’s ball she recalled the viscount’s words, the vile accusations about Edmund lashing at her mind like venomous barbs. She pulled back the velvet curtain and stared blankly out. Edmund had promised that marriage to her would, at the very least, provide her protection. With an arrogance that could only come from being the feared, famed, Marquess of Rutland, he’d expected his reputation should offer her a semblance of polite courtesy from the
ton
.

It appeared he’d added one more lie to the mountains of others to come before.

*

With a growl of impatience, Edmund took the steps of his townhouse two at a time. After an infernal night at his club, and then a blasted appearance at Lady Wentworth’s tedious ball and then upon discovering his wife had the good sense to leave the infernal affair, a swift departure, he wanted to see his damned wife. Wallace, faithful as the day was long, pulled the door open in anticipation of his arrival. And he didn’t like that he needed to see Phoebe. Giving a quick search of the foyer, he shrugged out of his cloak and handed it over to a waiting footman. But more than that, he didn’t like that he hadn’t seen her.

He looked up the staircase.

“Her Ladyship arrived earlier this evening, my lord. She’s taken to her chambers.”

Edmund made to go, but something in the man’s rheumy eyes gave him pause. “Say whatever it is you would, Wallace,” he snapped. He knew he was being a foul-tempered bastard in taking his frustrations out on the loyal servant, but he’d have the man out with his disappointment and not this vague game he’d played through the years of hoping he would suddenly become the man he wanted him to be.

Wallace looked off to the waiting footman and with a polite bow, the man left. “Her Ladyship did not seem herself,” Wallace said when he returned his attention to Edmund.

“What do you mean she did not seem herself?” he asked with a frown. Furthermore, Wallace had known Phoebe but two days. How much could he truly know where the lady was concerned?

The butler cleared his throat. “She was crying.”

Guilt turned in his gut and cleaved at his conscience. It twisted inside him, forming a pebble in his belly that sat hard inside. This deuced caring business was blasted awful. By the tilt of the other man’s head, Edmund knew there was something Wallace wished him to say. “Crying,” he forced himself to respond.

“Yes, my lord. Crying. Tears.”

“I know what crying is, Wallace,” he said with a touch of impatience.

“Of course, my lord.”

He cast another glance up the stairs. It was because of him.
Of course it is because of me.
From the moment he entered her life, he doomed her to despair. The pebble became a stone. “And how did you…know Her Ladyship was crying?”

“Red eyes, my lord. Very red.”

With a black curse, Edmund took the stairs two at a time, then strode down the hall, coming to a stop outside Phoebe’s chambers. He laid his forehead against the door. That afternoon he’d run from all her earlier talk of love and hope and happiness. Like the bloody coward he’d been all these years, only to hover at her doorway like a child with his ear to the keyhole, only to find he could not escape it. All the walls he’d erected these past years had been nothing more than sugar towers, toppled with the first hint of true warmth and goodness in his life. She’d asked him to set aside years of who he’d been. Could a person simply change?

He pressed his eyes closed. He wanted that answer to be yes. A shuddery sob split the wood panel and gutted him worse than the tip of Stanhope’s rapier those eleven years ago. He’d have taken that blasted blade to his heart this instant if it would mean Phoebe did not know pain. He didn’t know if he could be what she deserved or who she deserved—but he wanted to, at the very least, try. Edmund turned the handle and stepped inside.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkened chambers. The faintest glow of a lone candle atop Phoebe’s nightstand cast an eerie shadow upon the wall. He closed the door with a faint click and her sobs immediately ceased. She lay on her side with her back to him and made no move to look at him. “What do you want, Edmund?” she asked, her tone ragged with resignation.

Edmund shifted back and forth on his feet.
I want you
. Except, years of protecting himself kept those words back. “I came to…Wallace said…” His lips pulled in a grimace. “I visited Lady Wentworth’s ball,” he settled for.

Her slender back went taut, but she otherwise gave no outward reaction that she’d heard him.

He cleared his throat. “I came to see you, to attend with you.”

“Not with me,” she said, directing her words to the wall.

Edmund stiffened.

“You did not attend
with
me.”

Edmund held his palms up, but with her back presented, she could not see them turned out in supplication.

“Is there anything else you wish to say?” Those blank, emotionless words did not belong to Phoebe. But this is what he’d made her. Agony speared at his stomach.

He let his hands fall to his side and cleared his throat. “That is all,” he said tersely.

“Then go,” she said on a harsh whisper.

Tugging at his lapels, Edmund turned on his heel and did the first honorable thing of his life—saved Phoebe from his useless offering of love.

T
he following morning after attending to business with his man of affairs, Edmund returned to his townhouse. He strode up the steps with a heaviness to his footsteps. As diligent as always, Wallace pulled the door open in faithful anticipation of his employer’s arrival. With a murmur of thanks, he shrugged out of his cloak and handed it over to the old servant. He looked expectantly at the man more friend and father than his own sire had ever been.