West End Earl by Bethany Bennett
Chapter Nineteen
Right at this moment, Cal and the Duke of Gaffney were in the library, and she hadn’t been invited. Since Phee was the one who’d done the legwork to look into Gaffney’s business proposal, being excluded stung. When she’d said as much, Cal had brushed a hand over her hair and said, “It’s nothing personal, love. Go enjoy the day with the guests. You’re here to relax, not work.”
It was awfully close to patting her on the head, and she’d nearly hissed and bitten his hand like a feral cat. Her temper seemed to shorten the longer this house party lasted.
Phee stopped under the branches of a giant elm and looked out over the lawn. Guests milled about in the sun near the lakeshore. Another few hours of scheduled activities, and she should be able to escape to her room. Not that sitting held much appeal when she really needed something to do. Genteel relaxation didn’t feel natural to her.
At least the mornings had normalcy, which made everything else a little easier. The daily fencing match with Cal was the highlight of this party as far as she was concerned. Now that she’d figured out his newest tricks, the balance of power had settled back to where it should be. Meaning she usually won. For a while there it had taken only a wink and a suggestive flick of his tongue to destroy her focus.
However, once they finished fencing, Phee had to share Cal with the rest of the guests.
The visitors at Lakeview had fallen into predictable habits of their own. The men gathered in a pack, like wolves. You rarely saw one without at least two others for company, as if they were afraid to wander alone and find themselves in the parson’s snare. They weren’t wrong, given the purpose of the party. The ladies spent their time in pairs or peaceful solitude.
Miss Georgina often found a corner with a book. She seemed to be a sweet enough girl, although difficult to get to know. When the other women were around, she didn’t participate too much. Phee suspected she might be painfully shy.
After witnessing the young woman and the Duke of Gaffney leaving the drawing room the other day, Phee paid more attention to the pair. If Gaffney lingered nearby, Miss Georgina blushed and stammered over her words. They were adorable but nearly painful to watch with their awkwardness. Clearly something was happening there.
Phee wanted to smooth things over and spark a conversation with them so they’d relax. But every time the urge struck her, she reminded herself that she was not the hostess; it wasn’t her job to ensure everyone enjoyed their time at Lakeview.
Lord Hornsby and Miss Lillian walked side by side, elbows occasionally brushing as they meandered toward the lake. Miss Lillian’s parasol hid their faces from the others who were already near the water’s edge, but Phee had an unobstructed view of how close he dared lean as they conversed.
A sound to her left alerted Phee to Cal and Gaffney leaving the house, still in conversation. When Cal looked up, he waved her over, so she pushed away from the tree and wandered in that direction. Since she was still a bit sore about being left out of the meeting, Phee didn’t want to appear eager, so she trailed casually behind them as they made their way toward the lake.
Down by the shore, Emma laughed at something Warrick said, then invited Hornsby and Miss Lillian over toward their small group.
As a hostess, Emma was a natural—at least, when her pregnancy wasn’t inducing her to vomit into household decorative objects. Eventually, Emma would have to come clean to Cal. Every day Phee asked her to, and every day Emma claimed this would be the day she confessed her condition to her brother. But by the time they said good night, Emma still hadn’t found the right moment. Phee had reported to Cal about his sister in the past, but this? This would change Emma’s life forever, and she needed to tell him herself.
Cal might want to marry off his sister to someone at this party, but that grew less likely by the day. Emma possessed enough of a conscience to realize that duping a perfectly nice gentleman and foisting off another man’s child might not be the best way to handle her life. Which left the girl with limited options.
At some point over the last ten days at Lakeview, she and Emma had become friends. Sort of. Having never had a female friend before, Phee wasn’t sure. The honesty between them was rather one-sided. But Emma came to Phee when she needed help or an excuse to get out of an activity.
Emma was different during their conversations. The humor and wit she showed reminded Phee of Cal, but they came out only when Emma stopped trying so hard to fulfill the diamond of the Season label. Did she occasionally act like a spoiled brat in need of a spanking? Absolutely.
But since Phee had discovered the truth about Emma’s condition, the girl had opened up. Parlor games in the evening allowed some couples to pair off under the guise of playing and left the unmatched guests with time on their hands. She and Emma often kept one another company.
The sweetness Cal’s sister revealed in those conversations came as a surprise. Sometimes it was painfully obvious how young Emma was. The girl had made poor decisions with Roxbury, but one couldn’t deny the unfairness of him leaving her alone to deal with the very adult consequences.
Not knowing how to help had kept Phee awake late into the night over the past week, despite Cal’s thorough efforts to exhaust her. Although sexual satisfaction and contentment hummed through her veins, and the man of her dreams slept beside her, heavy and warm, making their sheets smell like his spicy scent, she’d tossed and turned and worried through the hours. A bloody shame, when she should be wallowing in their orgasms and then slipping into blissful dreams before creeping back to her room in the wee hours of the morning.
Keeping their relationship secret grew more difficult by the day, and Phee occasionally wanted to intervene when one of the ladies flirted with him—never mind that there wasn’t any danger of another guest distracting his attention from her. But it was the principle of the thing.
Cal loved her. She loved him. The future was unsure, but they’d discover it together. If she ever doubted that, she need only remember their frantic lovemaking in the library and the potential consequences. They’d been careful since then, but God knew it only took once.
Maybe this wanting to publicly claim him was a natural side effect of suppressing herself for all these years. A couple of weeks of being allowed free rein, and now her femininity felt a bit feral—out of control and prowling under her skin, demanding an escape from the guise of her brother’s persona.
The urge was particularly strong when dealing with the obnoxious baron. Rosehurst gravitated toward rudeness to begin with and compounded that character flaw by prancing around the house as if he owned the place. More than once Phee held her tongue while Cal gently but firmly put the man in his place, and Miss Cuthbert apologized for her father’s behavior. Cal had said he would handle it, but damn it, Phee wished Violet would get on with her part of the plan and snag another man.
This afternoon at the lake was supposed to be a picnic. On the lawn near the shore, footmen arranged chairs and tables laden with crisp white linens and an impressive array of food and drink. It was essentially an outdoor tea, complete with fluffed pillows on the chaise.
The aristocracy were strange folks.
In her youth, a day at the lake had meant minimal clothes, splashing water, and squealing children who ended the afternoon pink from the sun. Now, apparently, they needed cut crystal and bone china to make a proper outing.
Phee straightened her cravat and tugged her hat down to shade her eyes against the blazing sun in question. The last things she needed were more freckles by the end of the day, thank you. And Lordy, what she’d give to be cool in a light muslin gown like the one Emma wore. A breeze under the hem and only a dress and chemise rather than all these layers sounded like heaven. She sighed. Soon. Not today. But soon. Winter—just when she would be grateful for the layers and the tall boots. Oh, irony. Thou art an evil bitch.
Tufts of white clouds floated like bits of cotton in a sky so pure blue, she wished for a wild moment that she possessed the ability to capture the scene on canvas. A light breeze saved the day from being oppressively hot and lifted the fine curls at her nape.
Cal’s smile caught her, blinding white and intimate when she approached where he and Gaffney stood. Asking how the meeting went would have to wait, but Cal had to know that conversation was coming. Her enthusiasm for hearing about Gaffney’s business venture fizzled into a cold lump of dread as several servants rowed around the willow tree in wooden boats gleaming with fresh coats of paint. The women along the shore clapped at the prospect of being on the water, and the men began joking and bragging about their prowess with oars.
No way in hell was Phee getting in a boat. A rickety, wooden, easily tipped or sunk boat—not an option. No matter how many layers of paint they’d slapped on the hull or how shiny the brass hardware securing the oars, each dinghy transformed in her mind into a faded gray wood boat with oars that splintered your palms. Those oars had turned a dark inky brown from her bloody hands after she’d managed to drag Adam back into the boat.
Only Cal appeared to notice Phee shaking her head. He reached out a hand and laid it on her shoulder. “Adam, if you’d like to remain on shore, I’ll stay with you.”
She blew out a breath. “Thank you, I’d prefer that.”
He moved closer and whispered, “I’m sorry. Mrs. Hodges changed the outing, and I didn’t know until now. We were supposed to play croquet, damn it.”
Removing herself to a comfortable chair seemed wise while he found the last few stragglers places in the boats. A footman offered a glass of champagne—perfectly chilled, naturally. It wouldn’t do for the Earl of Carlyle to serve tepid champagne.
Considering she’d been battling panic moments before, this was the best possible outcome. Phee smiled her thanks to the footman and took a deep drink. With a seat in the shade and servants on hand to tend to any needs that may arise, her day had just turned around. Best of all, she wasn’t getting on a boat anytime soon.
One by one, the boats full of guests launched with a sturdy footman in the bow, in case the gentlemen’s boasts were empty and someone needed assistance returning to shore.
Cal was handing the last lady into a dinghy when a footman arrived, slightly out of breath. “Pardon me, milord,” the servant said. The men leaned their heads together and lowered their voices.
It was a minute thing. Had she been paying less attention or not possessed the knowledge of a close friend and lover, Phee would have missed it. His eyes went blank. Not polite. Not cool or distant. Cal wasn’t angry or scared—just suddenly empty. Devoid of emotion.
He sent one more wave to the boat, then launched the guests with a nudge of his boot and walked toward the house with the footman. Not a glance back or a word to anyone else—Cal’s gaze stayed firmly fixed ahead and composed.
A quarter of an hour, then a half hour passed while Phee observed the guests’ antics on the lake from the safety of the shore. They frolicked happily, occasionally splashing each other with oars or slapping the water with a hand to bellows of laughter and squeals.
Concern made Phee feel each of those minutes like a month. Something was wrong. Cal had excluded her from the meeting with Gaffney, then hadn’t invited her along to deal with whatever was happening now. For nearly two years she’d been the one he went to when he needed help fixing something. Sure, this month had been light on work, but certainly that was only due to safety concerns. A private business meeting was one matter. After all, she wasn’t privy to every business conversation he had. But anything that made him abandon his guests was something she should help deal with.
What if Roxbury had shown up? The rotter couldn’t be the one to tell Cal about Emma’s baby. Containing the news would be impossible if their host throttling Lord Roxbury became the highlight of this house party. Rationalizing the need to follow wasn’t hard.
Of course, she could be overreacting to a piddly minor event. There might be a servant matter to deal with or some such lord-of-the-manor thing. In which case, slipping away for a few minutes of privacy while the others were on the lake would be a better way to pass the time than quaffing champagne on the grass.
Phee set aside her champagne flute and rose. There, that wasn’t so hard. She had perfectly valid reasons to follow Cal.
At the house, a male voice came from the direction of a drawing room off the main hall. Curious. Someone uninvited had arrived. Lordy, Roxbury must be here. Cal would be irate. Emma was on the lake, so there might be time to deal with her ex-lover before the guests returned.
Now that she was closer to the drawing room door, which stood open by several inches, she could identify the voice. It was the marquess who’d called, not Roxbury. That didn’t strike her as preferable, given the Violet situation. Cocking her head—as if that would somehow help the men’s voices carry more clearly—she tried to follow the conversation.
Out by the lake on Cal’s first night here, he’d said Eastly had never been to Lakeview. That this was a home without ghosts or bad memories. After years without an invitation, the marquess had to know he wasn’t welcome, and the tone of the voices wasn’t exactly friendly. Impotent irritation made Phee’s lip curl as she grasped the door handle.
Eastly’s voice slithered around the polished wood doorframe, at once cajoling and demanding—as if he knew he wouldn’t be denied but wanted Cal to feel good about caving to his wishes. She’d heard the tone before, and usually it meant Cal would do his best to comply. “The baron has been more than patient, Son. He’s bought a special license. Time to be done with it. Violet is under your roof. Marry the girl and she can be in your bed too, if she isn’t already. Not a hardship at all, eh? Your fiancée is a fancy little piece. The perfect countess, if I say so myself.”
A bark of laughter she’d heard countless times over the years made her stomach sink. “A rushed wedding invokes scandal, and no countess of mine will have scandal attached to her.”
Phee’s chest went hollow. A dead space. Cal’s words—not a denial, and not surprised that Eastly still expected him to marry Violet Cuthbert—echoed off the walls of her ribs, taking chunks from her heart.
Son of a bitch, he’d said he’d handle it.
He’d said he loved her.
He’d promised this would come to nothing, but evidently he hadn’t made that clear to his own bloody father. And God knew Eastly always got what he wanted. Cal never denied the man anything, just walked behind him, cleaning his messes and paying off people left and right. Hell, she’d delivered those payments more than once. Even now, after professing his love for the hundredth time when she’d left his bed this morning, he stood in that room not telling Eastly to take those wedding plans to the devil.
No countess of mine will have scandal attached to her.
That eliminated Phee as an option, now didn’t it? He’d spoken of a future, but had he ever actually mentioned marriage?
It didn’t take long to search her memories. Happy, joy-filled memories, with promises she’d cherished and held close to her heart. He’d never mentioned marriage. Not once.
Lordy, she’d been taken in by the oldest trick in the book—that future he talked of wasn’t marriage. He wanted a mistress. A secret relationship, where she’d spend the rest of her life hiding, as she had for so long already.
One by one the emotions she’d entrusted to Cal withered into a deadened lump, like a flower that dared bloom too early, only to succumb to frost. Air stalled in her lungs, and she was afraid that if she drew in a deep enough breath, it would become a wail. Not the whimpering tears of a broken heart, but the battle cry of a lover betrayed.
What had she expected? That the rich and powerful Earl of Carlyle would—what? Marry a nobody like Ophelia Hardwick? Had she truly thought the man who spent his time finding new ways to make money and suppressing his family’s scandals would marry her when he could save his father’s hide for the umpteenth time and gain a healthy dowry to boot?
Hell, Phee didn’t even technically exist on paper. How ludicrous to think for even a second he might wait for her to inherit, then marry her once she’d assumed a new name.
The hand on the doorknob curled into a tight fist until the tendons in her forearms protested with a sharp ache. She’d trusted blindly, for the first time in years, believing everything he told her. Somehow, he’d even maneuvered Phee into planning a house party for the woman Eastly wanted him to marry.
How dare he.
Out of the cold remains of her heart, a thick hedge of thorns grew around where she’d once been soft and vulnerable. Maybe he hadn’t lied outright, but there could be no doubt he’d omitted, manipulated, and played her for a fool.
Despite the fury roiling in her, a sob broke through. She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. He wouldn’t see her cry. Phee’s vulnerability and softness weren’t his to witness anymore.
In fact, he wouldn’t know she’d discovered the truth until she was damn good and ready to tell him. Two could withhold information. The thought settled deep into her new blessedly numb state.
Since the day of the accident that killed her brother, she’d lived by a plan. Phee needed to retreat to that place in her head where claiming her inheritance and disappearing were the most important things. No more beautiful earls who looked like fallen angels and lulled her into believing she could live a fantasy.
If ever there’d been a time that called for action, this was it. When she finished with Cal, she’d be free.
Piece by piece, like a puzzle coming together, a new plan formed. One that would not only help her but prove to Cal once and for all that the street scrapper he’d sent to investigate his problems could solve her own problems, thank you very much. The brilliance of it made her lips curl in a twisted imitation of a smile.
The dull thuds of her footfalls echoed off the fine marble tile as she made her way out of the house. At the lake, the boats were returning to shore, and servants bustled about in their fine livery, as if caring for the pampered guests was the only thing in the world that mattered. As luck would have it, Miss Cuthbert’s boat pulled to shore when Phee joined the party with studied casualness. Pasting on a cheerful smile, Phee offered her hand to Miss Cuthbert as she disembarked.
“I hear felicitations are in order. The Marquess of Eastly is at the house and let slip about your understanding with Lord Carlyle.”
Miss Cuthbert stared down at her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Hardwick. Our fathers arranged the match.”
There’d been no misunderstanding, then. A tiny seed of fragile hope she didn’t even know she had been sheltering died. Phee offered a shallow bow. “Best wishes on your wedding, Miss Cuthbert.” Phee let go of the dainty gloved hand as quickly as possible and turned to the occupants of the next boat. “Lady Emma, might I have a word?”
Emma dimpled prettily. “Of course, Mr. Hardwick. Shall we walk?”
They strolled side by side away from the party, following the curving shore of the lake. Phee clasped her hands behind her back and said, “There’s much I want to say, but by talking to you now, I am trusting you. Are you trustworthy, Emma?”
Emma’s fingers worried at the edge of her glove. “You’re privy to my biggest secret. Except for Roxbury, and possibly my maid, you are the only one who knows. We might be bound by secrets, you and I.”
The success of the next step of Phee’s plan relied on Emma being a willing participant. “I haven’t shared my secrets with you. I’d like to rectify that now.”
Emma tilted her head. “I’m listening.”
The guests of the house party were well behind them, with the lawn swallowing the sharp, trilling scales of laughter and rumbling conversation. Phee glanced over her shoulder, but no one seemed to care that they’d wandered off on their own. “I’ve been impersonating my brother, waiting until he would have been old enough to inherit.”
A small shard of her conscience warned that there’d be no going back after this. That this path would change everything forever.
Emma’s eyed widened. “You aren’t Adam Hardwick?”
“My name is Ophelia. You may call me Phee in private if you wish.” Phee forced herself to stand still as that information settled across Emma’s face and the irrevocable truth was laid bare.
If she’d thought Emma’s eyes were wide before, they were nothing compared to the expression the girl wore now. Slowly, a blinding grin made her mouth gape open. “No. You—you’re a woman? Does Cal know?”
Phee’s ears burned, and she cursed her redheaded complexion. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “He knows.”
Emma giggled. “Ah, that’s how it is? Who’d have thought it from my brother, of all people? Lord Anti-Scandal is certainly comfortable with a friendly bit of hypocrisy, isn’t he?” Her glee faded when Phee didn’t smile in return. “Wait, what’s he done?”
“He promised he wasn’t marrying Violet Cuthbert, but it appears he didn’t inform Eastly or Miss Cuthbert. Your father is in the drawing room right now, pushing for Cal to use the special license Rosehurst brought with him.” Phee wicked away a welling tear. Damn it, the last thing she needed to do was start crying now. This was the time for fighting, not wallowing.
“Why must men be awful liars?” Emma rubbed Phee’s arm sympathetically. “I’m so sorry. We’re both dealing with heartbreak, then.”
Phee nodded toward Emma’s belly, where the girl’s hand rested. “Do you know what you’ll do yet?”
Golden curls bounced against her cheeks when she shook her head. “No. I need the impossible—a husband who won’t mind the pregnancy. Preferably someone I can tolerate.”
Phee drew in a deep breath. No, there’d be no going back. But the only things behind her were lies, and she had to do something. Given the choice between letting pain consume her or rallying a battle cry in response to this betrayal, her path was clear.
Time to enact the plan.
“On paper, I’m a man. We could help each other. Marry me.”