West End Earl by Bethany Bennett

Chapter Twenty-Six

If she’d known beating the hell out of something would be this intensely satisfying, Phee would have learned to bake earlier.

“You must be gentler with the dough, Miss Fiona,” Mrs. Shephard began, only to have her words cut off by the solid whack of the rolling pin hitting an unsuspecting lump of pastry.

“This is why the last attempt resembled modeling clay, Phee.” Emma used less tact, but she didn’t appear as concerned as their cook.

Phee shot Emma a grumpy look. “Do you want pie or not?”

“A truly exceptional pie is all in the crust. One needs a soft touch to achieve that perfect flake.” Bless Mrs. Shephard—she was still trying to teach them a few kitchen basics. The woman had the patience of a saint and the tact of a diplomat.

Emma sighed, blowing a curl out of her face. “Mrs. Shephard, let’s leave that dough to Phee’s tender ministrations, and we can roll out a fresh bit of pastry. I haven’t been able to think of anything for the last three days except pie, and I’ll go mad if I don’t have some today.” She rubbed at the curve of her belly. By their calculations, there were another four months left of her pregnancy. The cravings had hit in earnest this week, shortly after the unrelenting nausea had abated. The baby wanted pie, so the baby would get pie.

Phee stared at the misshapen disk of pastry dough despondently. “Starting over might be for the best. This batch is a lost cause, I think.”

Emma patted Phee’s hand that still gripped the rolling pin. “I understand. In your place, I would need to flatten something too. You go ahead and imagine that’s my brother’s face and kill the dough.”

Mrs. Shephard rocked on her heels. “Ah, it’s a man, is it? I should have known.”

“I received a letter from my brother. He’s getting married. And Phee—” Emma jumped when Phee hit the dough with the rolling pin again. “I mean, we are not pleased with the news.”

“Well then, here.” Mrs. Shephard grated sugar off a cone onto the dough in front of Phee. “Knead that in, Miss Fiona. Sprinkle, fold, press, and again. Some kinds of dough take a beating, and maybe that’s what you need to do today. Let’s see if we can salvage this. Sweeten and knead, there’s a girl. Mrs. Hardwick, come over here and we will attempt a crust again.” With kind but determined tugs, the cook removed the rolling pin from Phee’s grasp and placed it by the canister of flour.

Phee set into a rhythm, letting her hands work while her mind wandered. Grate the sugar, sprinkle it on the dough, then fold over and do it again.

Cal was marrying Violet. That no-good son of a bitch. After all those claims that he would get out of it. He’d bent to Eastly, like always.

And that beautiful letter he’d written and someone else had sent. Those words haunted her. She dreamed of him showing up and saying what was in that letter. He’d been her Cal in that letter, and he’d thrown it away. But then, so had she. Tossing the only love letter she’d ever received off a cliff was an impulsive move she’d almost immediately regretted.

If Cal married, there would be no more declarations of love and longing. Not that her recent behavior encouraged such declarations, but seeing him move on so soon made her heart ache.

She couldn’t deny now that a part of her had hoped he’d come. Hoped he’d apologize and fight for her. For them. In that fantasy, he told Eastly to hang and married Phee instead.

A tear slipped down her cheek, then splashed on the dough.

Phee rubbed at the ache under her breastbone, leaving a trail of flour on her apron. When she glanced up, Emma and Mrs. Shephard didn’t try to hide their concern. That pressure in her chest built until Phee confessed with a gasp, “It hurts.”

Just that. Tears fell, whether or not she wanted them to. Her shoulders shook, and for a moment Phee feared she’d shudder into a pile of emotional, tear-soaked bits—that this would be what broke her. That fatalistic thought sparked the anger all over again, because how dare he try to break her.

Of course, Cal didn’t know Phee lived as a woman now. That with the death notice and headstone for her brother, she’d set herself free. In fact, Cal didn’t know much of anything, and there was so much she wished she could share with him. The midwife said Emma and the baby were healthy. Their coffers were full after Emma received Adam’s life-insurance policy and inheritance. They had outmaneuvered Milton and hadn’t heard a peep from him.

Logically, the good in this new life outweighed the bad. But nothing felt logical at the moment. All Phee had were feelings of loss, and they were big enough to crush her under their weight.

The other two women stepped forward. Emma wrapped her in a hug while Mrs. Shephard rubbed a soothing circle on Phee’s back and murmured noises about the uselessness of men and the benefits of salt water in dough.

“You were hoping he’d see sense and follow us, weren’t you?” Emma asked.

Phee couldn’t muster much beyond a nod and sniffle. “I know it’s ridiculous when we never even hinted he’d be welcome here. I gave him no reason to hope. But…Violet Cuthbert.”

“You deserve better, Miss Fiona. Especially after this hard year,” Mrs. Shephard said. For a second, Phee was confused. Ah, the story they’d told the staff. On top of the death of her “cousin” Adam, Fiona had recently recovered from a fever that had forced a physician to shave her head. Another lie.

Phee offered a watery smile to the cook. “I’m sorry I cried all over the dough.”

Mrs. Shepherd shrugged. “A little salt water never hurt nothing. How about you ladies take tea in the parlor, and I’ll finish this crust. Quick as a wink, it will be ready for the oven. Baking lessons can wait for another day.”

Polly, the maid of all work, ducked her head through the kitchen doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, missus. There’s a gentleman come to call. A handsome one.” Her eyes were wide as saucers.

A prickle began at Phee’s nape. “Does he have long blond hair?”

Polly nodded so hard, her cap shifted on her head and she grabbed to catch it. “Looks like a storybook prince, he does.”

Emma snorted, then covered the laugh with one floury hand. “You said you wanted him to follow us, Phee.”

“But…now? When I’m covered in flour, and my hair is a disaster, and I’ve been crying over his sorry hide?” Phee brushed her hands on her apron, as if that would make a difference. “Your brother is impossible.” A thought made her freeze. “Polly, is he alone? Or is there a blond woman with him?” Phee glared at Emma. “If he brought Violet, so help me God, I will bloody the parlor floor with his carcass and not regret it.”

“Brought a valet who’s nearly as handsome as he is, but no lady,” Polly said with a grin.

Washing her hands, Phee scrubbed at the white paste the dough left between her fingers. “Damn it, Calvin.”

“That’s more like it.” Emma grinned, swiping her palms over Phee’s cheeks to clear stray flour and tears. “Want me to go in first? Or would you like a few minutes with him in private?”

Phee hesitated, then looked at her apron and simple day dress. “Can you give me a bit to change and feel presentable?”

“Of course. I suggest the copper gown. It does marvelous things to the color in your cheeks.” Emma popped a slice of spiced apple from the bowl on the counter into her mouth and waved as she left the kitchen.

Mrs. Shephard eyed Phee with a small smile. “The copper gown looks lovely on you.”

Well, at least her wardrobe choice was sorted. Phee skirted down the narrow servants’ hallway toward the rear of the house, where a stairwell would take her to the second-floor bedrooms.

She’d almost made it to her chamber when she bumped into a hard chest. “Oh, pardon me! Kingston?” Phee froze at the sight of the tall valet.

Kingston knew of her relationship with his master, but whether that meant he’d realized she was female, Phee didn’t know.

Not until now, at any rate.

He bowed. “I’m happy to see you are alive and well, Miss Hardwick. The servants worried when we saw the Times.”

Inexplicably, tears rose to her eyes again. She hadn’t thought anyone would care about Adam’s death notice beyond her uncle and Calvin—who wouldn’t believe it, anyway. “Thank you, Kingston. I, ah, was in the kitchen. I’m a bit of a mess and need to change before I greet his lordship.”

Kingston studied her for a moment until the silence made her shift from one foot to the other. “May I, miss?” He gestured toward her head.

“May you what?”

Kingston cleared his throat. “Would you like assistance styling your hair once you’ve changed gowns, miss?”

She bit into her bottom lip to stave off more tears at the kindness. “I would appreciate that. I’m afraid I don’t know what to do with it as it grows longer. Give me a few minutes to change?”

He nodded in a shallow bow. “I’ll gather supplies and meet you in the hall outside your door. Which chamber is yours?”

“Just there.” She pointed. “I’ll see you momentarily, then.”

Thankfully, the copper gown was freshly washed and pressed. It had become her favorite and always made her feel sensual and beautiful. The deep scooped neckline showcased her collarbones and creamy skin, and the skirt swished when she walked.

Washing her face and hands in the small porcelain basin took only a moment, then changing gowns took a few more. When a lady’s maid would have been required, she and Emma helped each other, but Phee had deliberately chosen a wardrobe she could don without assistance. They were living quietly here, with minimal staff. The lower a profile they kept, the better, until the timeline of their arrival and the baby’s age blurred in the memories of the locals and their acquaintances in London.

She opened the door to find Kingston waiting in the hall, as promised.

“May I, miss? We can leave the door open to observe the proprieties.”

She did just that, touched that he would think of her comfort and reputation. The man had adapted to the news with remarkable grace. Unless it wasn’t news at all.

Phee took a seat at the vanity table, and he set to work combing her curls. “Kingston, how long have you known?”

He met her eyes in the mirror. “Awhile, miss. His lordship swore me to secrecy when I discovered, and you can trust I’ll hold my tongue now. Lord Carlyle would hate me saying so, but he’s been grieving the loss of you something awful. Did you get the letter?”

“You’re the one who posted it?”

“I know I overstepped, but I thought you should have it. Now, as to your hair. Until it gets longer and has some weight to it, you’ll need a product like this.” In the mirror, he held up a small jar of pomade. “Whereas men use enough to slick the hair down, you only need a little on your fingers. Then you either shape the curls like this,” he instructed, working some kind of magic that turned her fluff into an honest-to-God curl, “or you can form waves with your fingers instead of individual ringlet curls. With your bone structure, you’ll wear either style well, but it depends on how much time you have to devote to your toilette. For today’s purposes, we shall keep it simple.”

“I’ll be damned,” she muttered, staring at the result. The valet’s wizardry distracted her from the flurry of nerves tickling her stomach at the thought of seeing Cal again.

Kingston laughed under his breath.

“You’re a miracle worker.” Gone was the baby-duck fluff. No, she didn’t miraculously have a pile of thick hair, but she had a style instead of puffy ginger chaos. Finger waves, with a side part, and small curls framed her features.

“Do you have any rouge, or kohl for your lashes? You’re a trifle pale. And there’s only one chance to make a first impression. We want you to feel your best when his lordship begs to get you back, after all. That is the point, yes?”

If he was here to beg, then yes. Phee placed a hand over her racing heart. Cal was here. In the house. Without Violet bloody Cuthbert. The ire over that last letter battled with her nerves and won. Phee firmed her jaw. If he was going to beg, then she’d look like a queen while he did it. “I have a pot of rouge Emma gave me, but I rarely use it.” She opened a drawer. Like the others in the vanity table, it was nearly empty of fripperies. The memory of slipping her carved bird into Cal’s bedroom table surfaced. Had he found it yet? Had he connected what it meant—that she’d chosen freedom and hoped he would too?

The little black ceramic pot with gilt lettering rolled when she tried to grab it. “Here.”

As if he did this every day, Kingston dabbed a bit of the cream on her cheeks and lips, gently blending it until she looked healthy and not like someone who could believably lie about nearly dying from a fever within the last few months.

The one time she’d played with the stuff, her outcome had been nowhere near as attractive. The valet surveyed her from head to toe.

“There. You’ll do nicely.” He handed her the pot of rouge. “If I may be so bold, miss? His lordship is a good man. But a bit of groveling wouldn’t be amiss, I think.” With that, he left for the guest room where Polly would have directed him to put Cal’s things.

Phee smiled at the now-empty doorway, then tucked the rouge pot into its drawer. The mirror reflected an image that had her raising her chin and smoothing a hand over the front of her gown. Kingston seemed to think Cal had come here to reconcile. If Cal was still engaged to be married, surely his valet would have said as much.

Downstairs, Phee paused outside the parlor. The low rumble of Cal’s and Emma’s voices reached through the closed door. Goose bumps rose on her skin at the sound of him. Even though she couldn’t make out the words, he refreshed a part of her that had withered in his absence, like a flower without rain or sun.

She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing. Damned red hair meant every emotion showed on her complexion, in blushes and blotchy skin. She might as well share her feelings on a sign around her neck. Fear. Anxiety. Anger. Desire.

Lordy, the desire surprised her. The way it unfurled within Phee at the sound of his voice, like a lazy cat stretching in a windowsill sunbeam. It would take every ounce of her self-control to not throw herself into his arms the minute he apologized.

Please, God, let him apologize.

“Let the groveling commence,” she murmured.

*  *  *

Since Cal had rolled through Olread Cove and found the correct house, ghastly nerves about seeing Phee again had tied him in knots, along with an undeniable desperation to finally be in the same room with her.

Standing in the parlor of the snug cottage was surreal, but he still hadn’t seen Phee. For one heart-stopping moment, he thought he heard her voice from somewhere in the house. A few seconds later, Emma entered the parlor and walked right into his arms.

“You came. I’m so glad,” she said.

The hug restored a piece of his calm. Cal rested his cheek on the top of her head. “How’s little Mortimer Hildegard?”

Emma stepped away, rolling her eyes. “He wants pie. A lot of pie.” Her expression turned serious as she studied him. Not as a sister but as an adult and equal. It hit him all at once that his baby sister was growing up. “You’ll need to beg her, you know. She’s alive, despite what you may have read in the Times. I’m assuming that’s why you’re here.”

He smiled, but it felt like a twisted thing on his face instead of an expression of joy. “Don’t misunderstand. I love seeing you happy and healthy. But yes, I’m here for Phee.”

And then in she walked, so utterly lovely that she stole all the air left in his lungs.

“See, brother mine? I told you—alive and well,” Emma said.

“Phee.” He breathed her name like a prayer. The way he used to say it in bed. Intimate, and with a touch of reverence. As if there could be any other way to speak to her after weeks without the warmth from her flame-red hair and joyful laughter.

By God, she made his knees weak. The gown she wore exposed delicious skin, showcasing elegant arms and the curving lines of delicate collarbones. Phee told him once in bed that she liked them, and the bones had fascinated him ever since. He wanted to simultaneously worship her and do filthy, earthy, sexual things with her until neither of them possessed any doubt who he belonged to.

The features he’d traced over and over in his mind were composed and distant, while the mere sight of Phee threatened to undo him.

“Hello, Cal. We weren’t expecting you. Don’t you have a wedding to plan? Or is your role to simply do what they say?” The words cut, but he was glad for it. Mad meant she cared. He could handle anger and hurt and anything else Phee threw at him—as long as it wasn’t apathy.

“I deserve that.” Clearing his throat, he fidgeted with the brim of his hat so he wouldn’t reach for her. “I’m not marrying Violet Cuthbert.” The carefully prepared speech he’d memorized over the days of travel disintegrated in his brain as he stared at her. “You look amazing, Phee. Beautiful as ever.”

“And I look like an egg. Spherical and wobbly,” Emma said beside him. He glanced her way to see her rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “No, Brother. Don’t attempt to compliment me. I’ll leave you two to catch up.” She winked at Cal, then closed the door behind her.

Silence fell in the snug parlor.

Phee wrapped her arms around herself and gave him a wide berth, stopping in front of the window. Beyond her shoulder, Cal couldn’t see anything worth watching. The packed-dirt lane in front of the house was empty except for a dusty traveling carriage rattling down the street slowly, taking its time over the rutted roadway. Olread Cove was a peaceful village.

She turned to face him. “You look like hell.”

He rubbed a palm over the short beard Kingston claimed made him appear unkempt. Cal thought it lent him a vaguely piratical look. “You don’t like it?”

There was no hiding the dark circles under his eyes and a new gauntness to his cheeks, though. These past few weeks had held little sleep and even less appetite.

A frown knit her brows together. “I’m not talking about the beard. You really look awful. Are you sick? Is that why the sudden change of heart about Miss Cuthbert? If you’ve come all this way to drop dead on my floor, I will pitch your corpse off the nearest cliff. Don’t think I won’t.”

Cal’s laugh grated roughly as if rusty from disuse. “Aw, Phee, you care.” He covered his heart and winked.

She rolled her eyes, but a quirk at the corner of her mouth made him hope. “Why are you here, Calvin?”

Like a snuffed candle, the lightness in his chest died, and he remembered how it had felt to read that newspaper announcement. “I needed to see for myself that you were alive and well. I knew logically that if you’d d-died…” He stuttered over the word, then gulped and tried again. “If you’d died, Emma would tell me. But I had to see you.” There was no reason to prevaricate, not after coming all this way. “I had to tell you in person that I love you. I’m miserable without you. I don’t want to have a life apart from you. And whatever that looks like—wherever you want to live, under whatever name you choose—I want to be part of it. I came to beg, Ophelia.”

She blinked. “My name is Fiona now. Fiona Hardwick.”

“Still Phee, then. Just a different spelling.”

“It’s the closest I could come to living under my own name.” Her bittersweet smile made him itch to hold her. It didn’t escape him that she offered no comment or reply to his declaration of love. He’d have loved if she’d fallen into his arms and forgiven all, but that wasn’t realistic.

Phee had been through hell and back, and he hadn’t been here for it. In the grand scheme of things, Cal’s feelings weren’t bigger than the task she’d undertaken to change her name and claim her future.

Stepping toward her, Cal held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Fiona. I remember reading somewhere that Fiona means fair. The perfect name for a beautiful woman.”

He didn’t sense a softening in her posture until she finally shook his hand. That battered flicker of hope in his soul grew ever so slightly. Touching Phee again sent every nerve in his arm tingling.

The grip of her handshake was tight enough to hurt when she said, “If all you want is a mistress, you can climb into that fancy carriage and drive right into hell.”

“I don’t want a mistress, Phee. Where did you get that idea?”

She released his hand and spun away, hugging herself. After pacing a few feet, she whirled on him and flung her hands in the air. “You spoke of a future with me but never marriage, then talked of marrying someone else, you bacon-brained princock!”

God, he’d missed her. Daring her wrath, he crossed to where she stood, and traced a finger over one curl resting against her cheek. “You will never have to doubt my love and commitment to you. Not a mistress, my love. You don’t ever need to hide again.”

Those eyes he’d dreamed of for the past weeks studied him. “Let’s go for a walk. During which you will tell me everything, beginning with your intentions. Perhaps then we can see where we stand.”

Cal donned his hat and reached for the caped cloak he’d draped over a nearby chair. Phee opened the cupboard and removed a wool wrap.

Offering his arm to her, he said, “Miss Hardwick, would you care to show me your favorite place to ramble?”

“My favorite walking path follows the cliff edge. I suggest you choose your words carefully, or I’ll push you over.”

Cal snagged one of her hands before she could cover it with a leather glove. Raising her hand to his lips, he pressed a firm kiss to her skin, then breathed her in. Warm sandalwood, with a trace of sugar. He could eat her up—for hours. Days, if she’d let him. “I’ve missed you, Phee.”

“I missed you too.” Her voice shook. For the moment, that vulnerability was enough. It was a promising start, at least. No matter how long it took to win her back, he’d be here for it—but they could start with a walk and occasional death threats.

Outside, they picked their way along the gravel path through a garden and past a wooden gate toward the green expanse of land that cut off abruptly at the cliff. A cool breeze ruffled the curls on her uncovered head. Cal tucked her hand between his arm and body and angled himself to block most of the wind whipping off the water.

“Winter here will be brutal, I imagine,” he said.

“I expect so. But the house is sturdy and seems to hold the heat well. We have enough firewood to carry us through till spring. This will do nicely until Emma decides where she wants to live with the baby.”

“I’ll get used to it,” Cal said.

She raised a brow at him in query.

He shrugged, hugging her hand tighter to his body. “Where you go, I go. Unless you tell me you don’t love me or want me, I will stay wherever you are.”

“Your life is in London and at Lakeview.”

He stopped, pulling her to a halt with him. “The only life I want is with you. Everything else is negotiable. Besides, I think we can both agree that I handle my life better with you by my side helping me.”

“Then why did you tell your father you wouldn’t marry a woman with scandal in her past? Why did you woo me while everyone thought you were promised to Violet?”

The hurt in her voice tore a hole in him, but it was a valid question. “When did I tell Eastly I wouldn’t marry—wait, was that in the drawing room when he arrived at Lakeview?” Things clicked together in his memory, and he thought he’d be sick. Phee let go of him and continued down the path, but her silence was answer enough.

“I wish I had a justifiable answer,” he called, following her toward the cliff. “I was stalling for time and grasping at reasons to put him off. God, what you must have thought.” Cal reached where she’d stopped at the edge. “Love, I’m so sorry. I was prevaricating—like I always do, because my entire life, I’ve juggled my parents’ scandals and handled the fallout.”

“Why didn’t you tell Eastly no? Tell the baron no. Hell, tell everyone no.”

He rolled his shoulders. Not a shrug so much as a physical release of the truth. “I thought I’d handle it, like I handled dozens of problems before this. Not only were the stakes higher this time but my priority should have been to you. Instead of bringing you in like I would have before, I tried to shelter you from the ugliness of it all. You deserve more than that, Phee. You deserve a partner. I should have told Eastly to go to hell. I have now, not that it helps anything with us.”

He grasped one of her hands and urged Phee to turn, needing to see her face. While he’d hoped to see forgiveness softening the hard line of her jaw, her eyes still sparked with anger.

“And the decision to marry Miss Cuthbert anyway? We received your letter today.”

Cal winced. If he’d been one day earlier, he could have spared her the hurt of reading what he’d written while in the throes of a hopeless depression. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t in a good place. After word of the losses with the Wilhelmina, my last hope for Eastly’s finances died. I pored over the estate books, and the only way he can pay this debt is to sell everything unentailed, then live on a budget for a few years.”

She snorted, then covered the sound with her hand.

He shot her a knowing look. “Exactly. We both know that’s unlikely. You were gone and hated me. So I thought I’d be useful if not happy.”

Phee tugged her hand free, then walked to a narrow path at the cliff edge. “What changed?”

The question was nearly lost to the wind as she descended a rocky trail toward what Cal assumed would be a beach below. She hadn’t shoved him over the edge yet, so a legitimate trail was a good sign.

“Lottie barged in and called me a damsel in distress.” He caught the lilting song of her laugh on the breeze, and it made him smile. “Sometimes I think when someone is in a pit, they forget there’s a world beyond their view. They stop trying to get out of that hole and tell themselves the dark is normal.” Cal clambered down the path to join her at the bottom. “I was deep in the pit, Phee. Stopped sleeping. Moped about, barking at people like some misanthrope. Lottie did everything short of throwing a bucket of water on me to snap me out of it.”

“What happens the next time Eastly has a problem? Because you know there will be a next time.” She tightened the heavy wrap around her shoulders and crossed her arms. Offering one hand, Cal held his breath until she reached her hand out. Their fingers intertwined, knowing exactly where to fall to knit together, as he closed the distance between them.

“We both know I’m undoing years of habit. My first instinct will probably be to rescue him again. But I can’t do that. I have offered to take over the finances, but I doubt he will cede control. I should warn you, I come with potential scandal. I threatened to declare Eastly incompetent if he made the tenants do without. I hope it won’t come to that.”

Phee’s gaze searched his face. What she looked for, he didn’t know, but he drank in the sight of her, the feel of her under his fingers. “So Eastly’s options are to liquidate assets, give you the purse strings, or face a massive scandal in court?”

“It’s about time, don’t you think? I hope he makes the right choice, but I won’t hold his hand through it. I have other priorities now. My allegiance to Eastly overrode my honesty with you, and I promise upon my soul that will never happen again. Can you forgive me, Phee? Will you love me? Because I love you. I choose you. And I’ll keep choosing you every day.” He cradled her cheek, brushing his thumb over her lower lip.

She said nothing, but after an eternity of heartbeats, Phee leaned into his touch, turning to kiss his palm. The hope inside him transformed into budding desire. When she closed her eyes, the thick fall of her lashes brushed his fingers.

Gently, giving her time to protest, Cal brought her face closer, until the pillowy softness of her lips opened beneath his mouth.

A promise, a declaration, a vow of a kiss.

“I love you too,” she murmured against his lips.

“Way to make me wait for it, Phee,” he teased. She nipped his bottom lip in reply. What began as a sweet gesture of love and teasing transformed in an instant into something far more carnal.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he managed before diving in for another taste.

She stilled under his hands, then pulled back. For one awful moment, he feared she’d step away. Instead, a sly smile crept across her face, lighting her eyes and curving those phenomenal lips, gone raspberry pink and shiny from his kiss.

“How do you feel about sex outdoors?”