Page 59 of West End Earl
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.”
