Page 61 of West End Earl
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 awoman? 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 dosomething. 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.”
Chapter Twenty
For better or worse, Phee and Emma were in this together—and would say so in front of witnesses as soon as possible. But first, they had to deal with Emma’s father.
Emma went into the house first, making sure Phee could meet with her father without having to deal with Cal. “Leave most of the talking to me,” Emma said before they entered the same drawing room, where a lifetime of heartbeats before, Phee had overheard the marquess and Cal talking. Eastly smiled when Emma entered, and gave her a hearty buss on the cheek in welcome.
“Hello, beautiful girl,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Papa. I—we, rather—have something to discuss with you. May we sit a moment?” Emma had turned on her charm full force, with dimples on display and her sweetest tone of voice to showcase her genteel training and social graces. Over her head, Eastly shot Phee a questioning look.
They sat, Emma beside her father, and Phee on the nearest chair. Emma didn’t waste time. “Papa, we’d like a special license so we may wed as soon as possible.”
No wonder the man lost his bets—he wouldn’t be able to bluff if his life depended on it. Eastly’s confusion over the diamond of the Season wishing to marry a nobody like Adam Hardwick was so apparent, Phee nearly snickered.
Emma pressed on. “You see, Papa, Adam will come into his fortune when he weds, so he’s not without prospects. And of course, my dowry is generous, because you’re the best father in all the world.” She patted Eastly’s hand. That might have been laying it on a bit thick, but the marquess smiled indulgently, so what did Phee know?
“Darling, you can have any man you want. But you can’t marry a mere land steward, even if he has a fortune waiting for him. Why, I have it on good authority that the new Duke of Gaffney is at this party. Cast your net there instead.”
“Adam is my friend, Papa. I want to marry him. And I’m afraid time is of the essence.” With a rather pointed look at her father, she rested a hand on her still-flat belly.
The marquess stared at her hand, his face growing redder as the silence stretched between them. He turned to Phee with an expression that promised not only murder but a slow death. “You did this.”
Phee schooled her features into a polite and nonconfrontational expression. “No, milord. The babe’s not mine. But as Emma said, we are friends. I will accept responsibility.”
“Who’s the father?” he demanded.
“I won’t tell you that. It’s only important to know Adam is stepping in where the father would not,” Emma said. A current of steel infused her voice, and Phee couldn’t help but be proud of her. She’d grown out of being that girl who’d kissed Phee at Vauxhall and then tried to use it as blackmail. Although Emma’s knack for lying her pretty tail off was certainly coming in handy now.
The marquess rested his elbows on his knees in a posture so reminiscent of Cal, it sent an unwelcome pang of longing through Phee. He stared at his hands as he asked, “You’re sure?”
Whom the question was directed toward remained unclear, so both Phee and Emma answered, “Yes.”
“The baby will have a father, my reputation shall be saved, and Adam will gain the inheritance left by his parents. It’s all rather tidy, actually.”
