Page 66 of West End Earl
“We are helping each other. And as we said, we will deal with the future together.” Echoing the words Cal had said to her in the library made Phee wince. In the grand scheme of things, her and Cal’s brief stint as lovers would be a mere blip compared to the years ahead of her. Eventually, she might think of this time at Lakeview as nothing more than a lovely visit to the countryside. But right now, she hurt. Like vinegar on a wound, thoughts of being with Cal made her ache.
Since overhearing the conversation with the marquess yesterday, Phee had discovered a spectrum of pain. A sting, a throb, crippling agony—all unique and Cal’s fault.
Except, with the first step of her plan executed and Cal’s reaction played out for her to see, Phee had to wonder if there’d been another way. An explanation that would have satisfied her or exonerated him.
A hiccup of breath threatened tears if she explored that line of thought further. No. It was done. Anger kept her going right now. There’d be a time to set that anger aside and grieve everything, but showing him the full extent of her pain wouldn’t happen—and certainly not in the public rooms of his grand house, swarming with guests.
The murmur of voices filtered down the corridor from the breakfast room, where the late risers were beginning their day.
Phee had already died a thousand deaths and gotten married before they’d even drunk their first cup of tea. Straightening her shoulders, she nodded to Emma. “Let’s get this over with.”
“It will be all right. You’ll see. I’ll do my society-darling bit and smile a lot, and we will get through this. They’ll expect us to disappear after breakfast, then you can spend a few hours alone if you want to.”
What a bloody depressing wedding day. It hit her then. “Emma, I’m sorry. Here I’m focused on my disaster with Cal, and I haven’t once thought about what you’re giving up. This isn’t the wedding day you dreamed of, nor am I the groom you wanted.”
Emma’s dimples flashed, although the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Both of us gained and lost in this arrangement. Not to mention the potential eternal damnation for taking vows under false pretenses.”
Phee wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “For what it’s worth, you’re a beautiful bride. I’d like to think God understands the situation.”
When they entered the breakfast room arm in arm and announced their marriage, there was a moment of shocked silence. Miss Lillian was the first to stand and offer her well-wishes, then the others followed. Most of the congratulations sounded genuine, if skeptical. Everyone knew Lady Emma Carlyle had married beneath her. Phee shook hands, accepted the good-natured teasing from the men, and counted the minutes until she could retreat to her room.
The worst of it would come later, when any suspicions about the hasty marriage would be confirmed as news of the baby spread. By then, she and Emma would be long gone from London. For now, it would be the wedding itself that would set tongues wagging.
Perhaps the political climate would distract from Lady Emma’s unexpected match. With Queen Caroline essentially on trial and fighting to keep her title, the papers were busy with those salacious details. Mr. Nobody Hardwick marrying the daughter of a marquess should not warrant much more than a simple announcement. They could hope, anyway.
Servants rushed to provide champagne for the impromptu celebration. Raising a flute, Phee toasted Emma. “To the most beautiful bride in England.”
The sparkling wine slid cool and fizzy down her throat, washing away the unease of the morning. In its wake, resolve settled in her heart. She didn’t want to live the rest of her life remembering what it felt like to be held—she wanted tobeheld, and safe, and loved by someone who saw her beauty the way she did now. At the moment, it seemed impossible to imagine such a thing with anyone but Cal, but if Adam’s death had taught her one thing, it was that Phee could endure far more than she thought. So while she couldn’t picture it now, she knew someday she’d have love, safety, and a life that made her happy. And Emma deserved the same.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Aspecial license, eh?” Milton’s solicitor looked over the half-moons of his spectacles and raised unruly silver brows at Phee. “You found a girl with money, then.” He studied the document closer. “The Marquess of Eastly’s chit? My, my, you are coming up in the world, Mr. Hardwick.”
Phee bit her tongue and did her best to maintain a benign expression. “I’m sure we will be very happy.” That should be innocuous enough. Every word during a visit to the solicitor handling her parents’ estate—and by extension, her uncle’s—would get back to Milton. After all, this same solicitor had drafted the marriage contracts for a thirteen-year-old girl and hadn’t raised a fuss. Closing this chapter of her life would be a relief. Plus, she’d never again have to set foot in this office, which smelled of musty onions and moldy books.
“It appears all is in order. You’ve fulfilled the terms of your parents’ will, and funds will be available to you as laid out in their last wishes. Given your young age, you’ll want to keep your uncle on the accounts to oversee the transition period,” the solicitor said, as if it were a foregone conclusion. That the solicitor’s first inclination was to keep Milton in charge only confirmed his loyalties.
“Absolutely not. Effective immediately, I’m taking full control of my inheritance. Should questions arise, I have the resources and counsel of the Marquess of Eastly and my brother by marriage, the Earl of Carlyle.”
Name-dropping her new connections had a satisfying effect on the solicitor, who drooped slightly but nodded. Not only that, but she’d managed to say Cal’s title without choking. In light of everything, Phee counted that as progress.
After this there’d be a visit to a different solicitor—one Phee knew from her former position with Cal. Although it pained her to admit Cal was right about anything at the moment, he’d been right about Milton. To expect her uncle to tuck his tail between his legs and scamper off was unrealistic. Protecting Emma and the baby needed to be the top priority. That meant a will of her own with provision for Emma and her rather excessive dowry with a solicitor she could trust.
Thankfully, the next solicitor was easier to deal with and had the added benefits of not being a snitch to her uncle or of smelling like onions. The last order of business on the agenda was to call on the offices of Hapsburg Life and Property. If Phee’s accounts had paid for a life-insurance policy, then she owned said policy. God forbid, but if something did happen to her, Phee didn’t want Milton benefiting from her death.
Finally, a hackney deposited her in front of Cal’s address. The whitewashed edifice of his townhome loomed over the street. Black cornices framed the windows like concerned eyebrows, so the house looked like it judged all who passed by. Strange that she’d never noticed the effect before now. Knowing the awkward silence awaiting Phee in that house made her want to tell the hack driver to take her anywhere else.
Cal’s decision to stay behind at Lakeview had bought Phee and Emma some peace, but things between the three of them had been chilly since his return home. Everyone tried to remain civil, but frankly, Phee couldn’t wait to move. Eastly hadn’t been forthcoming with an offer to stay with him. So until Milton’s fingers were officially removed from Phee’s banking, she and Emma were keeping rooms on Hill Street, where they shared brutally tense dinners with Cal every night.
In the gold drawing room, Emma sprawled rather inelegantly on a chaise, idly flipping through the most recent copy ofLa Belle Assemblée. Phee grinned. Marriage to Emma—as unorthodox and platonic as it was—had been a bit of a revelation. Her new friend made an entertaining companion, and with the fear for her future gone, Emma’s excitement about the baby grew each day. Having a female friendship was foreign but surprisingly fun.
With all the pregnancy talk between them, it had been a relief when Phee’s courses arrived right on schedule. One less potential scandal for the Earl of Carlyle to deal with—not that he’d done that great a job with the last few.
When the door closed behind Phee, Emma didn’t look up. Instead, she turned the magazine around to show an illustration of a gown and said, “Do you think this style would mask my condition for a while longer? Waistlines are tightening and lowering right when mine is expanding. It’s dreadfully unfair.”
Phee squinted at the drawing. “Lady Amesbury swears by Madame Bouvier’s designs. If you visit her shop, she could probably create something like that but with room for the baby.”
Emma flipped the magazine around and tilted her head to the side as if considering. “Madame Bouvier made my wardrobe for the Season. I might visit her again. You don’t mind if I get a few new gowns?”
