Page 19 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“Notion? What notion?”
“Of marrying you, you dunderhead. D’you want to be a widow the rest of your days?”
Her grandfather’s words struck her like the blunt end of a cudgel. Phaedra scrambled to her feet. “Good Lord! You could not be possibly thinking that I and-and Armande de LeCroix?—”
“And why not? He’s a marquis, m’girl, with money. That makes him as good as a duke in my books.”
“You don’t even know this man. He’s dangerous, secretive, and ruthless.”
“Hah! So he is.” Weylin seemed pleased by her description. “A much more likely specimen than that milksop Grantham.”
Phaedra forebore to remind her grandfather that it had been he who had schemed to make Ewan her husband. Weylin’s fascination with nobility and titles bordered on madness. It had been the chief reason he had delivered her into Ewan’s bed, for her grandfather had felt nothing but contempt for her late husband. But this time Sawyer Weylin’s obsession for raising his family into the ranks of the aristocracy had taken a far more dangerous turn.
“By God,” she said, “I think you would drive me into the arms of the devil himself if he had a patent of nobility.”
“So I would,” the old man growled.
“I greatly fear this devil has other plans, Grandfather. He could be an impostor for all you know of him. I find certain aspects of his behavior most odd. Only just this morning, he?—”
Her grandfather smacked his cane against the floor, his jowls trembling with outrage. “D’you take me for an old fool, girl? I’ve been spotting sharpers since before you were born, aye, before your own father was breeched. I guess I would know whether or not this marquis is the genuine article. “
“It scarce matters if he is. Ewan was bad enough. I will not be caught up in your marriage schemes a second time.”
“You’ll do as I bid you.” Weylin expelled his breath in a snort. “You can scarce afford to be particular, my fine lady. Thanks to your witless father.” Her grandfather’s face darkened with that bitter expression he always wore when speaking of his only son. He launched into what to Phaedra was an all-too-familiar and hated refrain.
“Never knew how I came to sire such a cursed ungrateful dolt. Good for nothing but poking his nose in a parcel of Greek books, dying too young with nothing to show for his life but a pert daughter with red hair and a heathen name. But that’s what comes of running off to a godforsaken land like Ireland to wed some slut.”
“You will not speak of my mother like that!” Phaedra warned.
“A poor papist slut,” Weylin repeated with an ugly sneer. She winced as he dug the tip of his cane into her ribs for emphasis. “The witling couldn’t even find one with money.”
Phaedra rubbed her side, eyeing him with loathing. At times like this, she hated her grandfather. “My mother was a lady born. Of far better breeding than a coarse old man who smells of gin.” Weylin’s features suffused with an alarming purple. He raised up his cane and for one moment Phaedra thought he meant to strike her with it. She glared back, defying him.
He abruptly yanked his gout-ridden foot off the cushions. As his face contorted with pain, he managed to lean upon the cane and struggle to his feet.
“It was gin and small beer that put this fancy roof over your head, missy,” he panted when he could get his breath. “And you’d best learn more respect if you wish to remain here.”
“I don’t,” she cried. “I’ll take passage on the next boat crossing the Irish Sea.”
“And good riddance to you, you baggage.” Shoving her aside with one thick hand, he huffed past her. “Go back amongst your savage Irish relations and rot there.”
“It might interest you to know, Grandfather, that most of those savage Irish relations despise me as much as you do, now that my mother is dead. Only they hate me for being English.”
“Then hold your tongue, girl, if you don’t want me to toss you out.” Weylin paused long enough to shake his cane at her. “Cease your nonsense about Armande. You dress like a grand lady and do the pretty by him. If you let him slip between your fingers, I’ll send you packing for good this time. Back to Ireland, or to hell, it’ll make no odds to me.”
The door reverberated upon its hinges as he flung it open. Phaedra caught a brief glimpse of the bewigged men in the next chamber scattering before him like a flock of frightened sheep.
“Where’s that damned barber? Does the dolt think I can powder this wig myself?” The roar faded as the door slammed behind him, leaving Phaedra alone in the dressing room.
“I hope he powders you until you choke, you old fool,” Phaedra muttered. She might have known it was useless to try talking reasonably with Sawyer Weylin. Both of them were quick-tempered and opinionated; and Phaedra had realized long ago that they took a perverse pleasure in vexing one another. But this latest notion of Weylin’s went far beyond mere vexation.
Don’t let the marquis slip through your fingers, he had warned.
“That’s rich, upon my word,” Phaedra said, an angry laugh escaping her. What an amusing command regarding a man who was as elusive as a puff of mist.
Her grandfather’s ambitions had rendered him blind. It was obvious he gave no credence to her fears regarding Armande, not with such absurd marriage schemes forming in his head. She had to tip her hat to the marquis. In an amazingly short time, he had managed to overcome Weylin’s prejudice against foreigners and wangle his way into the shrewd old man’s confidence and regard. These were things that she, his flesh and blood, had not managed in six years.
Phaedra sank down upon Weylin’s empty chair. What was she going to do now? Simply wait and see what happened? Wait to find out whose instincts regarding the marquis were correct, hers or her grandfather’s? She had little patience for waiting, especially if it would involve long, hot nights, knowing she was separated from a most dangerous man by only a locked door.
