Page 81 of A Deal With a Notorious Devil
She’d been careful creeping out, waiting for the rattle of the wind through the branches to open the door and slip out. Every night he’d waited for her—sometimes pacing, sometimes seated upon the bench. Sometimes he’d called her name. Just a hopefulinquiry given to the darkness, hardly loud enough for her ears to detect.
A few times she had considered answering.
She hadn’t yet let go of her anger. Probably she wouldn’t for some time. But beneath it was the clawing ache of worry, and she thought—even if she didn’t think she could manage a civil conversation between them at this juncture, still she needed the reassurance of seeing him, even from a distance, safe and whole. Exasperated, no doubt, if she were to judge by the occasional rueful shake of his head, by the way he raked his fingers through his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it and irreparably ruffling the gold strands. But alive and well.
“Phoebe?”
Swallowing back a gasp, Phoebe whirled toward the balcony door to see her mother standing there, her brows knit in confusion. “Shh,” she whispered. “He’ll hear you.”
Pressing her lips together into a firm line, Mama carefully tiptoed forward, leaning over the balustrade to peer down in the direction Phoebe had been looking. “Ah,” she said in a muted whisper. “I see.”
Did she, though? Phoebe had been tight-lipped on the details. All she’d expressed was that they’d had a row—which was true—and he’d shipped her off. But it wasn’t the whole of the truth, really, and it made her feel a bit guilty.
“How long has he been out there?” Mama asked.
Phoebe gave a little shrug. “An hour or so,” she said. And then, hesitantly, she added, “He’s waited every night.”
“Waited?” Mama inquired, and Phoebe knew her sharp gaze would at last see what she had not before. The wall that neatly separated the two benches, one on either side, lined up nearly exactly. A place where two people from separate households might meet in secret, with no one the wiser. “Oh,” Mama said at last. “For you.”
Phoebe managed a small nod, feeling vaguely ashamed of herself.
“How long?”
“A few weeks, I suppose,” Phoebe admitted. “Since just after we moved in. Until—”
“Emma’s ball,” Mama murmured. “And then I suppose it wasn’t necessary anymore.”
No, it hadn’t been necessary. But they’d still frequented the garden together, even if there had no longer been a wall between them. It had felt comfortable, she supposed. Familiar. Like a ritual they’d established between them. They’d been veritable strangers when they had married, but during those nights they had shared in their respective gardens, speaking to one another over the separation of the wall—there, they had felt like friends.
“I didn’t understand it,” Mama said softly. “I suppose I still don’t. How you could allow yourself to be compromised like that. By a man of his reputation, a man you’d have no reason to know.” She made a soft sound beneath her breath. “But I suppose you must’ve known him at least a little. How did it begin?”
Phoebe hunched her shoulders, bending over the balustrade. “I don’t know if I should tell you,” she said. “It wasn’t…very proper.”
“Oh, then you certainly must,” Mama said. “It’s been at least a few months since I’ve had a proper scandal to chew on. Hardly anything at all since your marriage.”
“Mama.”
“I only mean to say,” Mama continued, “that you can tell me anything. You always could, darling. Though I suspect you’ve long harbored a fair few secrets.”
Phoebe felt the gentle nudge of Mama’s shoulder against her own, and wondered if perhaps Mama might have held a few suspicions all along. She heaved a sigh, flicked her gazedownward and watched the breeze waft Kit’s tousled gold hair about. “Tuesday morning calls,” she said. “Do you recall the day you granted Lord Egerton leave to walk in the garden with me?”
“I remember,” Mama said, with a lift of one brow. “I believe he stormed off in something of an ill humor. I never quite received an explanation from him. Or from you.”
“He made an inappropriate advance,” Phoebe confessed. “I suppose he thought I must be just desperate to be married, that I ought to be flattered by his attentions.”
Mama snarled through gritted teeth, “How dare—”
“Shh.” Phoebe slanted her head meaningfully toward where Kit sat still upon the bench, and waited until Mama had once more reined in her flare of temper. “Kit’s got a balcony of his own, you know,” she said. “He was there, watching. He took exception to Lord Egerton’s manners and lobbed an orange at his head.”
“An orange?”
“I suppose it was the only weapon at his disposal at the time,” Phoebe said. “He’s got that orangery, you know. He sends most of them along to Emma for the children. Fresh fruit is so very dear in winter.” She heaved a sigh, settling her chin in her palm. “But he had a whole sack of them, and it did drive Lord Egerton away, and—and I was grateful,” she said. “We struck up a friendship of sorts, in conversations over the wall after you and Papa had retired for the evening. And on Tuesdays, he was kind enough to keep watch on the balcony and…and to drive away my callers.” The suitors she had never wanted. That she had never managed to work up the nerve to tell Mama she hadn’t wanted. But perhaps now—perhaps now was the time at last.
Mama settled one hand upon her shoulder. “Phoebe?” she inquired gently.
“Oh, Mama,” she sighed, averting her gaze with a guilty flush. “I didn’t want to be married. Ever, if I could avoid it.”
“You never said.”
