An Unexpected Passion (Unexpected Series Book 2) Read online

  Refusing to accept his current bout of indecision as being a fault of his own, he placed the blame for it squarely where it should be: on the shoulders of his deceased mother. Lady Catherine Bellamy Claybourne had ruined him as a man with her blasted, feather-brained ideas of marriage and how one ought to represent within its holy bonds, whether male or female.

  She had been an exemplary wife.

  Publicly, she knew her place and she kept that place in honorable stead. In private, however, she believed, wholly and completely, in love and all the mystical powers of such a sacred emotion. She believed one's spouse was to be both honored and cherished, precisely as one vowed before all in the public taking of a husband or wife, and she had lived every day of her life doing precisely that.

  Any one member of the ton, if asked to point to a prime example of a perfect marriage, would not have hesitated to lay a finger toward the future earl and the humble lady who would be his countess. Through her gentle nature, held with quiet but determined dignity, his mother had changed them all...his father, his grandfather, and most of all, Edward himself.

  Despite his father and grandfather's occasional, quiet admonitions to the contrary, his mother's quaint notions had somehow not only found fertile ground but had also taken root in Edward's heart and mind, making today's chore—to gift his betrothed with a ring—exactly that: a chore. The giving of a ring was supposed to mean something, damn it, and yet, to pass along his mother's most treasured piece at this moment would be naught more than a farce. A travesty meant to exacerbate a larger, far more grand one at that, and Edward found he simply could not force himself to do it.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Phoebe's quietly spoken question filtered into his thoughts, bringing Edward's attention back to her and the moment at hand. She was peering at him, one delicate brow arched upward in inquiry. Her beautiful eyes flashed with curiosity, and her lips...grief, he thought. How easily he was taken away merely by looking at her! Giving himself a mental shake, Edward pretended not to have heard her question. “Excuse me?”

  A slow smile curved her peachy, petal soft lips. “I asked what you were thinking. You had drifted so far away, I feared I may well be left to find my own way home.”

  A flush of embarrassment heated his face and Edward dropped the cold metal band in his pocket as if it had suddenly become molten. He stared at her and his eyes narrowed, knowing to tell her what truly had been in his thoughts would bring naught but her ridicule. He was a man, and as such, was not expected to be given to moments of romanticism. And so he blurted, “I was thinking I do not love you.”

  Which was the truth, he argued with himself in an attempt to console his suddenly outraged conscience. Aye, the truth. But not all of it. Still, the quick dearth of light in Phoebe's eyes told him she had not been prepared for such brute honesty from him. His brows lowered. What then, pray tell, did she expect? “This arrangement between us, Phoebe, it is purely a tactical measure. Beneficial on both sides, no doubt, yet we both must accept it for what it is, yes?”

  There was no moment in which to admit he found little to like about the idea himself, because her eyes had suddenly gone cold. She stared up at him, her gaze hard and brittle, like ice, and he wondered briefly just how many men she had frozen unto death with that same beguiling yet glacial stare. The urge to prick at her iciness became overwhelming.

  “Surely you had not expected me to romance and entertain you?” he needled. “I believe you receive quite enough of that from the many slavering, avid pups of the ton who haunt every ball and soiree you deign to attend.”

  She stiffened visibly.

  “And I very much believe this afternoon outing which I deigned to attend with my betrothed has come to an end,” Phoebe said. Gathering up her purse and parasol from the bench, she got to her feet. Back straight and chin high, she stared coldly off into the distance at a spot somewhere just over the top of his head, refusing to meet his gaze. “You may see me home now, Mister Claybourne.”

  Without lingering about to see if he would comply, she turned and simply walked away, leaving him standing alone and hopefully repentant beneath the trees. Lifting a hand toward her maid, Elise, Phoebe indicated the girl should join her and then hurried up the walk toward the carriage, her ire rising with every step.

  Hot, angry tears pricked her eyelids and she blinked furiously, forcing them away because she knew he was right. Theirs was no love match, and truly she hadn't any reason to expect him to entertain her, other than her own somewhat awed memories of the secret kiss the two of them had shared in the not so distant past.

  Had he forgotten so soon?

  She resisted the urge to cast a questioning glance over her shoulder, but mostly because she knew her being here on the Vykhurst park grounds with him today had nothing to do with feelings one might expect, given their coming nuptials, and everything to do with the bargain between his grandfather and her brother to secure Tristan's safe and speedy release from Newgate.

  There was nothing romantic in the least about the arrangement between them, but still, his words had pricked at both her vanity and her pride. Had he found nothing in the kiss they had shared which would recommend her?

  Biting back a derisive snort at her own girlish silliness, Phoebe reminded herself if either of them should be attempting to secure and hold the attentions of the other, it should be her. She needed Edward Claybourne a lot more at the moment than he needed her, and his words, though bitter to swallow and somewhat cruel, were naught but a cold reminder of her own true purpose.

  Her steps slowed until, finally, she stopped. Turning to make her way back to the low bench beneath the thick branches of a stately oak, she found there was no reason to do so because Edward had been following her the entire time. He stood a mere arms breadth away and he was blocking the path.

  “Changed your mind?” he asked, one haughty brow cocked high.

  “No, I-I was coming back to apologize,” she admitted, and drew in a deep breath to do so. “You are right, of course. The arrangement between us is merely that—an arrangement. I should be grateful.”

  She lifted her eyes to his, searching for a sign that he believed her apology to be sincere. “I am grateful, Edward, to both you and your grandfather for helping us bring Tristan home again.”

  She dipped her chin low, once again furtively blinking back the unwanted tears which threatened to spill from her eyes. “Having him home means more to me than you could ever know.”

  A tear escaped despite her staunchest attempt to will it otherwise, but before she could lift a hand to dash it away, Edward reached up to catch it on the pad of his thumb. Sucking in a breath, Phoebe raised her head to stare at him, surprised.

  When had he moved to stand so close?

  His warm fingers threaded themselves into the hair at her temple while his thumbs slid across some invisible path beneath her eyes, just at the tops of her cheekbones, swiftly carrying away the watery evidence of her inner turmoil.

  “Tears, Phoebe?” His palms cradled her cheeks and he studied her with a narrowed gaze of suspicion. “I would not have thought you the weeping type.”

  Swallowing back the lump in her throat, Phoebe looked away from the question in his eyes.

  “Nor I,” she admitted wryly, her voice both hoarse and broken. Though she was loathe to admit it, crying was actually something she had done a lot of since Tristan's disappearance. But today was neither the time nor place for her tears. Squaring her shoulders, she tilted her chin bravely upward to face her future husband. Meeting his gaze once more, she offered a tentative smile. “Would you like to walk to the pond, Mister Claybourne?”

  Her offer was declined by the negative shake of his head. His eyes had darkened and the look in his gaze had become almost solemn in its intensity. A fire leapt within their depths, and his voice, when it came, was rough. “The pond be damned. I am going to kiss you again, Phoebe. I am going to kiss you, and this time, I mean to be thorough. Will you deny m
e, little one?”

  She should deny him, Phoebe thought.

  Without a doubt, she knew that not only should she immediately refuse to allow him to kiss her again, she should also remind him of the very public nature of their current whereabouts and then take him further to task for daring to even consider such scandalous behavior.

  And yet, she did neither.

  Instead, she held her silence, wavering between doing what she knew to be right and what her budding desire and sense of curiosity preferred.

  “Phoebe?”

  His voice said he was giving her a chance to rebuke him, but his eyes.... His eyes reminded her of Tristan's. She pulled away. “You should not—we should not—do this.”

  “You do not wish to kiss me, Phoebe?”

  Distracted by her own thoughts, she shook her head. “Oh, I do, but—”

  Her eyes rounded. Having realized her admission, her cheeks flushed with color.

  Edward chuckled. “Oh, dear. An honest woman. This simply will not do. We shall head back immediately and I will discuss this matter with your brother.”

  He was merely teasing her, but her eyes widened as if she had truly taken is words to heart.

  “Dear Heavens, no! Unless you wish to see us wed in a trice, please do not mention my disgraceful admission to Lucien. He would—” she blinked and then blinked again. “Why, I am not sure what he might do.”

  That realization seemed to shock her almost as much as her accidental admission of wanting to kiss him had. Edward peered at her, curious. “You seem to know so little of your elder brother, yet you are willing to sacrifice yourself on the altar of marriage to save the younger one. Why is that, I wonder?”

  Stepping back, he took her hand and placed it on his arm, leading her back down the path while he waited for an answer. After a moment's hesitation in which her brow puckered in thought, she said, “Lucien wasn't as amenable to having a girl tag along with him and his friends as Tristan, I suppose. Or perhaps it was that he spent a great deal of time away. At school, in Town, or with Father before...before the accident.”

  “In Town?”

  She nodded. “Aye, he was often out with his friends.”

  “The duke has friends?” Edward couched the inquiry as casual and teasing, but he knew it would behoove both himself and his grandfather to know precisely who the duke squired about with, who he held as close friends, to whom he might hold allegiance, and might call upon to assist him with the matter of his younger brother should he decide the earl's grandson was no fit match for his sister after all.

  “Yes, of course he does,” Phoebe said. “Tony and Bastian, and even Nick for a time, though Nick and Tristan are more of an age. He never really wanted Tristan at his heels, dogging his footsteps. But then, I suppose the same is true of most older brothers, yes?”

  Edward filed the names away and shook his head at her questioning look. “Brendan and I spent far too many hours together growing up. Mother quite despaired over our constant squabbling.”

  A grin turned her lips upward and lit her hazel eyes. “That is how it was with myself and my sisters, Emily and Alaina.”

  As they neared the bend in the path which would at last take them to the Vykhurst's most favored feature, Edward acknowledged her shared experience. “I see. You know how annoying younger siblings can be, but older ones, you hold in a different light altogether, yes?”

  He paused and turned to watch her face, to note each change in her expression when he asked, “So why is it, Phoebe, that you are so willing—eager, even—to marry me in order to save your brother? He is being held on charges most heinous, after all. Does such dastardly behavior on his part not concern you?”

  Her brow puckered once again even though a short laugh burst from her lips. “Piracy is no laughing matter, to be sure, but heinous?”

  Distracted now, she turned her head from side to side, as if to shake it from her thoughts. “Perhaps the word merely seems a bit stronger when I hear you say it, but...”

  “I am speaking of murder, Phoebe,” he interrupted, his gaze steady upon hers. “Your brother has been accused of and admitted to murdering the Marquess of Glenwood's granddaughter, yet still you would champion him, and I find I am most curious to know why.”

  “Murder?” She shook her head in denial. “No, I-Lucien said... murder?”

  She wavered, unsteady on her feet, and her delicate, gloved hand clenched tight upon his forearm. Her eyes closed and her face went white, suddenly drained of all color. Edward thought for a moment she might faint.

  Catching her close, he frowned. “You did not know?”

  3

  The earl of Vykhurst's carriage rumbled to a halt outside Rothwyn House for a second time in as many hours, which was much earlier than Edward had expected to return. But after having demanded to be brought immediately home following his inquiry regarding her feelings toward her younger brother and his crimes, Phoebe had spent the entirety of the ride from Vykhurst to Rothwyn House in silence, despite his attempts to draw her into conversation, and he was more than ready for a change of atmosphere.

  Without waiting for assistance, either his or that of the earl's footman, Phoebe opened the door and jumped to the ground, turning her ankle in the process. She righted herself quickly enough, however, and marched—again without assistance—toward the entrance of Rothwyn House. Only now, her steps were marked by a slightly pronounced, hobbling gait.

  Sighing at her stubborn and somewhat reckless impatience, Edward followed.

  “Perhaps your delicate ankles would be better served did you not make a habit of jumping out of carriages,” he suggested, more to rile a response from her than to chastise her for her behavior, but she disappointed him with her continued silence instead.

  As was to be expected from the duke's well-trained staff, the butler, Severn, pulled the door open ere her foot trod upon the last step. Offering the fellow a wry smile, Edward followed her inside. The door closed behind him with a quiet snick at precisely the same moment as Phoebe's brother, Lucien, stepped into the entryway to greet them. His welcome was not to be, however, because pausing in her rather unsteady flight, Phoebe turned slightly in his direction just long enough to say, “The park was lovely, Mister Claybourne, but I am afraid I shall hereafter be unavailable. Please convey my apologies to your grandfather.”

  Then, after shooting her brother a look filled with equal parts riotous, pain-filled emotions and icy daggers of disdain, she continued to the stairs. Every inch of her lovely body held taut, as if she were exerting a particular effort to hold herself together until she could escape their watchful stares, she carefully made her way to the top.

  Edward observed her departure until she disappeared from his field of vision before reluctantly turning to deal with her darkly scowling brother. Phoebe's hurried and cryptic goodbye had halted whatever welcome he had been about to offer and Edward knew the duke would not leave the matter be without a full explanation from him regarding his sister's obvious distress.

  Lucien turned his thunderous gaze on Edward.

  “If you've hurt her, Claybourne...” he started, and Edward bristled. He'd be damned if he would stand by and take the blame for Lucien's having omitted some very pertinent information about her brother's situation from his now overwrought sister.

  That he had done so was the reason for Phoebe's present upset, but rather than reveal how much the duke's assumption that he was at fault pricked at his pride, Edward rocked back on his heels and shook his head, a narrow, mocking smile playing across his lips. “Sorry, Rothwyn. I am not the culprit, so you can sheath those daggers I sense you would dearly love to plunge into my chest. Your sister is upset with you, Your Grace. It seems, in your rush to settle our betrothal, you neglected to explain to her the exact nature of your beloved younger brother's alleged crimes. When I unknowingly inquired about her feelings upon the matter of his admitting to being a murderer, she nigh fainted from shock.”

  Pinning the duke with a
look of thinly veiled disgust, he asked, “How could you not tell Phoebe just how serious this matter with your brother really is?”

  He watched as the duke's face betrayed first surprise and then confusion. He also noted the precise second realization dawned upon the man that he in fact had not bothered to explain to Phoebe the exact charges Tristan was facing. This realization was followed almost immediately by a look of utter self-reproach, and the entire display was such an inspiration to witness, Edward wished he had a brush and canvas to hand, for he was certain the world would never again be privy to such an expressive demonstration of wretched emotion.

  “Bloody everlasting hell.”

  Lucien mumbled the curse beneath his breath, but Edward heard him well enough. He nodded. “I can well imagine how it must seem so, Your Grace.”

  Turning on his heel, he strode to the door.

  “Please give my regards to Phoebe,” he called over his shoulder. “I shall return soon to see how she fares.”

  And so he had, but doing so proved to be a futile effort because, for the remainder of the day and most of the next, Phoebe St. Daine absolutely refused to leave her room.

  Though some might have chosen to argue to the contrary, neither peeve nor petulance had been responsible for sending Phoebe to her chambers to hide. Nay, it had been nothing short of bone-chilling, soul-sucking fear, for nothing else could have had her cowering in solitude, weeping one moment and dismally moping the next, all while she did her deuced best to sort the disastrous new wrinkle in her life.

  The mere thought of trying to go forward without Tristan was simply inconceivable. In fact, such ponderings had very recently caused her to make quite a public scene—one which she was sure had directly led to Lucien's easy acceptance of her choice to marry Edward Claybourne; after such a display, he likely feared she might never manage to make a decent match on her own.

  But throughout all her childhood, Tristan had been the brother to whom she had taken her woes and cares and not once had she imagined there might come a time when she must learn to deal with life without him. Not before she wed, at least, she corrected, and certainly not before her debut. And yet, her debut had come and gone during the awful time when not one member of the St. Daine family had been sure whether or not he lived, or if he had, instead, met with some horridly irreversible fate—and her wedding to Edward Claybourne was to take place a mere handful of weeks from today.