An Unexpected Passion (Unexpected Series Book 2) Read online

  A fireplace took up most of the rear wall behind the desk though a pair of narrow windows flanked it on each side. But it was the painting above it which drew and held Phoebe's hushed attention. Her fingers smoothed over the canvas that displayed a miniature replica of Vykhurst Hall and the surrounding grounds. Rising up on her tiptoes, she examined the painting more closely, trying to read the artist's name.

  “E. C. Vyk,” she said at last, her fingers still running gently, almost reverently, over the oils. “I believe I have seen his work before, in Kelsing Hall.”

  She discovered several more paintings of equal beauty gracing the morning parlor, the gallery, the dining room, and even the foyer. She took her time exploring and commenting on each of them. But it was the painting in the main parlor at the back of the house that made her breath catch unexpectedly. She turned to look at Edward. “Your mother?”

  His eyes shown with an unusual light. “Yes.”

  Again, she studied the portrait until she found the artists name. “Also a Vyk, but I can see why you would want to own so many of his works. He is such a talented painter.”

  Turning back to the painting over the mantel, she shook her head in silent awe. “I do not think I have ever seen anything as beautiful as this.”

  “I have,” Edward said from the doorway where he lounged with one shoulder propped against the frame, his eyes fastened on her, his gaze burning with a now familiar light. She blushed and ducked her head to keep him from seeing how much she enjoyed his compliment.

  “You do not need such pretty words to turn my head, Claybourne. You and I, we are a sure thing I am afraid, whether you like me or no.”

  He straightened, thoughtful for a moment, and then said, “I like you, Phoebe.”

  He strolled across the parlor to her side as leisurely as he had lounged within the doorway a moment before. “I will admit the notion likely surprises me more than anyone, but it is the truth nonetheless.”

  Phoebe could feel her pulse begin to race from his nearness. A shy smile curved her lips, and she looked away from the intensity of his gaze to stare at the painting of the late Baroness instead. “I like you, too.”

  The feel of his fingers sliding against hers brought her head around. He caught up her left hand in his and, without severing the bond of their suddenly locked gazes, he began to slowly remove her glove.

  One finger slid free, and then another, and another until, at last, he tugged the fabric from her hand. A casual flick of his wrist set the flimsy silk to rest upon his sleeve while his free hand slipped inside his vest to retrieve a thin band of white gold set with diamonds.

  “For you,” he said, holding it up into the beam of sunlight between them which set off a fascinating display of a thousand sparking lights within the room, but for the life of her, Phoebe could not take her eyes off his.

  Slowly, he slid the ring onto her finger and then lifted her hand to drop a lingering kiss in the bare space between where the precious jewelry lay and her knuckle, as if to seal it into its proper place. “Thank you, Phoebe, for agreeing to be mine.”

  Hot tears pooled in her eyes in reaction to the feel of sincerity in his tone. It seemed so real. Too real, she cautioned. Too much like the gentlemen in her dreams, who would come to call and find themselves so overcome with love for her they could do naught but fall to their knees and propose. But Edward was no dream and his proposal was all too real, even if it had come in the form of a business arrangement between her brother and the earl. She would do well to remember that, she warned herself silently, rather than get caught up in fanciful ideals of true romance and everlasting love.

  She opened her mouth to tell him it was she who should be thanking him. His family was doing her the biggest favor, after all. But before she could utter a word, his lips touched hers, and all thought save how wonderful it felt to be this close to him fled.

  His arms were around her; she could feel his palms, one resting on her shoulder and the other at the small of her back. Hers were caught between them, one safely gloved and slightly immune to the feel of his warmth beneath her fingers, but the other—oh, the other! Scandalously, she allowed it to slide upward along the collar of his coat until her bare fingers reached the pulse beating in his throat, and then further, to curl within the silken threads of his hair.

  Distracted by feelings of pure sensation now coursing through her, Phoebe let her other hand drop until it rested at his waist, but soon she realized it had crept upward beneath his coat once more of its own volition, to caress the corded muscles of his back through his shirt.

  “Phoebe.”

  Edward breathed her name against her neck, into the sensitive flesh beneath her ear, and she arched into him, wanting more. Heat flooded her, turning her insides to liquid. At the same time, a peculiar sense of calm serenity kept her grounded firmly within his embrace.

  Being with him felt—right. Every time she was in his arms, she felt both an easy peace and an inexplicable passion, and somehow, somewhere within the darkest recesses of her being, the combination made sense.

  Rising up on her toes, she pressed eagerly against him. One hand threaded itself more deeply into his hair while she used the other to bring their bodies ever closer. His mouth had returned to hers and she opened her own beneath his lips, giving him unfettered access and free reign.

  It was just like before, she thought. Wonderful and surprising and delightful in ways she had never imagined a kiss could be. She did not want it to stop.

  “Master Edward, there is a messenger from Rothwyn House.”

  Like an icy dousing from the cold spring she had once fallen into when she had followed Tristan and Nick on a mock treasure hunt, the footman's voice snapped her out of the trance Edward's kisses had put her into. Jerking her hands away from their delicious journey of exploring his body, she plunged them into the fabric of her skirt and lowered her head, mortified to have been caught in such a compromising position with him, even if they were soon to be wed.

  “Go away, Matthew!” Edward ordered.

  Peeking up at him despite her embarrassment, she saw that his eyes were now closed and his hands, which had moments before been engaged in a sensuous exploration of their own, were clenched into tight fists at his sides. Her silk glove had fallen from his wrist during the flurry of guilty movement after their interruption, and now lay puddled, condemning, in a tiny pool of light near his feet.

  After a moment, he lifted his head and opened his eyes to offer a wry, rueful smile of apology. “I am sorry, Phoebe.”

  Curious despite the sudden sobriety of the moment, she cocked her head slightly to the side and asked, “For kissing me?”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “Never. I could kiss you forever, I am afraid.”

  Reaching for her hands again, he studied the fingers of her left one where the ring he had given her rested. “But for the interruption, I do apologize most sincerely.”

  Bending, he retrieved her glove. With a sigh, he handed it to her. “Best to put this back on. When you are ready, we will go out to greet your brother's messenger together.”

  6

  Homecomings were always poignant, but as Tony watched the small gathering inside the Duke of Rothwyn's parlor weep and smile and weep again as if he were a man on the outside looking in, he decided the return of Tristan St. Daine to the bosom of his grateful, loving family and close, intimate friends was especially so—and they had only just arrived.

  If asked, he would have been tempted to ascribe much of the family's relief to being allowed a different end from the one they had experienced three years previously, when the St. Daines had tragically lost both mother and father in a carriage accident.

  That outcome had been much different.

  Three years ago, neither Victor nor Garland St. Daine had returned, but today, Tristan was home and he was alive and well—for the most part, his recent bout with fever notwithstanding—and they could be a family again.

  For a little while, at least.<
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  There was still the small matter of a hearing hanging over Tristan's head that had yet to be dealt with, but at this moment, it was time for rejoicing, for becoming reacquainted, and for imbibing in a measure of profound relief that their brother was home at last.

  During the past three days, Lucien had not moved more than ten feet from Tristan's side and Tony had lost count of the many times he had expressed his undying gratitude for Tony's assistance with bringing his brother home again. He could only hope when the truth was out the St. Daines would still consider him a friend. For tonight, however, he was assured of at least one.

  Leaning his head against the high back of the tufted chair, Tony sighed. There were still so many things to explain, so many secrets yet to be brought to light. When everything was finally said and done, he wondered if he might have a single friend left in this world. Like as not, no, he decided as his gaze moved about the occupants of the room until it came to rest upon Lucien—the one person who had been in his life and mostly by his side since first he could remember.

  Studying his long-time friend, Tony could not help but wonder how differently things might have gone, how changed could have been the turn of events at hand even now had it been Lucien on board the pirate's ship rather than Tristan. Like scenes from his worst nightmare, the events of a terrible night not so long ago rolled through his thoughts while, around him, the St. Daines continued to weep and laugh and hug, to show signs of love as if there were nothing more over which to worry...but Tony could still remember the frigid chill of horror slowly icing his veins when he'd heard that fateful shot go off across the water.

  A thousand recriminations had sped through his head in the space of a heartbeat. Tristan St. Daine was dead, he just knew it, and it was all his fault. How would he ever tell Lucien? Frantic, desperate to do everything he could to save Tristan and thus his and Lucien's friendship, he had jumped overboard from his own vessel, swam as if the veriest demons of hell were after him to the dinghy awaiting him in the dark, tumultuous sea, and then rowed like a man gone mad for all he was worth to get to the Valkyrie ahead of the Royal Navy whom he knew would have heard the shot as well.

  The scene he encountered in the captain's cabin after he had boarded the pirate's ship that night was far worse than battling the choppy waters in a dinghy, and had all but rendered him useless in its poignancy.

  After finally making his way aboard, he had raced to the captain's cabin and hastily thrown open the door to find Tristan, wrapped protectively around a girl—the girl he was supposed to have rescued, his emotion-choked voice begging her not to die while she all but bled to death in his arms.

  It was a terrible sight to behold.

  There had been far too much emotion in the boy's pleas, as he recalled, but it was nothing to the howling pain of his mourning over her loss which came later. In less than a minute, Tony had deduced all he needed to know: something had happened between Chelsea Hastings and the lad he had sent to rescue her during those few weeks they had been at sea. Something important, something beyond the understanding of most men, and he had known he must do what he could to salvage what was left of the situation before the King's men arrived.

  At the point of his own gun, he had backed the boy over the ship's railing and into the water where a dinghy waited below with the girl he refused to release.

  In the end, matters had become complicated. Having been forced to jump into the churning ocean, the pup's aim was off quite a bit. His head had connected with something solid on his way down, knocking him senseless. Finally, he had released the girl but ended up half-dead himself from all the sea water he managed to swallow before Tony's men could heft him into the dinghy alongside a profusely bleeding Lady Chelsea and row them back to his own ship, which was berthed off the coast a short distance from the docks.

  Still, when the officers from the Royal Navy had finally caught up to him, had carted Tristan off his ship and onto theirs to bring the boy home, Tony was sure things were as sorted and settled as they could be. From the Hera to the HMS Singleton, when he walked the plank with a slightly feverish and disoriented Tristan between himself and two of the Royal Navy's strongest guards, Tony had insisted the boy was not responsible for the girl's death. But sometime between then and the time he was finally able to answer Lucien's summons to come home and help him find his brother, Tristan had managed to open a fresh new doorway into hell: he had confessed to murder.

  Fool that he was, it seemed the hot-headed, grief-stricken youth could hardly remember more than the sound of his gun going off and Chelsea lying in a pool of her own blood. He had declared himself responsible for the death of Lady Chelsea Hastings, a lady who was not only the granddaughter of a marquess but also a woman—a bona-fide member of the weaker sex, one who should have been protected by men of his ilk and stamp—not murdered in cold blood.

  Now, Tristan believed he soon would be hanged for having admitted to taking the life of Lady Chelsea Hastings—the much beloved granddaughter of the Marquess of Glenwood and the one true love of his life—with his own hand.

  The truth, however, had yet to be told.

  Glancing at Lucien, he almost called him aside then and there, to tell him everything and have done with it all, but a fuss kicked up at the entrance to the parlor and he decided now was not the time. Phoebe had arrived, at last, and their little family reunion was complete.

  Watching her rush forward to greet the brother she had sacrificed her future for, Tony realized he suddenly felt very alone. How odd, he thought, to be surrounded by the closest of friends and yet feel so very separated and apart from it all.

  Without warning, a vision of copper tresses and flashing green eyes stole into his thoughts alongside a niggling fear that there would be no one to search and worry over him should he suddenly up and disappear.

  Scowling at the rather miss-ish bend of his thoughts which only added to his already maudlin disposition, Tony shifted in his seat, forcing himself to focus once more on the small gathering before him.

  Melisande had made her feelings clear.

  She did not want him.

  It was the infernal annoyance of not knowing why that made his thoughts repeatedly return to her and the brief few weeks they had enjoyed together before she slipped off to Kosla with her friends. But now was not the time to ponder the proclivities of the female race, he reminded himself and shook his head, once more completely at a loss as to how the St. Daine family thought to get through the next knot they faced in a veritable tangle of adversities...a few of which, sadly, involved him.

  Phoebe's gaze locked with her brother's and there was a brief moment of stillness during which she tried to communicate so many things with her eyes. In the end, there was simply too much she needed to say. “Tristan! Oh my goodness, Tris! You're home!”

  He rose to his feet and, released from the shock-induced trance of seeing him surrounded by the rest of the family and a few friends, at home and in relatively good health, Phoebe rushed across the room into his outstretched arms. “I have missed you so much! So very much! Oh, sweet Heaven, I—how did you get here? When did you get here? What did I miss? Can we start over, please? I—”

  Lucien's low chuckle was followed by quick bursts of happy laughter from her sisters and her grandmother, and she even caught a glimpse of a quick smile from Claire before she turned her somewhat embarrassed attention back to Tristan.

  “Did I not warn you, brother?” Lucien said. “Phoebe has been practically beside herself with worry for you.”

  “Hello, Phoebe.”

  Tristan's smile of welcome was tight, restricted. She could clearly see it did not reach his eyes. Concerned, she reached up to smooth a lock of his hair back from his forehead, surreptitiously checking for heat as she did so. “Are you well? I almost forgot about the fever. You should be in bed, and here we all are, standing around gawking while—”

  “No! No,” he denied with a furtive shake of his head. “Bed is the last place I wish to be. I
am fine, Phoebe. Tired, but deliriously happy to see you.”

  This time the smile he gave her was reflected, albeit shallowly, in his gaze. His eyes skimmed her features twice before returning to her face. “You've grown up while I was away.”

  A blush painted its way across her cheeks. “Yes, I have,” she agreed quietly. Then, with more exuberance in her tone than was necessary, she pointed out, “It was bound to happen sooner or later. Better now, I say, given the fact I am to be married in a few weeks.”

  She could feel his muscles stiffen.

  “Married?”

  The confusion marring his face set her back a step. She frowned. “You don't remember? But of course you don't. The fever—” she started, but broke off again, her gaze jumping from Tristan to her betrothed and back again.

  “Phoebe, please.” His words cut into her thoughts, filtering through the uncertainty suddenly making her unable to meet his gaze. “Tell me. What is it I seem to have forgotten to remember?”

  “Edward,” she blurted. And then, leaving him to join the gentleman who had elected to stand quietly by the parlor door, away from the hullabaloo and attention, she took the fellow's hand, tilted her head in his direction, and explained, “Forgive me for being a little flustered. What I meant to do was introduce to you the Right Honorable Mister Edward Claybourne. My betrothed.”

  Turning an inquiring gaze on her older brother, she asked, “Lucien, did you tell him nothing during these many hours?”

  Tristan merely eyed the man, a determined curiosity spinning in his gaze while bits and pieces of a blurred conversation fitted themselves together in his head. Then, without warning or noticeable cause, he went after Edward, catching in rapid succession both his stomach and his jaw with both fists. “You blackmailing son of a bitch!”