A shadow of a beard accentuated the harsh sensuality of his cheekbones and the hard lines of his jaw. The gentleman was clad in black trousers and a jacket that fitted to his frame so perfectly, it left no doubt about his masculinity. His hair was a bit messy and in need of taming. He was unquestionably handsome, a man of wealth and elegance, yet it was his eyes that commanded her complete attention.
Phoebe had never seen eyes so blue yet so dark. The pit of her stomach felt strange, fluttery, and her heart raced as if she had encountered a dreaded spider. His innate arrogance proclaimed him the lord of the manor. His mien became even more remote, his eyes pinning her in place that of a hawk. It was decidedly uncomfortable.
His regard held her in place with unblinking intensity. Sleek, elegant, beautiful, intelligent, and cunning. All of that was gleaned from his eyes. She had never encountered a face so devoid of expression, yet his eyes communicated curiosity and something so remote and unfathomable, an unexpected dart of fear went through her.
She hoped…prayed this was not the man she had fled England with reckless impetuosity toward. Her brother had always told her to believe in the first impression she got of a gentleman; it would serve her well in maneuvering through life. Being here, in this country, on the stranger’s doorstep, running from a mother who had been determined to lock her away in the country and then take her child from her by force and give it away, felt terrifying.
She stopped a few feet from him. “Are you…are you the gentleman of distinction and wealth?”
The breath seemed to shudder from his body, then whatever he felt seemed to be quickly mastered.
He made no reply but dipped into a short bow. She waited for him to say something, and when he remained silent, the tension in her grew heavier. There was a decided glint in his eyes, as if he were not sure what to make of her. “You must be wondering who I am.” His silence was very nerve-wracking, and it pushed her into speaking a bit faster than she intended. “I…I am A Curious Lady.”
Another nod, but the intensity of his stare had increased a hundred-fold. His eyes…they skipped over her face as if he imprinted every curve and slant of it onto his memory. It was astoundingly rude…and how it made her heart pound.
She felt an uncomfortable and unfamiliar rush of physical awareness and tried her very best to appear indifferent and self-assured, as any young lady of rank and decorum should.
She clasped the fingers of her glove together tightly. I showed up at his home uninvited. He will never believe I am a lady of good sense!
She glanced at the massive door behind him. It was not the mark of a gentleman that he would have her stand here without bidding her welcome inside, even if she had shown up unannounced. She pushed back the desire to clasp her rounded stomach, a protective gesture that seemed to come upon her whenever she thought about the life within her, a precious life that depended on everything that she would do or say—a life her mother had plotted to give away to suffer cruel indignities.
It had been fear, anger, and a raw determination to protect her baby that had pushed her with such impetuosity from her home. But staring at the silent man before her, unable to read his expression, all the fears she had suppressed during the journey surged to life.
This man will never agree to marry me…not while I carry a child. What reason would he have?
The door swung open, an aging man came out, and from his mode of dress she presumed him to be the butler.
“My lord,” he said after a careful shuffling of his feet.
“My lord?” Phoebe murmured, her heart a beating mess. “You are titled?”
The butler drew himself up stiffly as if she had affronted his master.
“May I present Viscount Huxley, the future Earl of Albury.”
Shock blossomed through her in a chilly wave. Along with sorrow and fear.
An Earl.
Albury was a title spoken in hushed whispers in her father’s study whenever he met with his political cronies and fellow business investors. It was a title long held by the Winthrops. She had never met the family out in society nor heard their names mentioned anywhere else. Supposedly, they found the frivolity of the seasons beneath their notice.
A gentleman with such a bright future ahead would have his duty to the title and the realm. Such a man, of course, would never marry a lady who was so irrevocably ruined…even if she was the daughter of a duke with an inheritance of fifty thousand pounds. The urge to cry shuddered painfully inside her chest. Phoebe was out of her element—out of her mind more like it—to have arrived on a stranger’s doorstep without an invitation. And why? Because of precisely ten letters. Never more had she felt the weight of her age and inexperience.
“I sent you a letter, one of utmost importance; however, I was unable to wait for your reply to my query. I needed to depart England immediately.” On the week’s journey, she had lived with the possibility his answer might have been no. Based on their exchanges, she knew she was not at all the kind of lady he wanted to marry, even though she had never understood the reasoning behind his requirements. She had been so desperate, afraid, and fiercely protective of the life growing inside her that every prudent consideration had been tossed to the winds, and she had acted, hoping that she was doing so with courage and not with stupidity.
The reality of her situation and just how naive she was in the ways of the world rested on her shoulders at that moment—heavy and uncompromising. Nothing felt familiar, and nothing felt safe. And Phoebe felt more alone than she’d ever been in her nineteen years.
Her throat aching, she stopped only a few feet from him. She dipped into a curtsy. “I believe we should dispense with our…sobriquets. I’m Lady Phoebe Maitland, daughter of the Duke of Salop.”
His gaze sharpened. That should be enough to ensure she was offered shelter and be treated with all courtesy until she came up with another plan.
“Welcome, Lady Phoebe,” the butler intoned.
After an almost imperceptible nod of the butler’s head, three footmen appeared and made their way to the coach behind her.
At the lack of welcome, her heart grew heavier. “Please forgive me, my lord.”
A rough bark from the carriage halted her speech. Thank heavens, she wasn’t all certain what she had been about to say. The stranger before her stiffened, his eyes growing wide.
“Oh! I do hope you like dogs. He was sleeping inside the carriage, and he is a huge beast I did not wish to wake without first securing permission.”
The viscount touched her shoulder, a quick brush, but the shock of it had Phoebe peering up at him. But he wasn’t looking at her. His palm was pressed flat against his chest, and his breath clearly held. Phoebe swore he still did not breathe when he stepped around her as the massive dog leaped from the carriage in one graceful bound. But he did not run to her. No, Wolf darted forward with the power of his legs taking him over to the man who had sunk on his knees and held out his arms in a few leaps.