Phoebe stared in astonishment as the dog crashed into the viscount, who held on to him as if his life depended on it. Wolf was so excited, his barking had devolved into soft and slightly high whines, his tail wagging in a manner she had never seen.
It was a reunion.
A powerful one, too, for the man held the dog’s face, peered into his eyes, and rested his forehead against the beast. They stayed like that—the viscount uncaring the graveled driveway would ruin his pants and Wolf silent as they stared at each other. Another jolt went through her when the dog placed his massive paw over each of the viscount’s shoulders then rested his large head onto said shoulder.
They were hugging. The beauty of it stole her breath.
Sarah hurried to stand beside her. “I cannot believe what I see, milady! They seem to know each other.”
“He…he is the master who wrote the letter to care for Wolf.”
The viscount stood, the dog pressed against his side as if he would never leave him and faced her.
“Wolf…he is your dog?”
He nodded then pressed two fingers over his heart, tapped once, then dipped into a brief but elegant bow.
“But I thought you were on your death bed?” she said, dazed.
Then the truth of his situation struck her. The viscount could not speak.
The silence felt awfully awkward, then the butler cleared his throat, dragging her eyes to him.
“It had been a very trying time, milady, and the doctor’s report was dire. However, after several days abed, milord rallied, to everyone’s surprise but exceeding gladness, and is now quite well.”
She shifted her regard to the viscount…and he was just staring at her. Her mind groped for something, anything else. “Do you believe in the whimsy of fate or destiny?”
That she hadn’t meant to say; it sounded so very silly to her ears.
Humor lit in his eyes, and unexpectedly he smiled. The incredible sensual beauty of it struck Phoebe. Her cheeks went hot, her throat and belly, too. Her heart tripped, and butterflies wreaked havoc with her stomach. What is this feeling?
“I…” Phoebe shifted her gaze from the viscount, furious at her unguarded reaction.
“If you will follow me, my Lady,” the butler said. “Welcome to Glencairn Castle.”
She glanced behind her and was surprised to see that the viscount was still standing there, his hand on Wolf’s head, man and beast staring as she entered the majestic manor set in perfectly landscaped grounds. Expansive parklands and impeccably designed gardens surrounded the building. It had the most magnificent sweeping arched entrance and boasted many decorative crenellations and several decorative towers. Beyond the countryside was more untamed areas with heather dotted grassy moors and forests nestling beneath majestic hills. In each direction, vista of great beauty awed her. The few patches of brighter green tended land surrounding small humble cottages the Scots named crofts. A small village was set some few miles’ distant.
Within her, an awful emptiness took root. A marriage between them was not possible.
It had been easy to deceive herself that the author of the letter was perhaps a wealthy merchant who would have been awfully glad to marry the daughter of a duke with a dowry of fifty thousand pounds.
The large door swung open, and she stepped over the threshold into a long hallway, the scent of lemon and beeswax redolent on the air. She touched her stomach fleetingly. At least you are safe…
The inside of the large home was tastefully furnished and decorated, warmly paneled with the trappings of a more warlike past displayed symmetrically upon the upper walls. Pikes, swords, shields, and more ancient weapons that Phoebe could not name hung polished and glowing in the well-lit halls. The wall weaponry was interspersed with stag antlers and other trophies of some former scion’s hunting prowess. Above the symbols of a martial past hung a series of portraits of who she assumed were former family members. They were the works mostly of some local masters, but some of the more recent had clearly been executed by the most prestigious artists of London and further afield.
She stepped around a number of suits of armor from different periods of the castle’s history. The butler led her up the winding staircase to a chamber on the second floor. He had tried to direct Sarah to the servant quarters, but she had sternly refused, insisting she needed to serve her lady first.
The room was fit for a princess, quite palatial, even more so than her rooms at her parents’ house. The canopied bed in the center of the room had a profusion of pillows, and the sheer lime green curtains on the post complimented the darker green and gold drapes by the windows. The family coat of arms was embroidered large upon the frontispiece of the tester in padded golden glory. Phoebe quietly admired the quality and intricacy of the workmanship of the exquisite furnishings. The soft plush carpet in swirling patterns of emerald perfectly matched the damask sofa by the fire. She strolled over to the sofa closest to the heat. Sarah helped her to remove the coat, and with a small groan, Phoebe lowered herself onto the plush cushions.
Sarah knelt and gently eased her shoes from her swollen feet and placed a cushion under them.
“Sarah?”
She glanced up with a ready smile.
Phoebe swallowed. “Thank you for coming with me,” she whispered.
“I’ll always be by your side, milady.”
“I fear I will falter.”
“Then we’ll falter together, milady.”
Sarah and Phoebe shared the same age, and they had been together for a very long time, considering their housekeeper in Derbyshire was Sarah’s mother. Many days Phoebe would dream of her maid being her sister, and many days they would sit and talk for long hours into the evening, but something would always remind her of the difference in their station.
“I used to sneak from my chamber and use the servant’s stairs to join you for supper,” Phoebe whispered.
How she used to ache when she spied the servants laughing and eating together in their dining areas. Longing to eat in such relaxed fashion with such joyful company. It was so very different from dining with her parents, where the length and breadth of their dining table made any sort of laughing and chatting, if it was permitted, impossible. But when she had spotted Sarah with her mother and the rest of the staff laughing and eating, Phoebe had thought that was how a family should be.
The ache in her chest became a physical thing, and there was no ease in its tightening grip. “In my letter to Richard…I assured him I would wed an earl. I did not dream the man I was coming to was truly titled and a future earl, too!” Her laugh came out as a choked cry. “I simply wanted my brother to believe I made an appropriate choice and perhaps not try to find me, because once he does, what choice would he have but to return me home? I am frightened, Sarah.”