When the Earl Met His Match (Wedded by Scandal 4)

Perhaps she is just unable to leave, a small voice of reasoning whispered.

Hugh carefully dressed himself in the appropriate evening style, and the carriage was brought around for his convenience. The ball was not far from his home, and when he arrived, the queue for the ball went past the fronts of several townhouses. Instead of waiting, he exited the carriage and walked past several carriages toward the revelry in the distance. Though his man of affair had procured an invitation, Hugh made his way around the side entrance of the ball and entered through the gardens.

The merry noises of conversation and laughter spilled outside from the hall and stairs. The sound of an orchestra playing wafted down from the ballroom above. Many ladies and gentlemen loitered outside, and he even detected a couple scandalously kissing in the shadows. Hugh moved unobserved through the throng and made his way into the ball through the open side terrace door. No one questioned if he should be there, but a few lords and ladies cast him a questioning look. A few ladies gave him lingering stares, invitations to wickedness in their gaze as they scanned his body.

Hugh ignored it all, climbing the stairs to the upper bowers. He stood in the shadows by a Corinthian column, observing the crowd with utmost discretion. Ladies and gentlemen twirled across the ballroom, glittering in their fineries, and he noted a ball in London was very much like those held in Edinburgh.

He scanned the crowd, searching for his wife. It did not take long for him to find her, so attuned he was to everything about her. Unexpectedly, the tight band across his chest released, and a soft shudder went through his body.

There you are, my wife.

She looked so breathtakingly vivid in a dark green gown that had been cut with elegant lines to accentuate her full charms. His Phoebe stood by the sidelines, appearing aloof and untouchable, not like many of the other young ladies flittering about. A few people cast her curious and puzzled frowns. He examined her demeanor now as he thought back to how she had described her season and realized it was vastly different to the story she had told him.

A man watched her, with an intensity that was…hungry. He was a short red-haired lad who seemed as young as his wife and stared at her with such yearning it was a wonder he did not try to snatch her from the ball and carry her away.

The young man tugged at his cravat nervously a few times and even downed two glasses of champagne quite hurriedly. That man made his way to her through the crowd, and she deliberately snubbed him by turning away. The fact that she cut the man did not lessen the coldness in Hugh’s gut, for his expression had taken on the cast of someone caught in the throes of love and regret.

George.

Everything in Hugh warned him that this was the man who had gotten his wife with child.

He either did not know the rules of propriety or he did not care for them, because her actions had not deterred the man. He went to her and bowed, holding his hand out for a dance. Several people observed their interactions, and Phoebe, after a slight hesitation, allowed the man to walk her out to the dance floor. There was no doubt she wished to avoid the speculation her refusal might cause, and this man had exploited on that.

“You have been staring at my sister like a hungry wolf for the last several minutes without care for her reputation,” a dark, dangerous tone drawled nearby. “Be mindful, stranger.”

Hugh did not acknowledge the man who came up beside him with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Since he spoke of his sister, the man could only be Richard Maitland, the Marquess of Westfall. Hugh had not prepared any notes, and there was no one to translate for him, so he did not even bother to try and indicate he could not speak. That awkwardness when those around him realized he could not speak would inevitably come. Just not now. What Hugh did was kept his regard firmly planted on his wife.

How beautiful and graceful she looked twirling in the arms of another man. A disturbing, ruthless need trembled inside, and he forcefully squashed it. He would not get angry or become a raving, possessive idiot who would be haunted by anyone’s action.

“Who are you?” Lord Westfall demanded. A chill of warning edged his words.

Hugh descended the stairs, ignoring the dark shadow of Lord Westfall, who watched him with a mien of curiosity as if he did not know what to make of him. The dance ended, and the man held onto her gloved elbow and deftly twirled her away and with a quick glance about slipped with her through a side door.

Something cold and unforgiving throbbed through Hugh. A quick glance at the upper bowers revealed that Lord Westfall was watching him like a hawk. Hugh allowed his lips to quirk in a measure of amusement, and the man’s golden gaze sharpened. Hugh deftly moved through the crowd and out the side door the man had taken his wife. He saw the hem of her gown as it disappeared around a corner. Hugh followed, hugging the shadows, scanning to ensure no one else lingered who could gossip and cause irreparable harm to her reputation.

“Why have you dragged me here?” came his wife’s scathing demand. “You will release me at once!”

“Phoebe, please,” the man breathed. “Did you get my letters?”

Hugh faltered into remarkable stillness. Letters?

With a scoff, she whirled around and made to head up the stone path back to the ballroom.

“Please, Phoebe, we have been friends for years! Please…I…I only wish a moment of your time,” the man cried in a choked voice.

She stopped and closed her eyes briefly, a spasm of emotions crossing her face Hugh could not decipher. The coldness inside grew.

She turned around. “The only reason I even allowed you to drag me away is because I did not want to start a scene and a scandal. I have people depending on me who would hate for any luridness to attach to our names, and that is the only reason I did not punch you on the nose, George.”

He chuckled, yet his expression was one of pained regret. “This is what I love about you, Phoebe. Your boldness. How you speak your mind. You are so decided. I…I love you. Please, please let me make this up to you. Marry me, Phoebe!”

His father had warned him that it was easy to make enemies within the ton, and because of its fickle nature, he should be aware to whom he gave that epithet. One should not be eager to claim an enemy because having a friend was more worthwhile. Yet it was with a sense of pleasure he mentally moved the man before his wife into enemy statu

s.

“Do not be ridiculous,” she said cuttingly.

“Your brother…he told me if I wished to do the honourable thing, I should be at tonight’s ball and try and speak with you. He gave me hope, Phoebe…hope that you perhaps think of me with the same longing as I think of you. I want to give you a husband that you love…and one who loves you…a happy life…a happy family. I can give that to you. Please give me a chance to make up for the fool I was.”