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

He had not offered any hope that their union might continue with the same tenderness as before, with the same joy and anticipation of a new day.

I was never that man nor will I ever be.

She tried to bring back her earlier resolve that she was quite fine with a marriage that only existed for mutual benefit, but that belief could no longer be held in her heart. Every smile, touch, kiss, conversation between them had altered her. And she suspected he had been, too, but instead of welcoming it, he had grabbed it into his fist and shattered that budding love.

And for the first time in months, Phoebe eased back away from him, into the shadows of the carriage, and silently wept.

Chapter Nineteen

The softest of kisses brushed against Phoebe’s nape, and she closed her eyes against the pain and pleasure that caress wrought. Her husband stroked the side of her arm over the silken sleeves of her nightgown. That brought a lump in her throat as she fought the urge to cry. Burying the useless emotion, she turned in the cage of his arms and twined her hands around his neck. They had returned from England to their home in Scotland a little over a month now, and each day it was hammered in her heart that he would never fall in love with her.

Everyone in the household tried to honor the old earl’s wish by not swathing the mansion in black. But they had refrained from all social gathering, and each invitation that had braved the wintry roads from Aberdeen and Edinburgh had been declined. They privately mourned him and had no wish to return to Society until a full year had passed. Until that time, they had a reprieve from the malicious rumors they might face. But it reassured Phoebe greatly that her brothers and his influential friends would stand boldly ready to welcome the Winthrops into their folds. The hurdles they would endure would still be tremendous, but Phoebe was willing to brave it all for dear Caroline.

She traced his full lips with her finger, thinking of the polite routine they had fallen into and how, while comfortable, it felt empty. Each morning they would break their fast together, then he would spend an hour or more with Franny before he disappeared behind the closed door of his office. There he would stay for hours, until the dinner bell rang. Other times he would leave the estate and only return at the lowering of the sun. Their dinner conversations were about the weather and sometimes about her meetings with the solicitors she had invited to help with the construction of Hope, the tentative name of her charity. It had sunk deep into her bones that what they now had was a normal ton marriage. He had no expectations of her, and she should have none beyond the polite courtesy, his name, and money.

So many ladies would be satisfied and find their happiness in the arms of a lover. That very notion was repugnant to her heart and honor. How could so many in society accept a marriage without love and affection as the normal way of things? How could anyone scoff at a love match?

He nipped at the finger across his lips before sucking it into his mouth. Her knees weakened, and she moaned, sagging against him. He released her finger. A tug at the strings of her nightgown bared her throat fully and the mound of her breasts. Their chamber was cast in more shadows than light; still she risked glancing up, for Phoebe could not look into his beautiful eyes anymore without a dagger tearing into her heart.

Whenever our gazes collide, your eyes are so carefully contained. How do I bear staring at you?

He gripped her hips and lifted her in his arms, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips. Within a few strides, he had them tumbling on the bed, her nightgown pushed to her waist, his hot lips at her throat.

Whenever we make love, you do not kiss me anymore.

She closed her eyes against that pained awareness. Her husband hadn’t kissed her lips since London. Wicked heat curled low in her belly, and even as he reached between them and notched his manhood at her wet aching entrance, her body quivered in delight and her heart cried at its emptiness. The duality of the emotions wrecked her. A wild cry ripped from Phoebe as he buried himself to the hilt in one stroke.

She held him to her, agonizing pleasure pummeling her body as he loved her with sometimes slow and torturous strokes, then wicked and ravaging plunges. When they found their pleasure together several moments later, she turned to her side, pillowing her hand beneath her cheek. The bed dipped as he disappeared, then he returned with a washcloth to clean away his seed and lowered her nightgown.

Her heart pounded, and she shifted to lay on her back and stare at the darkened ceiling.

She had been enduring his civility and the polite indifference, which only thawed briefly when he took her to heights of bliss. And she was not the sort to endure anything for long without acting. Phoebe had long accepted that she was reckless and impulsive, and if she wanted contentment in her marriage, perhaps she should fashion a reckless plan that would allow her husband to fall in love with her.

What did ladies of the ton do to make gentlemen write poems and sonnets in their names? And artful love letters.

Perhaps she could write a letter and ask Evie. As Evie had regaled Phoebe at the celebratory ball after her wedding, she had been in love with Richard for so very long, but her cold-hearted brother had been impervious to Evie. That was until she had boldly taken the reins and decided to seduce him into noticing her.

But you already come to my bed every night.

She truly had no notion what to do.

Hugh lay beside her, and several minutes later, she could tell that he was still awake. He rolled to her, gripped her hips, and tugged her onto his chest. This he did

every night, for she refused to curl into his arms anymore. If he wanted her there, he would damn well reach for her.

Yet he did not wrap his arms around her or kiss her forehead as he had done in the past. Though her back was pressed to his chest and she could feel the beat of his heart against her skin, there was a divide that seemed impossible to cross.

He had drawn an invisible line, and nothing she had done had breached that line or his impenetrable silence on the matter. Phoebe could no longer pretend or ignore the truth. Their previous relationship had been altered indelibly and might never return.

Phoebe closed her eyes and pressed a trembling finger to her lips. She recalled each wonderful memory: how they had laughed while they raced together, the lanterns in the sky, the sweet and tender way he would kiss her, the beautiful way he had played the flute…and then she allowed the images to disintegrate as if fire had burned them to ashes and then the wind picked them up and scattered them across the wasteland.

I can tell that everything is different between us. You say nothing, but you do not have to. I feel the distance in your every touch, in your lack of kisses, the way you hold me in the night. It says though we are in the same room…the same bed, we are miles apart, and you are not interested in ending that distance.

She closed her eyes to trap her tears, but they still leaked, ran down her temple, and onto his chest. A tight tension wound through his frame when he felt her tears, and the sudden pounding of his heart echoed through her body. Yet neither of them moved.

“Do not expect me to love you forever when you are indifferent to me,” she whispered in the stillness of the dark. “I will not suffer for my heart to break daily.”

Thud.