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

Dear My Curious Lady,

I cannot explain my reasoning or feelings, for I do not understand them. In truth they flow through my fingers with the intangibility of grasping water or forcing it to flow upstream. Yes…I will marry you. Please, come to me.

By the by, I, too, have the most alarming secret. In truth…we shall make that three little secrets.

Sincerely, Hugh Winthrop.

Chapter Three

Dearest Richard,

By the time you’ve received this letter, I will be long gone. I’ve entrusted my maid Sarah to see it reaches you only after I’ve safely crossed the border into the Highlands. I cannot tell you to where I’ve traveled, only know I did it to spare you and Mother my shame and to spare myself Father’s disappointment and wrath. I fear I am with child, and the scandal of it is too much for me to remain in London. I know Mama would insist I flee to the country and give birth to my child in secret, only to give her up, and I could not bear the thought of that. There is a man…an earl, who is in need of a wife, who has gone about it in the most unorthodox fashion of advertising for her. It seems his reputation may even be more disreputable than yours, but I’ve informed him of my sorry plight, and he is willing to take me as his wife. I find such an action to be honorable. Perhaps two wounded souls may find succor together, so I’ve taken steps to decide my own future. When I’ve settled, I will write to you with news.

Faithfully,

Phoebe.

Phoebe had run away from England, her parents, and everything that should have been safe, familiar, and comforting as if the devil had chased her with a pitchfork. Worse, she had rushed headlong into a situation hoping to marry a man with whom she’d only exchanged a few letters and who had lingered in the shadows as her deepest secret.

The gravel below her boots crunched, the sound alarming in the stillness of the forecourt. The man she’d initially assumed to be the butler or a footman did not speak or appear as if he would invite her inside the manor. The overly bold and piercing way in which he assessed her shouted that this man was not a servant of the mansion. Phoebe’s stomach knotted in horrid anxiety.

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 indiff

erent 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.”