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

Her mind reeled with anger and a piercing disquiet. The implication sat heavy in her bones. It was already late into the night. She had not been there to put Franny to bed. And Hugh… God, what must he be thinking?

The viscount leaned forward. “Lady Phoebe, your family is in England and very worried. The duke himself told me you should be returned at all costs. Let me urge you to—”

Her hands flew, and she slapped his face with all the fury burning in her heart. “You will turn this carriage around immediately!”

He leaned back, seemingly uncaring she had slapped him. “I am regretful to say I cannot agree to that. We are very soon to be in England.”

She pushed the curtains aside. “I cannot credit your words or actions.”

“We have been travelling nonstop. Only to swap out a team of horses a few times. We travelled through the night and the day.”

A full day had passed. “Why would you do this?” she demanded hoarsely.

“You can take it up with your brother and the duke, your father.”

She closed her eyes, a tear leaking forth.

“Come, Lady Phoebe, this does not call for tears. I am returning you home to your brother, and I will do so safely. You have nothing to fear from me, I assure you.”

“I became unsafe the instant you drugged me,” she snapped. “You, sir, are a despicable bounder. My husband will come after me.”

“Then let him come,” he said coolly. “It would be interesting to see the manner of man who would steal a young girl away from her family and have little care for her to return to them.”

And another disquieting fear lanced deep inside. Would you come for me, Hugh? Surely, after everything they had shared, he would not think she had simply left him and her child. She dearly hoped he was not that bacon-brained! Still, the dire warnings the old earl had left in his letter had her heart shaking.

Do not give him the opportunity to doubt your loyalty and you will not suffer heartache. Pushing aside her misgivings, Phoebe folded her arms in her lap and glared at her captor. Civility obliged her to politely say, “I have urgent needs I must attend.”

“There is an inn only a few minutes out. We will rest there for an hour while you tend to your ablutions and eat a meal. It is a fine inn, exceptionally clean and run by a good friend of mine.”

She heard the warning in his tone. Phoebe was not silly enough to run away in the night in the middle of God knew where alone. The safest course would be to arrive to her brother’s in London and then immediately return home to her husband and child. Once Richard saw that she was fine, all this nonsense of stealing her from her own husband would be resolved.

…

A couple days later, Phoebe lifted her hand and knocked on the drawing room door in her brother’s townhouse in Mayfair. She had arrived with the viscount late last night under the banner of darkness and secrecy and had fallen into bed a few minutes later. Where that wretched bounder had taken himself after, she did not care to speculate. She had been exhausted and dirty from travelling, but her brother had not been home. It seemed he had not expected her arrival.

It was Evie who had woken Phoebe an hour ago to a profusion of hugs and relieved laughter. Her sister-in-law had always been an astonishing beauty and renowned in the ton for her elegance and sense of style, but this morning she had glowed, and Phoebe had been thrilled to see Evie’s belly was rounded with child. The distemper of stomach which had been plaguing her had lessened along with the worry that she might lose her child.

They had spoken for several minutes, and though Evie’s startling green eyes had glowed with curiosity, she had held it in check admirably. After she had departed, Phoebe had taken a quick bath and had been astonished to see that several of her gowns and riding habits that she had left behind were in her brother’s residence. After dressing in a peach day gown, which fitted a bit snugger around the bosom, and with her hair artfully coiffed, she made her way downstairs, determined to secure a carriage to travel home today.

“Come,” her brother said at her second knock.

She pressed her hands to her stomach, hoping to stop the twisting nerves writhing inside. Phoebe opened the door and faltered briefly. Her mother was there!

And to Phoebe’s shock, the duchess appeared almost anxious. Much must have changed since Phoebe had left London, because before her mother would suffer an apoplectic fit to be in the same room with her own son.

Her mother’s hand tightened on her teacup, and relief lit in her eyes. Phoebe blinked, wondering if she had imagined such a reaction. Evie stood, a smile curving her mouth, her gaze warm and welcoming. Then Evie lifted her chin toward Richard. Schooling her expression into polite interest, Phoebe walked over to Richard, who stood facing the windows to a side garden.

“Richard,” she said softly.

He tensed briefly before turning around. His golden gaze scanned from the crown of her head to the tip of her toes. Her brother was very self-assured, arrogant, and had garnered a reputation in the ton for being decisive and ruthless. Observing him now, there was an air of danger around him—it was there in his stillness and how he searched her features trying to determine if she was harmed.

“I am frightfully well, considering,” she said with a small smile.

Whatever he saw reassured him, for he closed his eyes briefly in relief. Then he opened his arms wide, and she walked right into them, hugging him fiercely.

“You are home now,” he muttered, releasing he

r. “All will be well. I missed you, poppet.”