The Duchess and the Highwayman (Hearts in Hiding 1)

As she pulled the chemise over her head, and then the bulky gown, dispensing with the stays which would have slipped over her hips, even with the tightest lacing, she wondered how she ought to model her behavior. She’d always had to think before she addressed Ulrick. He’d well and truly snuffed out her propensity for impulsiveness when he’d married her on her seventeenth birthday.

How she hated play-acting but she could see little alternative. Wearily, she put her mind to the task at hand.

A lowly maid with ideas above her station would be a trifle flirtatious and eager perhaps, though she’d have to be careful not to give him too many ideas. Phoebe needed Mr Redding on the end of a string. A very carefully tensioned one.

Cramping pain made her abdomen contract, and she put her hands to her stomach, her mind roiling with disappointment as she recognized the signs.

No, she was not with child.

Not only that, she was once against forced into pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

5

The next morning, dressed in the voluminous gown of brown and gold wool that Mrs Withins had brought her, and with nothing to cover her hair, Phoebe sat on a chair by the fire in the little parlour and waited.

It had been well after midnight when she’d been shown to a spare bedchamber and she’d been too exhausted to even think about turning the key in the lock.

Now it was nearly midday and she had no idea what the terms of her protection would be. Or what kind of man Mr Redding really was.

She was still pondering her uncertain future when Mr Redding walked into the room and as she stood up and nearly tripped upon her too-long skirts, he laughed.

“Methinks Goodwife Miller and you differ a little in size.” He regarded her with interest as he half circled her then went to his writing desk where he sat down. “Still, a good wash has been transformative.”

It was certainly not a compliment but, as she inclined her head, she was conscious, once again, of his admiration, which he clearly wished to hide. Phoebe knew that men found her attractive. As a girl of seventeen about to embark upon her first season, she’d dreamed of clothes and handsome suitors, having enjoyed considerable attention at the local Assembly dances over a few short weeks.

But then, her father had reeled in Ulrick. Ulrick who had no interest in her beyond her ability to procreate but who, in her father’s eyes, was too great a catch to let go. Decades older than herself, Ulrick lived an almost hermit-like existence with—as it transpired—a reputation for cruelty and a vicious scorn for women.

Her father and his ally—Phoebe’s governess Miss Splint—had told her Lord Cavanaugh would make Phoebe a duchess. They’d rubbed their hands with glee, congratulating themselves on a fine piece of match-making that meant there was no need to spend money on a wardrobe for Phoebe to participate in London revels to catch a husband.

Emotion thickened her throat. At least, having had a father who’d shown her so little affection, Phoebe hadn’t had high expectations of her husband.

She picked up her skirts and carefully sat down again as she contemplated how far short of the life she’d once envisaged she’d fallen.

She wouldn’t deny that it was a relief that Ulrick was dead and she need never fear the lash of his belt or back of his hand, again.

But while she was free from the constant fear of physical violence and coercion, she needed to keep up her charade if she were to remain free in the eyes of the law. Without the right clothes, she was as much a prisoner as she’d ever been. She sighed. “I wonder ‘ow I’m ter walk out of that door an’ not cause tongues ter wag wearing this.”

“Is that your way of asking me to fund something for your own wardrobe before I return you to your single relative? A new dress at my expense, eh? Something you can wear in a magistrate’s court?”

That was the last place Phoebe wanted to think of being right now. “That mayhaps be some while, sir. I was thinkin’ of ‘ow I might present meself ter be useful ter ye since I can speak like a lady when I needs to.”

“You already owe me your life since, according to you, Wentworth would have killed you if he’d found you. As for a new gown, no doubt you’re thinking of something that would be more than you’d earn in two years of wages, eh?”

Phoebe’s outrage was a mixture of acting and the real. Mr Redding, seemed to take pleasure in needling her, with a pair of engaging brown eyes that could be serious one moment and twinkling with devilry the next. Well, she would have to work hard to make herself immune to both his barbs and his cajolery. No doubt he was like all the rest. A woman was a plaything, and a penniless one would be expected to dance to a rich man’s tune.

She wondered what a cheeky maid would say. She’d whip up the flirtation perhaps, holding back while suggesting more. So she plastered a smile on her face and put her head on one side. “If ye want ter barter, sir, I will…give ye a kiss on the cheek.” With mock severity, she added, “I ‘o

pe that’s all ye expect, Mr Redding ‘cause let me assure ye, I’d rather go naked than barter me only asset.”

“Your only asset?” He was mocking her now, a smile playing about his lips as he looked up from his writing desk. “And pray, what do you suggest is your only asset?”

Heat burned her cheeks. Her only asset had been bartered for a good marriage, and then she’d bartered it again at her husband’s behest—with a man who at the time she quickly grew to detest—in the hopes of an heir.

Oh, Wentworth, she thought with a pang of despair. Did I ever love you?

She was ashamed she could transfer her heart so easily. Wentworth was worthless, and yet she’d been taken in so easily. Why? Because Ulrick had exerted pressure. She had to cling to the defense that her adultery had been driven by the knowledge that without an heir, she’d lose the only home she had. Surely any other woman, even a decent, God-fearing one, would have acted as she had?

And yet she was still going to lose her home; her life, even, if Wentworth had his way.