walked over to him to press a kiss to his cheek. When she moved to walk away, he enfolded her in a hug. “I love you, poppet.”
Tears formed in her eyes. The last time Richard had been this affectionate and called her poppet was before Francis had died.
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
A few minutes later, she went outside to see her husband waiting patiently in the hallway, the viscount nowhere to be seen. Hugh turned at the closing of the door and held out his hand. Her heart thumped as she placed her gloved hand in his and allowed him to sweep her away from her brother’s residence to the waiting carriage outside.
Once they were settled inside the carriage, she leaned her head against the squab, painfully aware that his stare had not left her person. Never the kind of person to shy away from scrutiny, she lowered her gaze to his. A strange stirring began in the pit of her stomach and drifted lower.
His gaze moved to her mouth, his desire to kiss her a tangible thing. Phoebe went over to him and sat in his lap. She twined her hands around his neck and kissed him. He responded immediately, but her heart went cold.
The unrestrained passion he normally kissed her with was missing. It was just as ravaging and deep, rousing her pleasure, but something was missing.
“Tell me what is wrong,” she whispered against his mouth. “Share with me.”
There was a terrible air of indifference around him. His face was inscrutable, and she hated that contained emotion.
“Such oversentimentality is not necessary in our marriage.”
For several moments, she felt as though she couldn’t drag enough air into her lungs. “I see,” she finally said stiffly, moving from off his lap to settle against the squabs.
He thought sharing their feelings an oversentimentality.
“I might no longer have your tender considerations, but I demand your respect,” she said with biting civility.
This arrested his attention.
“I can tell there is something different between us…I feel the loss of it here,” she said, pressing the flat of her palm against her chest. “It writhes inside, hot and terrible, and I ache. I have asked twice, you have ignored me, and that, my Lord, is intolerable.”
A flash of admiration lit in his gaze. He touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers, and for a moment, she savored the wonderful caress. But then he lowered his hand, and her skin grew cold again.
“Our marriage is one of convenience. You will have my loyalty, faithfulness, and protection always.”
She managed to say, after a brief struggle, “Is this your way of saying I must not muddy the water with talk of love and sentimentality?”
He stared at her for several moments. “George asked you to be with him. He was confident that you still loved him. Why did you not answer his question?”
The shock that tore through her felt as if someone had dropped her into a lake in winter. Awareness bloomed through her. “I was simply not interested and had no wish to waste my efforts in explaining my stance. It was not because I considered his offer or was confused! Do you think me capable of abandoning the vows I made to you before God?”
“Anyone is capable of acting in a manner to satisfy the desires of their heart.”
“Do you not trust me, know that I am faithful to our marriage?” The words felt like glass scraping along her throat. “I trust you, Hugh. In the months we’ve been married, I’ve come to know your heart and character, and the manner of man I see is who I admire, even as I yearn that he would fall in love with me…as I have fallen in love with him. You’ve known me as long as I’ve known you, but you think so little of my character…” Her voice broke, and she stared at him, hating the pain worming through her heart.
“I suppose you have stopped loving George, then.”
Phoebe did not understand why the words pierced her heart in such a violent manner. “I do not love George. I never did. You heard him declaring his love and promising all sorts of rubbish. You know he…he…” She took a deep breath. “To feel even a smidgen of jealously is normal under the circumstance—”
The sharp slashing motion of his hand faltered her speech, and Phoebe’s throat went dry at the briefest flash of torment that crossed his features. “I am not the jealous sort, nor will I ever