be. Do you think me so weak that I would allow myself to be tortured over another man kissing you? Do you think I would be foolish enough to ever make myself so weak to a woman where she could drop me to my knees and leave me there to suffer with a craving she does not return?”
“Of course, I do not think you weak. Loving and caring for another is not weak.”
His eyes widened with incredulity, and the smile that hovered across his lips scared her. It seemed derisive and…dismissive.
“Do not speak,” she breathed shakily. “We are not ourselves at this moment, and I believe—”
His expression hardened, and his fingers spoke for him. “I am myself, Phoebe.”
“Are you?” she demanded, hating that her lips trembled, and intolerable tears burned behind her eyelids. “I was ashamed at how silly I had been with George. That is the only reason I shied away from speaking about him at all. I should have explained everything to you the moment you asked me to marry you. I did not love him when I acted with recklessness, and I do not love him now. So if George plays any role in how you are feeling now, please dismiss him from your awareness.”
When he said nothing, she lifted her chin, holding his stare with hers.
“I cannot tell when I started to fall in love with you, Hugh. I did…I do love you, and love matters so much.”
“Don’t.”
“Ambrose—”
“Don’t. I am not that man, and I will never be that man.”
Her chest rose and fell raggedly.
Then to her shock, he lurched from his seat to sit beside her. Hugh cupped her cheeks, lifting her face to his so he could press his mouth to her forehead. The brush of his lips was cold, indifferent, and a knife to her heart.
Then he dropped his hands and signed. “You are my wife. You are my family. Of course, I will care for you always, Phoebe. But I am not interested in love or sentiments. I am not interested in how it makes people fools…how it breaks their spirit and how it makes them lose all semblance of self and pride. You knew this about me from my letters, so do not look at me with those wounded eyes, as if I have broken something inside you. I was never that man, nor will I ever be.”
Her lips trembling fiercely, she fought the need to cry. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks, and her chest burned with the effort to hold her hurt inside. If her husband had even cared a bit about the love that she felt for him, he would have offered something more than, “I am not that man.”
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.