Chapter Twelve
The Season seems so dull without reports on Lord B~ and Lady P.W…
Nothing could have surprised Basingstoke more than being told the Duchess of Hartshorne was calling upon him. “Show her to the drawing room,” he told his butler.
He finished adding the expenditures in front of him before going to her. She stood stiffly looking out the window onto the street, her back to him. “Your Grace,” he said, “how can I be of assistance?”
When she turned to face him, her expression was stern. “You will apologize to Lady Phoebe.”
“I apologize?” What had Phoebe told her about their final conversation? “If I’d done something wrong, I would have done so immediately.”
“You didn’t let her explain her purpose that afternoon.”
“I didn’t need her explanation when it had been as much as confirmed by Hillside.”
“Lord Basingstoke, will you truly take the word of a scandalmonger over that of the woman you love?”
He flinched. Everyone must know how he and Phoebe felt about each other. He didn’t want to imagine what the gossips claimed had torn them apart.
“My husband told you about Phoebe’s journal, didn’t he?”
Dropping his gaze to the toes of his boots, he cleared his throat. They never should have read the book.
“I see he did. And the two of you concluded she wrote all those enticing tidbits in the paper that mentioned you.” She shook her head and grunted in exasperation. “Men!”
“If you assume the conclusion we reached, you’ve read her entries, too.” Their thinking hadn’t been far-fetched. “Why did her writings say much the same thing as Mrs. Crookshank’s column on more than one occasion?”
She suddenly relaxed and took a seat. She shook her head once again and gazed out the window. “Phoebe has a creative imagination, and much of what she writes builds upon her daily life. But more of it is just the silly dreams most girls have of love and family.”
“Those aren’t silly dreams.”
“They are when they involve a man one’s parents would never approve of. A man with a sordid reputation who blatantly flaunts his disdain for Polite Society.”
He wouldn’t ask how long Phoebe had been pretending they were in love. He’d never forget his chagrin at learning they’d met some years ago.
Phoebe would never forgive him for his treatment of her, but he couldn’t live with himself without apologizing for his behavior.
The duchess rose regally. “I see I’ve made my point clear. I won’t keep you. Good day, my lord.”
Basingstoke watched her walk away. Phoebe was lucky to have such a good friend to help her recover from all the pain he’d caused. He must go to her and beg her forgiveness.
***
Not even the news of Marjorie and Hart’s pregnancy could carry Phoebe more than a day without Basingstoke entering her thoughts and dragging a heavy dose of pain with him. Mama repeatedly offered to return to their country home, but to do so would mean accepting the truth that her life would forever lack the love of her favorite earl.
When the house grew too warm to bear, Phoebe escaped to the pretty expanse of grass and flowers beside their home. The birds were quiet as if they also avoided the heat, but the roses and lavender shared their beauty with anyone passing by.
Stopping and snapping off a sprig of lavender, she inhaled its calming scent.
“I once offered you a rose, but it paled in comparison to these blooms. Do you tend them yourself?”
She spun around as soon as she recognized Basingstoke’s voice. “I—yes, I do.”
“Would it be redundant if I apologized for my lack of an apology for my recent behavior?”
Phoebe laughed. “I suppose it can’t be redundant if you failed to do so the first time.”
With his hands clasped behind his back, he smiled awkwardly. It was the first time Phoebe could recall him looking so uncomfortable. “I’m utterly ashamed of my behavior. You didn’t deserve my accusations, nor my lack of allowing you to defend yourself. You shouldn’t have had to defend yourself. If I’d only asked you to explain the matter I might have avoided causing you pain.”
“Marjorie guessed Hart had shown you my journal. I’m too embarrassed to even guess what you might have thought. I meant no harm, truly.”
Basingstoke took her hand and led her away from the street. “We shouldn’t have read it. When Hartshorne offered it, I should have refused.”
“I cannot blame you for making the conclusion that you did. I don’t understand how Mrs. Crookshank’s gossip so closely resembled mine.”
“Can’t you? She clearly understands what young ladies hope to experience, and what older ones find shocking. I feel responsible for opening you to such…such hurtful talk. It was never my intention.”
What had his intentions been? At what point had he formed them? She’d never have the chance to ask him. Even if he desired her again, Father would have none of it. Her dreams of marrying Basingstoke were done.
He squeezed her fingers. “Have I ruined any chance between us?”
“I’m sure we can remain friendly with one another.”
“Is that all you wish for? Friends? Or do you tease me again? I’ve missed your sharp humor. Say you still care for me.”
If she didn’t care, he couldn’t have wounded her so severely. No matter what happened in her life, she’d always have feelings for him. “I could never stop.”
He smiled, and all the worry lines faded. “Nor could I. I was miserable without you. Before Marjorie convinced me of your innocence, I wished I had the ability to look past what I thought was a betrayal of our privacy.”
“I’d never do that.”
“I know. I was foolish. Stupid. Completely blind to your true character.” He pulled her closer, then lowered his mouth to hers.
The warmth of his breath startled her almost as much as the feeling of his lips pressing against her. Her stomach fluttered with excitement, and the skin on her shoulders burned where his hands rested. All too soon, it was over.
“Dare I ask if you’ll marry me? I’ve wanted nothing else since I first met your gaze across the room at Almack’s. I’ve grown to love you so, I can’t imagine a future without you in it.”
Laughter bubbled up from deep within her. “Yes, yes. Oh, yes.”
With a wink, he said, “That’s all you can say? Nothing of when you knew you loved me, or how the moments we’re apart seem endless?”
“You are so arrogant.” She did her best to look stern but was unable to maintain the farce. “If you’d read my journal from the beginning, you’d know I’ve loved you for years. It wasn’t until I knew you better than I discovered what love really is.”
Basingstoke raised her hand to his lips. “I hope your love grows the more you know me. I know mine will increase with every moment we’re together.”
Phoebe was too lost in his gaze to put words in a sensible order.
“I must speak to your father,” he continued. “Dare I hope he’ll approve of our marrying? Or must we wait until you’re of age to wed?”
“I’ll ask Mama to be there with you. She’ll convince Papa we must be together.”
“Let’s go to it, then. I can’t wait a moment longer to tell the world Lady Phoebe Woodson loves me.”
She couldn’t say for certain her feet touched the ground as they walked to the house. She was so lighthearted she doubted she’d ever again soil her shoes. Lord Basingstoke loved her.