“I can’t do this anymore,” he said bleakly, keeping his face averted. “I thought I could, but it’s going to kill me.”

“What can I do?” she asked softly. “What do you want?”

“I have to leave tomorrow. For my own sanity, I can’t stay with you any longer.”

Chapter 31

One week after West had left the Clare Estate, Edward Larson returned from Italy.

Phoebe had done her best to carry on as usual, maintaining a falsely cheerful façade for the children’s sake and going through the motions of everyday life. She was good at that. She knew how to endure loss and had learned that it wouldn’t break her. No matter how miserable she felt inside, she couldn’t let herself go to pieces. There were too many responsibilities to face, especially those involving Edward and the fraud he’d committed as executor of the estate. Although she dreaded having to confront him, it was a relief when he finally came to Clare Manor.

As soon as Edward entered the parlor, Phoebe saw that he knew trouble had been brewing. Despite his smile and obvious affection, his face was strained and his gaze was sharp.

“Ciao, mia cara,” he exclaimed, and came forward to kiss her, the firm, dry pressure of his lips making something inside her cringe and recoil.

“Edward, you look well,” Phoebe said, gesturing for him to sit with her. “Italy must have agreed with you.”

“Italy was a marvel, as always. Georgiana is quite happily settled, and I will relate all the particulars of her situation. But first . . . I’ve been made aware of some concerning news, my dear, with some rather serious consequences on the horizon.”

“Yes,” Phoebe said gravely. “So have I.”

“Rumors are flying about a houseguest you entertained during my absence. You are so charitable and generous in the way you treat other people that you would doubtless expect them to treat you the same way. However, society—even out here in the country—is not half so kind as you.” The touch of paternal beneficence in his tone irritated her.

“Mr. Ravenel came to stay for a few days,” Phoebe acknowledged. “Our families are connected by marriage, and I requested his advice about the estate.”

“That was a mistake. I don’t wish to frighten you, Phoebe, but it was a grave mistake indeed. He is the worst kind of scoundrel. Any association with him is poisonous.”

Phoebe took a calming breath. “I do not require a lecture on propriety, Edward.” Especially not from you, she thought.

“His reputation is tarnished beyond redemption. He is a drunkard. A profligate.”

“You know nothing about who he is,” Phoebe said with a touch of weary exasperation, “or what he’s made of himself. Let’s not discuss him, Edward, there’s something far more important for us to deal with.”

“I saw him at soirée once. His behavior was indecent. Staggering about drunkenly, fondling and flirting with married women. Insulting everyone around him. A more vulgar, sneering display I have never seen. The host and hostess were humiliated. Several guests, including myself, left the soirée early because of him.”

“Edward, enough about this. He’s gone now, and it’s over. Please listen to me—”

“He may be gone, but the damage has been done. You are too naïve to understand, my innocent Phoebe, what jeopardy you’ve put yourself in by allowing him to stay here. People will have already begun to repeat the worst interpretations of the situation.” He took her stiff hands in his. “You and I will have to marry without delay.”

“Edward.”

“It’s the only way to contain the damage before you’re ruined.”

“Edward,” she said sharply. “I know about Ruth Parris and little Henry.”

His complexion turned bleach white as he looked at her.

“I know about the house,” Phoebe continued, gently drawing her hands from his, “and how you used funds from the loan company to pay for it.”

His eyes were dilated with the horror of someone whose darkest secret had been exposed, his protective veneer shattered. “How . . . who told you? Ravenel has something to do with this, doesn’t he? He’s trying to poison you against me. He wants you for himself!”

“This has nothing to do with Mr. Ravenel,” she exclaimed. “This is about you and your . . . I don’t know what to call her. Your mistress.”

He shook his head helplessly, standing up from the settee and pacing in a tight circle. “If you only knew more about men, and the ways of the world. I will try to explain in a way you can understand.”

She frowned, remaining seated as she watched his nervous movements. “I understand that you borrowed money on behalf of my son’s estate to set up a young woman in a household.”

“It wasn’t stealing. I intended to pay back the funds.”

Phoebe gave him a reproachful glance. “Unless you married me, in which case the money would have become yours anyway.”

“You’re insulting my character,” he said, pain contorting his face. “You’ll try to make me out to be a villain on the level of West Ravenel.”

“Were you ever going to tell me, Edward, or did you plan to maintain Ruth Parris and her child in that house indefinitely?”

“I don’t know what I planned.”

“Did you consider marrying Ruth?”

“Never,” he said without hesitation.

“But why not?”

“She would be the ruin of my future prospects. My father might disinherit me. I would be a laughingstock, marrying someone so lowborn. She has no education. No manners.”

“Those things can be acquired.”

“Nothing can change what Ruth is: an honest, sweet, simple girl who is utterly wrong as a wife for a man of my position. She’ll never be a society hostess, nor will she ever be capable of making clever conversation or telling the difference between the salad fork and the fish fork. She would be made miserable by requirements she could never satisfy. Any concern for her is unwarranted. I made no promises, and she loves me too well to make a wreck of my life.”

“But what have you made of hers?” Phoebe demanded, outraged on the girl’s behalf.

“Ruth is the one who insisted on keeping the child. She could have given him to someone else to raise and gone on with her life as before. All the choices that led to her current predicament were made by her—including the choice to lie with a man outside of marriage in the first place.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened. “Then the blame is all hers, and none of yours?”

“The risk of an affair is always greater for the woman. She understood that.”

Could this really be the Edward she had known for so many years? Where was the highly moral, considerate man who had always shown such indelible respect for women? Had he changed somehow without her notice, or had this always been mortared in among the layers of his character?

“I genuinely loved her,” he went on, “and in fact I still do. If it makes you feel any better, I’m deeply ashamed of my feelings for her, and of whatever coarseness in my nature led to a relationship with her. I’m suffering as much as anyone.”

“Love is not born of coarseness,” Phoebe said quietly. “The ability to love is the noblest quality a man can possess. You should honor it, Edward. Marry her and be happy with her and your son. The only thing to be ashamed of is the belief that she’s not good enough for you. I hope you’ll overcome it.”

He seemed painfully bewildered as well as angry. “One cannot overcome facts, Phoebe! She is common. She would lower me. That opinion would be shared by everyone in our world. Everyone who matters would censure me. There would be so many places we wouldn’t be welcomed, and blue-blooded children who wouldn’t be allowed to associate with mine. Surely you understand that.” His voice turned vehement. “God knows Henry did.”

Now it was Phoebe’s turn to fall silent. “He knew about Ruth? And her baby?”

“Yes, I told him. He forgave me before I could even ask. He knew it was the way of the world, that honorable men sometimes yield to temptation. He understood it had no bearing on my character, and he still thought it best for you and I to marry.

“And what was to become of Ruth and her child? What were his thoughts about that?”

“He knew I would do what I could for them.” Edward returned to the place beside her, reaching out to cover her hands with his. “I know my own heart, Phoebe, and I know I’m a good man. I would be a faithful husband to you. I would be kind to your boys. You’ve never heard me raise my voice in anger, have you? You’ve never seen me inebriated or violent. We would have a clean, sweet, good life together. The kind of life we deserve. I love so many things about you, Phoebe. Your grace and beauty. Your devotion to Henry. It agonized him that he wouldn’t be able to take care of you, but I swore to him I would never let harm come to you. I told him he would never have to worry about his children, either: I would raise them as if they were mine.”

Phoebe tugged her hands away, her skin crawling at his touch. “I can’t help but find it ironic that you’re so willing to be a father to my sons, but not your own.”