Page 7

Seven

OVERWHELMED

Overwhelmed, according to the Oxford English Dictionary:

Of a person's heart, etc.: overflowing with emotion.

P hoebe was halfway up the stairs when she realized she’d forgotten her shawl. It was a precious piece of material, having belonged to her mother, and she always took it with her when she traveled. Walking back into the drawing room, she froze.

Before the hearth stood her father and Lady Annette—in a passionate embrace.

“ What are you doing? ” Phoebe heard the terrible screech of her own voice. Her breath came in pants, shock rolling through her body.

They both turned to her, alarm in her father’s deep-brown eyes, embarrassment in Lady Annette’s.

“Papa, she’s only a few years older than me. How could you?” The weight of betrayal descended upon her. How had he neglected to mention this… this… affair? No, Lady Annette was decent and sweet. This was much more serious. But why pursue another woman after all this time? Companionship would not lead him to a younger woman. Had his constant words of reassurance and denial of regret for not having a boy been all lies?

“Phoebe, considering your arrival, I didn’t think it prudent to tell you of our courtship. We were?—”

“Prudent? Prudent is not wooing someone half your age. It’s about an heir, isn’t it? You said you didn’t care if you had a son. I-I filled your heart, and you didn’t have room for another child. But it isn’t true, is it?” Overwhelmed from the past few days, Phoebe once again picked up her skirts and ran, the shawl forgotten.

“Phoebe!” shouted Papa.

She paid no heed. Tears blurred her vision. First betrayed by her fiancé and now her own father. She fumbled at the yellow door of her room before pushing it open and throwing herself on the bed.

Rap, rap, rap . “Phoebe! Let me in, please.”

“Go away!” She wasn’t ready for another intimate talk with her father.

“Phoebe, stop acting like a child and open the door.”

“If I’m acting like one, then you are courting one,” she quipped, knowing how petulant she sounded. She hated the tone of her voice, how she’d run like a coward—twice.

“If you don’t open the door, I won’t be able to explain how your mother approved of this.”

That caught her attention. Mama? She rose from the bed, her satin slippers silent on the Aubusson carpet. She cracked the door open, one eye at the slit. She tossed in a glare for good measure, wanting to be mature but just not having the energy for it. “How could that be?”

He sighed. His daughter could be difficult; he freely admitted he had indulged her throughout her childhood. But she was also fiercely loyal, and once given, she was an ally for perpetuity.

“You know I talk to her.”

“Her portrait, yes. But it’s at home above the hearth.” She opened the door wider.

“It was in a dream.”

Dreams fascinated Phoebe. She loved interpreting them, whether it was hers, a friend, or one of the maids. She opened the door wide enough for her father to enter.

He stepped into the room, following her to the huge tester bed. She threw herself across it, her slippers hanging over the edge. “First, I was sincere about not needing a son. How could you think such a thing? Second, Nettie and I haven’t even discussed children. I have a great affection for the lady, not her womb.”

Phoebe giggled into the counterpane. He always knew what to say. She could never stay angry at him. “How did it happen?”

“I came here to see my friend, my tether to my brother—your Uncle Phillip. I had no idea I would meet someone who made me remember.”

“Remember what?” she asked, lifting her head from the counterpane.

“How the right person can make you feel whole, as if you’ve found a piece of yourself that’s been missing. I wish I could explain it better.” He ran a hand through his auburn hair, so like her own brown and gold waves.

“I thought you would love Mama until the day you died.” She sniffed but sat up.

“I will, sweetheart. Just as I will love you with all my heart. But this”—he patted his chest just above his heart—“is an amazing organ that can stretch as large as is needed. So, I’m able to hold on to my love for your mother and allow someone else into my heart again.”

“Tell me about your dream,” she demanded, feeling her spunky self finally reemerge.

He told her most of it, but Phoebe had the impression he left out the more intimate details. He had been chasing Mama, and she had called for him, telling him to hurry, and that he was not too old. Never too old. Then when he caught her, he had kissed her, but her face had turned into Lady Annette’s image. He had whispered he was sorry to Mama, but Lady Annette had said Mama wasn’t sorry. She was happy for him.

“Oh, Papa, she is telling you that she’s fine with it. I don’t want you to be alone when I do find an honorable and trustworthy man.” Phoebe wiped her eyes, the guilt enveloping her. “I’m sorry. I will try to like her. For you. She really does seem to be a lovely woman. The past few days have been so horrid.”

“I know,” he said, hugging her tightly. “I get lonely. I realized with your betrothal that I didn’t want to be alone the rest of my life. Nor did I want my only conversation at the end of the day to be with a painting that cannot respond.”

She giggled, then stopped, solemnity replacing the guilt. “It seems I’ve made another scene.”

“Only witnessed by myself and Lady Annette. I promise she won’t tell anyone,” he said, patting her cheek. “Why don’t you get some rest? We have a grand evening planned.”

Her father closed the door, and Phoebe once more flopped back onto the bed. Outside it had begun to snow, the wind whipping flakes against the pane. She swallowed back the self-pity and whispered, “What about me, Mama? Do you want me to be happy too?”

“You beat me again, you ragged cur,” Charles said with a laugh.

“Your mind is not on the game,” agreed Will. “Could your thoughts be on someone upstairs in the Yellow Room?”

“Is that where she is?” he asked, realizing he’d essentially acknowledged Will’s assumption. He sighed. “The chit stole my heart with one look. I’ll never enjoy another walk in Hyde Park if I don’t win her.”

“She’s not the spoils of war.”

“My heart thinks she is.” What would happen if he ever kissed her? He was afraid he’d be tempted to sell his soul to the devil for a chance to find out.

“Love seems to be contagious.” Will shivered dramatically. “Perhaps I should return to London or stay locked in my room, so I don’t become the next victim to catch the dreaded disease.”

Charles chuckled. “You had parents happy in their marriage. I wouldn’t think you’d be so against it.”

“Oh, I’m in favor of the institution. Just not for myself. I like coming and going as I please and not answering to anyone.” Will pulled his arm back and hit the ball. A clack , and then the wooden ball landed in a side pocket. “One more victory and we’ll dress for dinner.”

A shout in the hall interrupted their match. “Lord Beecham,” the voice called urgently. “It’s Lady Annette. Lord Beecham!”

Will ran from the billiard room and stopped the stable boy pacing the hall and looking nervously up the stairs. “Is there a problem, Joseph?”

“Lady Annette went for a ride, and the weather turned. Lord Weston has gone after her, and he told me to fetch the earl.” The lad stepped from foot to foot, wringing his cap in his hands. “She insisted she would only be gone a short while and didn’t want me to accompany her.”

“My sister can be headstrong. It’s not your fault, Joseph. No one can predict the weather,” Will said as he took the stairs two at a time. “Saddle three horses and we’ll meet you at the stable.”