Page 30 of Wedded to the Cruel Duke
“I just wish I had someone to talk to,” she muttered to herself.
She looked out, her eyes softening as she beheld the gardens and the manor house beyond it. Just beyond the wall lay Townsend House, the place where she had grown up and spent most of her life. She would have loved to have been able to talk to her sisters, too.
Unfortunately, Charles had expressly forbidden her to go out.
“I wonder what they are doing right now,” she murmured to herself. “My marriage should have saved Daphne from ruination. Minerva, too, should not have to feel so frightened about her own coming out…”
She could imagine Daphne calling for their mother, for Minerva…anyone, as she panicked once more about which dress she should wear tothisball andthatdinner party…
Minerva, on the other hand, would be doing her best to avoid being roped into such decisions. She would be tucked away in her room or some isolated nook in the house with yet another book…
As she sighed and listlessly kicked at the ground to swing herself, she heard a soft purr a short distance away. Almost immediately,she felt her spirits lift when she saw the tip of a coal-black tail waving in the bushes.
“Whiteson!” she called out excitedly, shooting up from the swing. “Whiteson, is that you? Come here, you naughty little cat!”
She made her way over to find that it was indeed Whiteson, the mischievous stray that often visited her in the gardens of Townsend House back when she was still merely Miss Phoebe Townsend, and her life was much simpler.
“Oh, Whiteson!” she cried out as she scooped the black cat into her arms. “You cannot possibly know how glad I am to see you!”
The cat let out an indignant meow and struggled for a bit, but Phoebe was already used to his attitude. She only laughed as she fished something out of her pocket and held it out to him.
“Here,” she said, waving the bit of sandwich she had brought with her. “I know you particularly adore these—perhaps much more than you do those tasty rodents in my husband’s…room, or whatever that is.”
She shuddered a little when she recalled that room beneath the trapdoor, with its ominous ambiance, complete with chains on the wall and a pervasive chill that never seemed to go away…
Perhaps I have been reading too many stories, she told herself with a shake of her head.I suppose every old estate has these sorts of rooms.
Perhaps her husband simply never had the time to… spruce things up a touch inthatarea of the estate—if he was ever inclined to, anyway.
She smiled as she saw the cat’s eyes light up happily at the sight of the food she offered. It swiped its paws in the air and Phoebe laughed.
At least some things never change,she thought to herself.Whiteson is still the same adorable little glutton he has always been…
“I hope you have not been to that dreadful room again,” she chastised the mischievous feline. “He was particularly cross when we went there the last time, remember? I daresay, he will give us quite the tongue-lashing should either of us find ourselves in there once more.”
She handed the last bit of her sandwich over to the cat, who happily gobbled it up.
“One would think that you have been starved since last I saw you,” she smiled wryly. “Well, it is a good thing you are a cat, then, and cats hardly have the need for other feline companionship. I suppose you do well enough on your own, hunting mice and birds and whatever you decide dinner should be.”
I, on the other hand,must contend with so many rules and restrictions…
“If only I was a cat just like you,” she sighed as she stared off into the direction of Townsend House. “Perhaps then, no one would mind so much if I went out and visited my sisters…”
She smiled as Whiteson, satisfied with her offering of the sandwich, finally relented and allowed her to stroke the silken fur on its head. It let out a soft, contented purr as it lay down on the grass beside her—a reminder of much simpler times, as well as her first meeting with Charles.
“I daresay that he is not as terrible as most people seem to think him,” she continued wistfully. “He might be a little… well,odd, but nothing at all like the raging murderer Miss Thomas portrays him to be.”
Phoebe pursed her lips, recalling how the other spinster had been so adamant about proving her wrong the last time they had met. She wondered if her marriage to Charles shocked the other members of the Spinster Club. After all, they had all been resigned to the fact that they wereon the shelf, as it were, with no marriage prospects.
“Well, who cares what Miss Thomas thinks, right, Whiteson?” she snorted delicately. “I have much, much more to consider now than her opinions. I am, after all, the Marchioness of Wentworth now—for whatever that is worth…”
Not to mention, she was also married to one of the handsomest men in all of London. The thought of it made her blush.
And those particular fantasies were what led to my situation now—not that I regret it much.
Charles, for all his idiosyncrasies, was still considered quite a catch by many ambitious Mamas. For a title and an acceptable enough fortune, many were quite willing to overlook the fact that the man hardly left his estate.
They probably think Wentworth Park is so grand that he never feels the need to grace lesser mortals with his presence,she laughed to herself, shaking her head.