Page 86 of Wedded to the Cruel Duke
She sighed as she handed the towel back to Amelia and stared out into the dreary clouds that hung over London. Even the weather mirrored the gloominess shrouding Cheshire Hall.
“Your Grace… It seems Mr. Jones has brought Whiteson over,” Amelia announced.
Phoebe turned around just as the cat leaped out of Amelia’s grasp and hurried over to her, jumping onto her lap and nestling into her with a loud purr.
“Oh dear, I hope the journey was not too tiring for you,” she sighed. “Poor kitty. You have been so well-behaved. I am sure Charles will not be disinclined to reward you for your suffering.”
A small smile tilted the edge of Amelia’s lips. “Mr. Jones might beg to differ on that account, Your Grace. Whiteson has not been overly friendly with him and nearly bit him just now.”
Phoebe frowned as she stroked the furry head. “Now, why would you do that to poor Mr. Jones?”
In response, Whiteson let out a spiteful hiss, as if he could not bear to hear about Charles’ valet.
“I found it odd as well, Your Grace,” Amelia admitted. “Whiteson has always been a good-tempered cat.”
Phoebe found it odd too, as the feline had even taken a liking to Charles, who was as ornery a human as could have been. She had read once that some creatures were more sensitive when it came to judging people.
From what she had seen of Ambrose Jones, he was a man who was diligent in doing his work and not given much to conversation. He had resided with the rest of the staff at Wentworth Park but rarely made himself seen. What could Whiteson have seen in him for the cat to react so vehemently?
Or it could simply have been that the valet might have chased Whiteson out in the past, before she and Charles officially adopted the cat. The world was not exactly kind to strays, especially a black cat such as Whiteson.
She sighed at the cat happily dozing off on her lap. “Have I now become as suspicious as Charles?” she wondered softly. “I should hope not… it would be such a dreary existence to go on doubting the sincerity of everyone around me.”
In any case, she might have to observe his interaction with Mr. Jones a little bit more.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Duke of Cheshire was buried in an odd combination of grandeur meeting a pensive somberness that wasde rigueuerfor most events in theton. There were a great number of guests who attended the funeral, although Phoebe had the slight feeling that they were there to most likely spectate and gaze upon the new Duke—the once reclusive Marquess of Wentworth.
She frowned as she saw Charles shift, his dark brows snapping together as if he could not wait for the chaplain to be done with the rites. It was rather unusual for him to lose his composure in such a manner that she could not help but reach out to him.
At her touch, he seemed to stiffen a little, and then, his whole body relaxed. She let out an inward sigh of relief at that. Still, she also could not help but wonder if something truly was amiss.
Something else that Charles had not disclosed to her yet.
“My sincerest condolences for your loss, Your Grace.”
She looked up to find a tall, lanky man with nondescript brown eyes and brown hair that appeared to be perpetually tousled. He was smiling at her, although his lips seemed to be twisted in a manner that affected a grimace.
“Thank you, Lord Scunthorpe,” she said in a polite, if cool tone.
“I-I had not seen you in London for quite some time,” he managed. “I thought that—”
Phoebe cut him off with a brilliant smile. “Whatever you thought, I assure you that you have been mistaken, My Lord. I am newly wed and as such, have enjoyed spending my time with myhusband.”
She saw the flash of hurt on his features and felt a tinge of remorse for her harshness, but it had to be said. Before she had been officially declared off the shelf, Lord Edwin Oakley—Baron Scunthorpe—had pursued her relentlessly, which became something of an amusement amongst theton. If her father had not been as lenient as he had been, she had no doubt that the man before her would have become her husband.
Fortunately, Lord Townsend was not of the mind to marry his daughters to men they did not like, even if it meant that they might risk falling into the depths of spinsterhood.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Charles take a swig from his flask and pursed her lips. These days, he seemed to be drinking from his flask particularly often.
“It has been lovely seeing you again, Lord Scunthorpe,” she said softly. “If you will excuse me, I must attend to my husband.”
As she fled the Baron’s presence, she could feel his eyes on her back. It was not her intention to be rude, but Lord Scunthorpe had always made her uncomfortable.
After the last guest had left, Phoebe sighed as she sank into the plush sofa in the parlor of the Duke of Cheshire’s lavish London estate. The new shoes she had worn had not been the most comfortable, but they were highly appropriate for the event.
She frowned as she recalled the way Charles had been drinking from his flask throughout the entire ceremony.