Page 30 of Wedded to the Cruel Duke (Duty and Desire #1)
CHAPTER THIRTY
P hoebe returned to Wentworth Park to find Charles very much improved and already in his study before she could even admonish him in exasperation.
“Should you not rest in bed a little more?” she told him with a worried look. “Just before I left, I was quite convinced I would need to have a physician summoned if you had not been so stubborn.”
She would not lie, however—he looked extremely handsome in a half-opened black linen shirt and breeches, his dark hair a little tousled as if he had carelessly brushed it back with his fingers. Just the sight of him made her want to sink her fingers into his hair, too.
To her surprise, his lips merely tilted up in a wry smile. “My dear wife has taken to berating me. If I laid in bed any longer, I would have made a fine impression of an invalid.”
“You are much too far from becoming an invalid,” she smiled up at him as she stepped into his embrace. “You are at the prime of your life, with a virility unmatched by any man.”
At her words, he burst out into a loud guffaw. “And now, I am fairly convinced that it is you who are delusional.”
“I am not!” she huffed. “Have you taken to contradicting my words? Is this how the rest of our life is to be?”
“Of course not,” he replied. “I would never dream of contradicting your words. Huxley and O’Malley have convinced me that a happy wife is necessary for a happy life.”
“That sounds like something Huxley or O’Malley would say.”
“Because it is precisely where those words of wisdom came from, my dearest.”
She burst out into giggles and buried her face into his chest, when he gently grasped her chin and tilted her head back.
“Don’t,” he told her in a husky voice. “Do not hide your laughter from me.”
“Did you never notice how inelegantly I laugh?” she muttered beneath a wry smile.
“I do not care. There is hardly any sound comparable to it,” he insisted.
She laughed again. “You are certainly getting better at coaxing your wife, My Lord. But I must tell you,” she added with a stern look, “that whatever it is that you hope to achieve tonight, I still think it is best for you to rest.”
“What? No!” Charles looked rather aghast. “Have I not convinced you enough that I am fully recovered? Did you not just say that I am at the prime of my life, with a virility unmatched by any man?”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose at having her words thrown back at her. This, she supposed, was one of the pitfalls of marrying a man possessed of a quick wit.
I would not have enjoyed the company of one incapable of such lively conversation, though , she thought to herself. Perhaps in that aspect, it could hardly be considered a pitfall.
She sighed, her hands resting against the firm expanse of Charles' chest. "Yes, I did say that," she conceded, her tone playful yet resigned. "But you cannot use my own words against me, Charles. It is most unfair."
"Unfair?" His brow arched, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I believe it to be rather clever. And what better way to prove my recovery than to engage in a bit of sparring with my most formidable opponent—my wife?"
Her lips quirked into a smile, and she shook her head in mock disapproval. "Is that how you view our marriage? A battlefield where we are to duel with words?"
"Only with you would I dare to cross swords," he murmured, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her temple. The warmth of his breath against her skin sent a shiver down her spine, and she felt her resolve wavering.
Phoebe tilted her head, her eyes softening as she met his gaze. "Then if we are to duel, I shall have to surrender," she whispered, her voice catching slightly.
"To surrender, my dear, is a most enticing offer.” He lowered his mouth to hers, their lips brushing together with the kind of familiarity that only deepened their bond.
For a moment, the world outside of their embrace seemed to fade away, leaving only the warmth of his touch, the scent of him, and the steady rhythm of their hearts beating as one. Phoebe’s hand slid up to his neck, her fingers tangling in his tousled hair, just as she had imagined earlier. The sensation of it beneath her fingertips was intoxicating, pulling her deeper into the moment, into him.
But just as she began to lose herself in the kiss, there was a sudden, sharp knock at the door, reverberating through the study like a crack of thunder on a clear day.
Charles stiffened against her, his lips stilling. "What now?" he muttered, a flicker of irritation crossing his features as he pulled back.
Phoebe reluctantly released him, the spell between them broken by the intruding sound. She watched as he straightened, his expression hardening into one of cool authority. "Enter," he called.
The door creaked open, revealing a figure clad in a crisp black tailcoat, his demeanor almost as stiff as his formal attire. Behind him, Huxley, their own trusted butler, stood with an air of unease that Phoebe had never seen before in the man, alongside Ambrose, Charles’ former valet.
Charles’ breath hitched, the color draining slightly from his face as he appeared to recognize the new visitor. "Mosley?" The single word slipped from his lips, laden with disbelief.
Phoebe glanced between the two men, her curiosity piqued but confusion clouding her understanding. She had never seen this Mosley before, but the shock in Charles' voice suggested that his presence was both unexpected and unwelcome.
"Forgive the intrusion, My Lord," Mosley said, his voice low, almost tremulous. He stepped forward, producing a sealed letter from within his coat. "This arrived for you, posthaste, from Cheshire Hall."
"Cheshire Hall? What on earth brings you all the way here, Mosley, rather than send it by courier?" Charles demanded, his tone sharper than before. Phoebe could see the tension creeping into his shoulders, the sudden rigidity in his stance. "Is something amiss?"
Mosley hesitated, his eyes flicking toward Huxley before returning to Charles. "I... I thought it best to deliver this myself, My Lord. The contents are... of a grave nature."
Charles stared at him, the room growing colder by the second, the air thick with unspoken dread. "Grave? What are you saying, Mosley?" His voice was edged with impatience, but underneath it, Phoebe detected a thread of something else—something darker.
"Please, My Lord," Mosley urged, pushing the letter toward him with trembling hands. "Read it. You must read it."
Charles hesitated, the silence between them crackling with tension. Then, with a curt nod, he snatched the letter from Mosley’s hand, breaking the seal with an impatient flick of his fingers. Phoebe watched, her heart pounding in her chest as she tried to decipher the emotions flickering across his face.
His eyes scanned the letter once, twice—then a third time, as if the words were too impossible to comprehend. His face paled, his hand tightening around the parchment until his knuckles turned white.
"Charles?" Phoebe whispered, her voice barely audible, trembling with fear of the unknown. "What is it? What has happened?"
"My father..." The words came out strangled, as if they were being forced from his throat. He looked up at her, eyes wide with shock, horror. "My father is dead."