George took a step forward. “Your daughter claims too much responsibility. Of course, I’m to blame.”
“Yes.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed.
Phoebe knelt at her mother’s feet. “But please, it’s done now and we have to live with our mistakes. So you will give us your blessing, won’t you?”
“Phoebe, you’ll always have my blessing.” Her mother touched her cheek. “And your father would have been very happy. Perhaps not over the exigent nature of this wedding, but he would have been happy to see you married.” She raised her head to look at George. “The late duke always liked you.”
It was done. She had told her mother, and her mother had not flown into a temper. Had not raged at George or cut him dead. Had said her father liked George. Phoebe got to her feet.
“Thank you, Mother.”
The duchess reached out for the little bell on the table next to her then withdrew her hand. “I almost rang to have your bedchamber prepared, Phoebe. But, of course, you won’t be staying here tonight, will you?”
“No, I’m Lady Danforth now. I will live in the barony. But shall I come visit you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? No, I’m leaving tomorrow to go see Deborah and the earl for a week. In Hartmouth. If I had known—”
“No, Mother. You go visit Deborah. I’ll be here when you get back.”
It was dark in the carriage on the way to the barony. Phoebe couldn’t see George’s face or even his body where he sat across from her. But she could smell him.
“I want you to know.” His voice was low and hoarse.
She waited. “Yes?”
“I don’t consider anything about our marriage a mistake. Not the baby. Nothing. None of it. Only that it didn’t happen years ago.”
She said nothing.
“I understand you do. I understand that. But I don’t.”
She still said nothing. What was there to say? There was nothing to be gained from arguing with him.
And maybe she didn’t like arguing anymore, either.
Like Thornwick. Am I a bully now, too, with my silence and my tears?
Dawson had completed the unpacking of Phoebe’s clothes by the time they arrived at the Danforth country house. Phoebe was to have George’s mother’s room here, adjoining George’s father’s room. Now George’s.
Phoebe turned to close the door she had just come through, but George appeared in the hallway.
“Will you come down and have a late supper with me?”
“I won’t eat anything.”
“You haven’t eaten all day. We can have Mrs. Gregory prepare you whatever Mrs. Hay made for you in London. Whatever you can tolerate.”
“May I have a tray here in my room instead?” She looked into his eyes.
His gaze was unflinching. “You may have whatever you want.”
“I want a tray.”
“I’ll go arrange it.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded and disappeared.
