An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1) (7 page)

H
aving temporarily lost
both the strength and support of her legs beneath her, thanks to the icy fear which had exchanged places with her blood when Lucien explained where Tristan was currently residing and why, Phoebe dropped heavily into an armchair.

Her hands shook so badly in reaction to his news, she finally had to clasp them together in her lap to keep them still. She could feel the pressure of her pulse thumping against her eardrums, which was likely the reason for her sudden light-headedness, she surmised, and her mouth worked silently until she found her voice at last. “Newgate? For
piracy?
But...how?
Why?
There must be some mistake, Lucien. You know Tristan would never—”

She could see by the pained expression he wore that there was more to be revealed of the situation than he had yet mentioned. “Tony was there, Phoebe. He has confirmed that Tristan was indeed the man in charge of the
Valkyrie
when emissaries from His Majesty's Royal Navy boarded her.”

“But—” Frowning, she lowered her gaze, trying futilely to make sense of the information her brother had given, but there was none to be made. The Royal Navy had charged her brother with piracy, yet there was no doubt in her mind he was innocent. So why was he not at home? Tony had been there, after all. Lucien said he had confirmed Tristan's identity. He would surely have spoken on their brother's behalf and….

Her head snapped up in sudden realization and she could almost feel the color draining from her face. “Lucien, they mean to hang him!”

The sudden image of Tristan dangling from a rope at Tyburn, twisting in the air as his lungs fought for breath, forced a scream into her throat—one she dared not give voice lest every guest and member of the household come running. Instead, she sprang to her feet and began to pace the breadth of her brother's study, her fingers working feverishly at the material of her skirts while at every turn, she paused to utter, “We have to do something, Lucien. There must be something we can
do
. You must
do
something!
”

The panic in her head made its way to her tongue, causing her voice to rise to a frantic pitch while Lucien merely continued to sit calmly behind his desk, a look which lay somewhere between dismissal and determination wavering on his face. Appalled by his apparent lack of concern, Phoebe spun away and hurried across the room to tug urgently at the bell pull. When, seconds later, the butler pulled open the door, she struggled to make sense of the words sputtering from her mouth. “Severn, we've had the most dreadful news. You must send a footman 'round with a note to Nicholas and Sebastian and...and Adrien. Tell them t-to join us at the house.”

“Within the hour,” she commanded when he merely glanced over her shoulder to her brother, but it was Lucien to whom the stalwart man deferred. The slow shake of her brother's head in negation of her command sent him backing out the door once more, an apology for the interruption tumbling from his lips, and her jaw dropped in utter disbelief.

She turned on Lucien, demanding, “Why did you send him away? Tristan is
alive
! Don't you understand? He is alive and safe for the moment but if you sit here and do nothing as you have until now—”

Lucien's jaw firmed into a tight and all to familiar unrelenting line and frustration filled her. Tristan was going to die if he did not go to him—
now
. How could she make him see time was of the essence? Dropping to her knees on the floor beside his chair, she held tight to her brother's arm. Staring into his eyes, her gaze implored.

“Lucien,
please!
” she pleaded almost frantically. “I—I have no one else. Father is gone and Mother with him and I—I am so alone...”

Her voice stuttered to a halt though her mind continued to spin in fear that she was about to lose the only bit of sanity left to her in this world. Tristan could not
die
. He just couldn't! “I beg you, Lucien,
please
do not let them do this!”

“Phoebe, you are not thinking clearly,” Lucien finally said. A tic twitched in her brother's jaw, but he continued to stare at her with those unrevealing eyes of his, and Phoebe felt the world around her slowly begin to crumble and fall.

He would do nothing, she thought.
Again
.

He glowered up at her. “Calm down and we— ”

Nay,
she thought. He would go on pretending there was naught
to
be
done and her beloved Tristan would go to his grave because of it, she corrected in frantic desperation, ignoring Lucien's command that she calm herself. They would put a rope around Tristan's neck, and…

No!
No, she would not allow it.

She would save him herself if she must, but first...

“I will not calm down!” she raged, her eyes wide and burning with the sting of unshed tears.

Her body filled with anger born of fear, she sprang to her feet, drew back her right hand and swung. Her palm connected solidly against Lucien's cheek, leaving it stinging with the heat and force of her tumultuous emotions. “How can you be so...so
cold
? You've just learned our brother is about to
die
, and you sit there as calm and collected as if someone had announced nothing more important than the turn of the weather! Well,
I
will not do it! I—”

Failing, in her moment of absolute panic, to note the way his mouth had drawn tight or the subtle lines of tension in his frame, she was not expecting to feel his fingers close around her arm in a steely grip. Nor had she anticipated that he would sweep her off her feet and then march her to the settee, where he deposited her rather hastily before demanding, “
Sit
, damn it!”

The swiftly barked command in Lucien's voice halted her tirade, but only long enough for him to say, “Bloody females! Your histrionics accomplish nothing, Phoebe, just as you are so fond of accusing
me
of doing where your bleeding beloved Tristan is concerned. Therefore, if you wish to save him so badly, I suggest you either
sit down
and
calm yourself
so that we may discuss this rationally, like adults, or you are hereby
dismissed,
precisely in the way a child would be since childish is the only possible term for your current behavior, and you may retire to your room. The last thing I need at the moment is yet another possible scandal brought on by your continued thoughtlessness and lack of propriety!”

Drawing up as if she had been struck, Phoebe stared at her brother, all the fear and confusion and pain in her soul temporarily stunned into submission by the harsh accusation in his tone. Without a word, she got to her feet and turned on her heel, striding for the door.

“I think I hate you for this,” she ground out quietly in a mindless fit of pique before she opened the door and quit the room—only to encounter a small, jovial group of ladies, each dressed in the latest finery, sharing a moment of laughter that ended with happy smiles all around. Across the hall, the musicians her grandmother had hired for the week had just stricken the first notes of a minuet, which led Phoebe to surmise distractedly that the ladies were most likely en route to the ballroom.

Suddenly and inexplicably infuriated by the evidence of their seeming happiness in the face of her own personal tragedy, frightened beyond explanation by thoughts of Tristan hanging lifelessly from the gallows with a rope around his neck, utterly dumbfounded by Lucien's unfair and hurtful accusations, and completely unprepared to deal with even one single thing more, Phoebe threw up her hands and screamed at the lot of them. “Get
out!
Get out, all of you!”

Several pairs of eyes swung 'round to stare at her in stunned surprise. In the ballroom, the music stopped immediately and more than a few people spilled into the gallery to see what great calamity had befallen Lady Phoebe St. Daine.

Dazed by the depths of her pain and fear, it took several moments for Phoebe to realize the spectacle at which everyone stared was
her.
Once she did comprehend, her face drained of color.
Dear Lord, what have I done?

The thought had barely entered her mind before several others, each adding to the weight of sudden guilt on her shoulders, clamored for recognition among the whirling chaos in her head. Not only had she committed the unthinkable by allowing her fear and feelings of helplessness to cause an unconscionable loss of control in the midst of a house party meant to positively introduce her into society on a more personal level, she had shamed her family with her appalling public display—shamed them and put their whispered names on everyone's lips.

“Lady Phoebe, please,” came the quiet but imploring voice of Lady Claire Leighton from somewhere behind her. “Your brother looks as if a dagger has just been thrust between his ribs. Your grandmother is likely to faint dead away in the midst of at least twenty of your most influential guests, and your sisters—”

At the mention of her younger siblings, Phoebe turned, her gaze swinging wildly about to clash with first Alaina's and then Emily's. Both girls looked as if the breath had been sucked from their lungs and their faces had gone as white as the plastered ceiling above their heads.

Spinning back toward the study where she meant to immediately run and hide, she halted, her eyes suddenly locked with Lucien's pained gaze. Claire had spoken the truth. His expression was frighteningly identical to the one she had seen on his face the night the family had received news of their parents' deaths, only this time,
she
had caused it.

Remorse lay heavy in her middle, making her stomach roil and pinch. She lowered her eyes, unable to bear witness to the pain, the disappointment and banked rage in his gaze. He was right, she thought. Her thoughtless behavior had, indeed, wrought a moment of scandal for the St. Daine's, and now she could only hope he would set aside his anger with her long enough to find some way to calm the growing buzz of awed speculation before…

“Oh dear, it seems Phoebe and Lucien are at it again. Did he
really
tell her to change her gown because the bodice was too low?
Again?
” Alaina's overly loud whisper echoing in the ballroom caused several heads to turn in her direction and Phoebe only barely noticed her subtle signal before she locked arms with Emily and made her way toward the refreshments table, finishing with, “Our brother really does need to realize Phoebe is a woman now and that he should stop with his overly concerned censure of her wardrobe.”

Taking her cue from Emily's slightly raised brow, Phoebe saw her grandmother signal to the musicians, and the ballroom filled with music once more. Lucien, his expression recovered, drew himself up and made his way toward the titian-haired lady who had spent much of her time at Rothwyn House close on Lady Claire's side. After a quick smile from him and a whispered request for a dance, the two moved toward the ballroom. Most of the duchesses remaining guests followed suit, and then Phoebe felt a hand on her arm.

It was Lady Claire.

With a gentle nudge, she led Phoebe past the group of startled ladies still frozen upon the stairs by her unexpected outburst, and up to her chamber.

“I am sorry about your brother and I know this is difficult for you and for your family,” Claire whispered when they reached the top of the stairs. “But I do not think flying into a rage over the unfairness of it all in front of half the ton is the best way to deal with your situation.”

Claire's voice was kindly but firm and, unable to say anything at all at the moment, even to inquire as to how she knew about Tristan and the situation her family now faced, Phoebe only nodded. Mutely, she followed the other woman into her room. Once safely inside, however, away from the blatantly inquisitive, speculating gazes of their guests, she began to shake. Her knees quivered and every part of her body shook from the maelstrom of emotion whirling inside her while icy trails of wetness on her cheeks merely added to the soul-deep chill she felt.

She was crying, Phoebe realized, though she could dredge up no recollection of having begun to do so. Lifting shaking fingers to wipe away the wetness, she stared at her hands in confusion, and then, as if the proof of her tears had somehow broken through an invisible barrier inside her, Phoebe's quiet sniffles turned into great, gulping sobs.

Some moments later, she dimly noted a pair of comforting arms had come around her and feeling equally overwrought yet suddenly numb to the entire situation, Phoebe leaned into Claire's embrace, her face resting on the other woman's shoulder while she cried until there simply were no more tears left to shed.

Through it all, Claire waited in muted silence, soothing her with hushed tones and gentle pats until her flood of tears subsided into snubs and jerky sniffles, and then finally, quiet. Stepping away, now that the crisis was over, Claire moved toward the door. “I will have your maid bring up a glass of warm milk. Your family will be concerned, I am certain, but you should rest. I will let them know all is well.”

“Claire?” Phoebe called out to her just as she stepped through the door. Fighting against tears which threatened once more, she forced her lips to lift the slightest bit, contorting them into a barest semblance of a smile. Somewhat shakily, she whispered, “Thank you.”

D
ownstairs
, leaning indolently against a column in the gallery that allowed him full view of both the ballroom and the stairs, Lucien felt completely stricken. If not for Alaina's quick thinking to diffuse a possibly explosive situation, he knew he would be cravat-deep in explanations. Now, however, he was simply the object of far too many stares; some sympathetic while others were nigh castigating.

“Bloody everlasting hell,” he mumbled. “Will this nightmare ever end?”

“Nightmare? As in we are but dreaming? Oh, ho!” Tony rubbed his hands together in expectant glee. “In that case, allow me access to the ballroom, old man. There are quite a few debutante skirts in there I should like nothing more at the moment than to chase. Within the boundaries of Dreamland, of course.”