Page 62 of The Rogue’s Countess

“I had tea and toast.”

“That is hardly enough to feed a mouse, Phoebe.” The marchioness’s mouth was a thin line of disapproval as she studied Phoebe with a stern expression. Lady Wrotham shook her head to further emphasize her dismay. The marchioness turned her attention to the maid waiting patiently near the foot of the bed. “Mabel, tell his lordship, Lady Helstone, and I will be down for lunch shortly.”

“But your ankle, my la…Mama, you should not be walking on it yet,” Phoebe said in dismay as Lady Wrotham nodded for the maid to leave and convey her message.

“My ankle is fine, and I am tired of being a prisoner in this room.” The marchioness brushed Phoebe’s protest aside with a wave of her hand then turned her attention to the dressmaker. “Sabine, I think we can continue with the rest of the fittings the first of next week in your shop. However, the wedding gown must be here no later than nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Sabine murmured her understanding of the marchioness’s instructions and stood up to make one last pin adjustment before she stepped back to study the gown on Phoebe. As if satisfied with her work, the dressmaker nodded. With Sabine’s help, Phoebe removed the gown the dressmaker had been pinning for alterations.

While the seamstress carefully packed the gown she’d been pinning, Phoebe began to dress in what she’d been wearing when she’d first entered Lady Wrotham’s rooms. The dressmaker helped her do up the buttons at the back of her day dress while Sabine’s assistant collected the bolts of materials that the modiste had brought with her.

In a flurry of movement, the dressmaker was walking out the door a few moments later. As the modiste and her assistant disappeared, Lady Wrotham rose to her feet, and Phoebe quickly went to the woman’s side.

“You really shouldn’t be out of bed, let alone going downstairs,” Phoebe scolded gently. Lady Wrotham shook her head in dismissal.

“Simply give me your arm, Phoebe. I shall be fine.” Phoebe released a sound of exasperation at her reply, and the marchioness laughed. “My son isn’t the only one with a stubborn streak. Besides, I have an important reason for going downstairs to eat with my son.”

“Oh?”

“The latest chapter in the Currer Chronicles is in the Times this morning. I’ve not read it yet because I wanted to do so with Gideon present. I want to see his reaction.”

There was laughter in Lady Wrotham’s voice, and a ripple of guilt sped through Phoebe. She hadn’t seen Gideon this morning, but it wasn’t difficult for her to imagine what his reaction had been when he’d read the latest installment of the serial. Thank God she’d been able to stop the original chapter from running. Phoebe remained silent as she assisted the marchioness out of her room, and the two of them slowly made their way downstairs.

§ § §

Dumbfounded, Gideon stared at the maid in silence for several seconds as he took in the fact that his mother intended to come downstairs for lunch. As his gaze focused on the maid’s uneasy expression, he waved his hand at her.

“Thank you, Mabel.”

As the young woman left the study, Gideon signed one of the documents his estate manager had sent him, then pushed his chair away from the desk. His mother clearly wasn’t in her right mind to be thinking of coming downstairs with an injured ankle. The thought had barely penetrated his brain when his gaze fell on the morning edition of the London Times. Lips twisting in a harsh grimace, he suddenly knew his mother’s motivation in coming downstairs to lunch.

She intended to tease him mercilessly. It was her way of reminding him that he was no better than anyone else. A tenet she’d fostered in him since he was a child. Normally, he didn’t mind her poking fun at him, but there was something about Currer’s depiction of him that always set him on edge.

Gideon knew how ridiculous it was to allow Currer’s satirical jabs to anger him. In the back of his head, he heard mocking laughter. He knew exactly why Currer’s characterization irritated him. He’d just not been willing to acknowledge it until this moment. Currer’s words struck deep because, in some ways, he was what the author described.

In the Chronicles, Lord Chelmbee was a ne’er-do-well focused only on cultivating his garden of flowers. Flowers that included not just those of the botanical variety but the fairer sex as well. It was understandable why Currer would focus on the superficial aspects of his caricature of Gideon. But it was the author’s delivery that stung.

It was as if the man knew him and was disappointed in Gideon’s failure to meet some unspoken potential. He’d confirmed Currer’s characterization of himself by egregiously compromising Phoebe. Gideon’s gaze drifted to the couch near the fireplace. If Currer were here now, no doubt, the man would ask Gideon if he had regrets about making love to Phoebe the other night.

Regrets? Not for the passion they’d share. Those few short moments when he’d experienced Phoebe again had been exhilarating. But being the catalyst and cause of her humiliation was something he regretted deeply. The memory of Phoebe’s pale features and her anguish made his gut twist viciously. It was impossible to go back and do things differently, but he intended to do everything in his power to make amends for his behavior from this point forward.

Gideon picked up the business card Luke Ashford had left with him at the end of their meeting late yesterday morning. God only knew what Currer would think to write when the author learned Gideon and Phoebe had married. But he had no intention of giving the man the chance to think about it.

When he’d said he would protect Phoebe, he’d meant every word. It was why he’d asked Ashford to meet with him. He knew of the man’s reputation from when Percy Rockwood had worked with the man last year.

Quiet and unassuming, Ashford had indicated he believed he would be able to discover the identity and whereabouts of P. Currer. Once the investigator found the man, Gideon would make it worthwhile for Currer to not ever mention Phoebe in any form or fashion. The soft murmur of female voices interrupted his thoughts, and with a growl of exasperation, he pushed himself up out of his chair.

His stride quick, Gideon strode out of his study into the entryway to see his mother and Phoebe halfway down the stairs. Quickly crossing the floor, Gideon came to a halt at the foot of the stairs to watch the two women descending the steps. The marchioness didn’t seem to be in any pain, but that didn’t mean she should be on her feet. He narrowed his gaze at Phoebe and then his mother.

“When Mabel said you intended to come downstairs, I was certain she was mistaken, yet here you are, mama.”

“Stop scowling, Gideon. My ankle is fine.” Lady Wrotham simply laughed and stretched out her hand to him as she reached the last few steps of the staircase.

“I highly doubt that.” Gideon took her hand in his and assisted her down the last step. “If necessary, I’ll strap you down Saturday night to keep you off the dance floor.”

“You are being over-protective, Lord Chelmbee.” The marchioness’s reference to the Chronicles made him glare at her.

“I find your humor far from amusing, my lady.”