Page 97 of Make Mine a Marquess

“I wonder why?”

“The ladies are close. They must have spoken by now,” Aram said. “You left Phoebe’s bed without a word of goodbye. They may not know all, but in their eyes, you are a blackguard.” Aram hesitated, watching him. “Was everything worth it?”

“What?” Landon snapped. “Seeing Willard pay for his crimes?”

“You had already destroyed Willard by burying him in debt and stealing his betrothed and her dowry. You didn’t have to go to the constable.”

“It wouldn’t have been enough.”

Aram stepped forward and leaned across the back of one of the chairs, his brown eyes steady on Landon. “Maybe, just maybe, what you truly need to heal is love, not revenge.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means the price for vengeance may have been too high,” Aram said.

“The price being Phoebe?”

Aram nodded. “Yes.”

At Landon’s silence, Aram persisted. “I’ve heard gossip. You may not like it.”

“Spit it out!” Landon was not in the mood for riddles.

“The gossips say that Miss Dawson is departing London to stay with an elderly aunt in Scotland.”

Landon’s head snapped up. “Scotland?”

“I haven’t been in your country for long, but I have learned that the beau monde is cruel toward an untitled lady who’d been betrothed to a murderer. Involving the law makes everything public.”

A stab of guilt twisted in Landon’s gut. He hadn’t considered all the consequences to Phoebe or her family. He’d only been consumed with revenge.

“I’m also told a Scotsman won’t care and will snatch up a woman as beautiful as Phoebe to be his bride.”

Landon dropped his whisky and stood. “The hell you say!” The thought of another man pursuing Phoebe made his blood run cold. She could draw any eye. But there was much more to her that would attract any man. Her curiosity and empathy. Her intelligence.

Aram placed a hand on the table by Landon’s whisky. “Well, what are you going to do?”

His hands fisted by his sides. “Nothing. I knew all along that she would find another.”

“You mean someone more worthy?”

Landon wanted to punch his friend. “Yes, dammit.”

“Don’t be an idiot. You are worthy, my friend. Your soul was not blackened by the ship’s fire. Wanting justice for the dead is one thing. Punishing yourself along with the guilty is another entirely. You are not guilty. You have never been.” Aram grasped Landon’s shoulder. “Now I’ll ask you again. What are you going to do?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Phoebe refused to wallow in self-pity. Or regret. She’d gone down that path before when she’d been sixteen. It had taken weeks, months…a full year to fully feel like herself again. She was no longer that young or naive, but a grown woman.

Another letter from her maternal aunt had come while they were occupied at the house party. Aunty Ginny had moved fifty years prior, when she’d married the Scotsman, and now lived in a remote castle in Scotland. Her husband had died this past year and her aunt sought companionship.

If events had gone according to plan, Phoebe would have never considered the offer. She’d be married, have her own household, the title of lady, and would have begun navigating a social life in the beau monde.

Then everything had gone to hell.

Depression hovered over her like a dark specter and a permanent sorrow weighed her down. Even walking and going outside was an effort. She rose from the bed.

I will not wallow.