She had not liked his answer, but she’d understood. Shaw might wear the mask of a majordomo, elegant and dignified, but he was a powerful man in his own right. As a full partner in Reaver’s, he was as wealthy as Sebastian. He could care for Phoebe and her child. Protect them from the worst trials—poverty, danger, hunger.
But some difficulties remained inevitable. Marriage between them would invite the meanest sort of societal scorn. Such attitudes were, in Augusta’s opinion, idiotic—her father and uncle were proof that one would be well advised to assess others based on individual character rather than arbitrary factors such as title, origin, or name. Nevertheless, she expected Phoebe would be judged poorly for marrying an Indian man. When she birthed her first child, she would be further seen as a fallen woman. The child would find little acceptance in polite society. And her other children with Mr. Shaw would likely struggle to find their place.
How Augusta wished it were not so. But it was.
She fell asleep with her heart aching for her sister. She awakened when Bastian kissed her lips and murmured, “Come, love. Let us go inside where it is warm.”
She blinked, realizing the coach had stopped. “Where are we?”
“Near Stevenage, I think. The snow is growing too deep, so the coachman stopped at the first inn he could find. Shaw is inside now securing our accommodations.”
As Augusta’s half-boots crunched down into six inches of white, she began to worry. What if Phoebe had continued on? It was dangerous enough for a female traveling alone at night on the Great North Road. Add poor weather, and the risks increased greatly. Would she insist on traveling onward, despite the conditions? Surely she—
Augusta blinked and shook her head as they entered the inn’s dark, warm interior. There, by the stone hearth, stood Phoebe, who appeared flushed from either the fire’s heat or her present interaction with the handsome Mr. Shaw. He stood very close, his head bent near hers, speaking with an intensity she recognized after hours in his company. Phoebe, meanwhile, had a pugnacious tilt to her chin and a blaze in her eyes that rivaled the one in the hearth.
Her sister gazed up at Adam Shaw, eyes shining. Alive.
Good heavens. Phoebe loved him. Emotion choked Augusta, rushing in upon her all at once. She had not seen Phoebe this incandescent in … well, ever. After months of listless despair, Phoebe had awakened.
And Adam Shaw was the cause.
~~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Life can change quite suddenly, my dear boy. Just when you suppose you have accounted for every probability, the odds turn on their heads as if they recognize your arrogance and mean to prove you wrong.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter answering said gentleman’s reflections upon unexpected turns of fate.
Phoebe felt her very existence shift like a boat captured by a rogue current the moment Adam Shaw entered the inn. She’d maintained her resolve all the way from Marylebone to St. James. Then, after long minutes of anguished regret while inside the club where she’d fallen in love, she’d hired a post-chaise, secured a driver, and reviewed in her mind all the reasons she must marry Glassington.
That had lasted until Smithfield Market. Then, as the snow had continued to fall, she’d huddled beneath her blanket, looked out upon the growing dark, and felt the surety of a bleak future settling in.
Any future without Adam was bleak.
Still, she’d forged on, certain this was what must be done. Wasn’t it? Of course it was. Well, perhaps. The quandaries and questions had swirled like snowflakes, and she’d grown weary. The hired coachman had recommended stopping for the night when the snow had shown little sign of easing. He’d chosen a busy Hertfordshire coaching inn.
The same one Adam Shaw had entered minutes earlier, when Phoebe’s heart had resumed beating. It pounded away at her breastbone as though it wished to leap from her chest and into Adam’s hands. Perhaps it did.
Perhaps she did.
He stood close, golden eyes blazing bright, his words making her head spin.
“You cannot marry him, Phoebe. He doesn’t want you. I do.”
Her teeth gritted and her chin went up. “It is better this way.”
“Not better. Easier, perhaps.”
“I must do what is necessary for—”
“Tell me you love him. Go on, then. Tell me.”
She could not speak for several seconds. “You know I cannot.”
“Precisely.” He inched closer, his head lowering until she could feel his breath at her cheek. “Because you love me, Phoebe. Me. And you will marry me. No one else.”
Dear heaven, how could he do this? She was being torn in two. “Please, Adam. I—I must wed Glassington. For my child’s sake. For Augusta.”
From behind her came a voice she’d not expected. “What do you mean, ‘for Augusta’?”
She spun to face her sister, who appeared heartily displeased. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
“Following you. Now, answer my question.”
Phoebe had never been able to withstand that stern tone, that motherly insistence. “This is everything you’ve worked for, Gus. How can I possibly answer your sacrifices by discarding it?”
A stern frown deepened and crumpled. “Oh, Phee.” Augusta’s hands came up to rest upon her shoulders. “Your happiness is everything I’ve worked for. It is the only thing that matters to me.”
Phoebe reached for Augusta’s hand, clasping it in both of hers. “But you were right. I made a mistake with Glassington. Trusted him when I should not have. Now, I must make sacrifices of my own. I must protect my child, as you have protected me. I owe him that. I owe you that.”
For a long while, Augusta did not answer. Then, she arched a brow. “Well, I might agree if Glassington were not such a worthless scapegrace.” She glanced over Phoebe’s shoulder. “And if you had no better option.” Her eyes returned to Phoebe. “But he is. And perhaps you do.”
Hope, fragile as the tiny life in her womb, sprang forth like fledgling flame. Small at first, it turned stubborn. And grew.
“Now then,” Augusta continued in her usual managing manner. “I suggest the following: Entertain the question of which sort of man you wish your son to become. A man like Glassington. Or a man like Mr. Shaw.” She held up a finger. “Consider everything, now. The hardships. The title. The place within society. And, above all, the substance of one’s character.”
Her heart thudded. Then thundered. The answer was simple. And right. “Adam,” she whispered. “I should want my son to be just like Adam.”
“Well, there you have it, then. You must certainly marry Mr. Shaw. For your child’s sake. And, now that I consider it, for mine. I should loathe being forced to spend Christmases with a worthless scapegrace.”
Phoebe released her hands and turned to Adam. His eyes shone with fierce triumph.
“It will not be easy,” she whispered, aching as the flame of hope grew into blaze.
“No,” he answered, his wondrous voice hoarse. “But better. Better than anything.”
She drifted toward him. Reached for his hands. Laced her fingers with his and held tight. “Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Can you love my child?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am yours.”