The Girl with the Pearl Pin

by Lynne Connolly

  Phoebe was an ordinary woman in a family with not a smidgen of influence in London. She must restrict her wishes to the realistic, and she could not afford to lose sight of that, although the task was growing more difficult with every day that passed.

  Angela cast a roguish glance at the paper. “Won’t you read the duke’s letter to me? Do I not deserve a reward?”

  “Of course.” To do anything else would put connotations on it that she didn’t wish to arouse, not even with Angela, but Phoebe wondered what was going on here. She’d written her thank-you note in a spirit of mischief, knowing she should not but unwilling to end their flight of fancy.

  She tried to read the letter in as light a tone as she could. Not knowing the notes that had gone before, Angela would probably not understand the flirting going on underneath.

  “My dear Miss North, it was very k-kind of you to remember me in the midst of your hectic social life. I pray I find you well and that our little outing did not discommode you in any way. Your n-neck must be quite s-s-trained. I w-would send you some embrocation, if that is the c-case.”

  Angela frowned. “Did you hurt your neck?”

  “We s-spent some time discussing the w-weather, l-looking into the s-sky.” Warmth crept into Phoebe’s cheeks, but she chose to ignore it.

  “I won’t pry. You like him, don’t you?”

  Closing her eyes, afraid of what they would reveal, Phoebe nodded.

  “I have always considered him a dry, handsome stick. But I am wrong. He has hidden depths, it appears.”

  Recovering her composure, Phoebe opened her eyes and smiled. “Yes, he has.” Although not so hidden, to her, at least. Their effortless conversation gave her great joy.

  Angela kindly did not mention the return of the stammer, though from that alone she would know Phoebe’s tension. She could say no more. Her heart was pounding, fit to burst from her chest. Her stammer was growing worse, and in a few moments she’d come to a full stop and turn into a wreck trying to get out one word.

  Angela covered her hand with her own, the touch warm and comforting. “Know I will always stand your friend.”

  Phoebe knew she would. Whatever it cost her.

  “My dear, Leomore has the whole town in a spin.”

  “But when he m-m-m-meets my f-family…” She could say no more. For the second time in her life, an eligible male had paid attention to her. The first, Sir Marcus, had been unwelcome, and she had told him so, but Leo had an entirely different effect on her. And she wanted more, before she had to give him up. Quite badly.

  “He is too well-mannered to say anything.” After patting her hand, Angela leaned back again. “He will not comment, I swear.” Her family would make their mark in town, but Phoebe feared it might not be the right kind of mark.

  Overcome, Phoebe nodded. Having friends like Angela meant a great deal to her.

  Later, when she went upstairs to wash and change out of her loose morning sacque and into something more appropriate for meeting guests, Phoebe scanned the letter again.

  When she read silently, she had no stammer.

  “I am determined to give you that treat again. I am flattered my poor vehicle should be the cause of such pleasure. I cannot, in that case, deprive you of your enjoyment.

  “I must confess my own pleasure was far more than is perhaps seemly on such occasions. I have the greatest respect for your lively turn of mind, and I would wish to experience it again, in as close quarters as possible.

  “While we are upstanding members of society, we must strive to prevent our friends from gossiping, but I feel that such innocuous pleasures should be enjoyed to the full. We may find our own enjoyment somewhere between childlike innocence and full-blooded riot, though I understand your reticence, as a lady of honor.”

  He was talking utter nonsense, but she loved that he had picked up her inner meaning and did not treat her as if she knew nothing. Even respectable virgins had some understanding of the other life they were supposed to be ignorant of.

  And the delicate referral to their kiss—she loved that, too. She brushed a finger across her lips, recalling how delightful it had felt.

  As if she could be ignorant, when gentlemen spoke openly of the insalubrious details that made this city such an enthralling place. With all her heart Phoebe wished to visit the places only spoken of in an undertone—the notorious rookeries of St. Giles and Seven Dials, where anyone with a full suit of clothes and a guinea in their pocket stood to lose their lives in an instant; Tom’s Coffee House, where ladies of the night met their clients and then took them somewhere more private; and the taverns of the City, tucked down one of the narrow alleyways that had sprung up in the wake of the Great Fire, or even despite it, where thieves and cutpurses congregated. London teemed with life, and Phoebe wanted to experience it all before she was forced to return to the village she called home, where everyone knew everyone else’s business and nobody transgressed so much as to speak ill of anyone. But talk to a neighbor a minute too long and local society would have them wedded and bedded before the month was out.

  The letter ended in a frank confession, one Phoebe treasured.

  “To be truthful, Miss North, I found great pleasure in your company. You have a liveliness of mind and a boldness of spirit that calls to me. I would wish we could be friends, and at the very least continue our correspondence. It will give me something to look forward to.”

  Phoebe carefully tucked the letter away in the third drawer down of the tallboy where she kept her shifts and night rails.

  She stroked the little velvet box that held the pearl pin. She would never wear it, but she loved being its custodian, having that reminder of him.

  The seed pearls would do for today. The guests they were expecting had seen them before, but that mattered little. That wasn’t the purpose of today’s meeting. Phoebe slipped into her gown of green-and-white stripes, fastened the bodice at the front, checked her lace cap was on straight, and looped the pearls around her neck. She dropped a handkerchief into her pocket, picked up her fan, and she was ready. A last glance in the mirror assured her she would do, and she left the room just as the maid assigned to her use on this visit entered.

  The girl was a waste of time. Phoebe rarely waited for her, unless she was attending a ball or some other event where she had to dress more elaborately. At home she shared a maid with her sister, but Lucinda never gave her any time, so she was accustomed to getting herself ready.

  She glanced out the window. “Speaking of which…”

  An equipage Phoebe knew well drew up outside the house. The duke leaped down from his phaeton and tossed the reins to his groom.

  Phoebe gave an uncomfortable laugh. “What is he doing here?”

  “He’s come to see you.” Angela shot Phoebe a smiling glance. “By all means, see him and tell him you are merely enjoying a quiet afternoon indoors. Take him into the breakfast parlor. That’s far enough away from this room. Leave the door open, mind, I won’t have your mother accusing me of risking your reputation.”

  Phoebe laughed. “She won’t care.” Picking up her skirts, she hurried from the room and ran downstairs to prevent the butler sending him away.

  The duke glanced up as she hurried down the stairs. His warm smile took her breath.

  He swept a bow. “Good day, ma’am. I had hoped you might accompany me once more.”

  “To the park?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Oh!” Flustered, she dropped her skirts and tried to put them in order. “I’m afraid I am not d-dressed for c-carriage-driving, but my—Angela says I might speak to you in the small p-parlor if I leave the door open.”

  “I see.” He handed his hat, gloves, and overcoat to the butler, without taking his gaze from her. “Then pray lead on. Jemmy may walk the horses.”

  Trying not to reveal her state of nervousness, Phoebe
took him to the room at the back of the hall on the right.

  She liked the breakfast parlor. It was one of her favorite rooms in the house. The table, a round one, stood by the window, so the diners could enjoy the vista beyond. Angela’s garden was generous and at this time of year bursting into bloom, splashes of color appearing among the lush green plants and lawns. Recent showers had enhanced the generosity of the colors. She could watch it all day, except that she had something much better to look at inside the room.

  He put her on edge in a way she’d never known before. Not the kind of situation that brought her speech impediment into play, but something else that made her body ache.

  Even being in his presence sent her senses rioting. It took all her acting skills to conceal her lamentable state and turn to him, smiling. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

  He shook his head. “No, I thank you. I am content. Or rather, I am not. Madam, I wonder if you will be attending the Everett ball tonight?”

  “I-I think Angela intends to go, so naturally, I will accompany her.”

  “Then may I request the first minuet?”

  “Oh!” She cupped her cheeks with her hands as they heated to a boiling point. Tears sprang to her eyes. That would be a declaration of his intent before the whole of society. She could never live that down, once their connection had died.

  “If I danced with anyone else, gossip would be rife, you know,” he said kindly.

  She swallowed. The news from her family had given her pause. “Yes, of course. But we may have to c-curtail our arrangement sooner than I had imagined.”

  “Why?” His voice was steady, but she had put a crease between his brows.

  “My f-family will arrive sooner than I thought. I wrote to my p-parents, telling them of our arrangement, b-because as Angela p-p-pointed out, they would probably hear of it from another source. They have brought their visit to town forward.”

  When he took a step closer to her, she had to draw a sharp breath and force herself to stay where she was, instead of retreating. He touched her elbows, tucking his fingers under her single lace ruffle, grazing her skin delightfully. “I see no reason why that would put an end to our betrothal.” He’d used the word she’d hesitated over. “Are your parents likely to refuse their permission? I collect that I should have hot-footed it to their home and formally requested it, but the situation being what it was, I had no opportunity to go through the usual procedure. Do your parents harbor a deadly secret?” As he smiled, his frown smoothed out.

  “Oh no.” Her mother had never kept a secret in her life.

  “Then I see no problem.” He was so close she could smell him, a tantalizing citrus aroma mixed with pure male. If anyone asked her what he smelled like, her only answer could be, “Heat.” Not that she would say that aloud, of course.

  Heat radiated from him where his bare skin touched hers, the palms of his hands sending sensation shooting up her arms and into the rest of her. Her awareness of her own body overwhelmed her, the way she wanted to move closer, to let him do anything he desired, so long as that included her.

  The world shrank to her and him and nobody else.

  His eyes darkened, and the lines around his mouth deepened. His light touch tightened. He used his hold to draw her closer, and with a muffled, “Oh, hell!” brought her into the shelter of his body.

  He slid an arm around her, pulling her closer. Using one hand, he lifted her chin, holding her in place while he brought his head down and kissed her.

  As his lips touched hers, her tension snapped. Although no man had done this to her before, instinctively she knew what to do now. Leaning her head on his broad shoulder, she kissed him back, opening her mouth when he touched his tongue to her lips.

  He devoured her, and she devoured him right back. He caressed her with his mouth, sliding his tongue against hers, claiming her. His hands burned against her skin, even through the layers of clothing they wore. She wanted them gone. The plethora of buttons on his waistcoat bored into her front, above where her stays kept her captive, impressing her in a way she’d never forget, even if he left marks. Why should she care? She couldn’t if she tried.

  Leo drew away, murmured something. “We shouldn’t.”

  “Yes, we should.” She dragged him back. When he groaned against her mouth, she sighed, melting into him. Her breasts pressed against him. What would it be like to touch his bare skin, to smooth her hands over his chest and discover the muscles she felt flexing against her palms? She had one hand behind his neck, and the other on his arm. When he moved, they swelled and changed shape, revealing powerful muscles.

  He dropped tiny kisses on her throat, working down to the valley of her breasts, nudging aside the folds of her filmy fichu.

  She might be a virgin, but she wasn’t entirely innocent. She knew what was happening to him, and when she pressed against him, desperate to get closer, she imagined she could feel the thick shaft between his legs rising and pressing against the part of her that was made to accept it.

  She pulled him close, widened her legs and groaned.

  Cold air whooshed between them as he forced her away and stepped back. Bewildered, she clapped her hand to her mouth. She wanted to keep him there, but as awareness surged in, horror replaced the passion of a moment before. This was how men were trapped into unwelcome alliances, and a man of his rank must have faced this potentiality before.

  Propping her hands on the table, she sucked in a breath, then another, letting the cool air do its job.

  “My fault,” he said roughly. “All my fault. I would beg your forgiveness, ma’am, but I cannot. Not yet. Give me a moment.”

  He dragged a hand over his hair, some of which had come loose from the neat black velvet bow that confined it at his nape. Abruptly, he turned around.

  The strands of silky dark hair that had escaped made a mockery of his usually neat appearance. His waistcoat buttons were half undone, gaping over his crisp linen shirt, now creased where her hands had stroked it. His lips were plumper, their color heightened. What must hers look like?

  A concave mirror hung on the wall behind the sideboard, but she ensured she would not catch her reflection. She’d use it before she quit the room, but not now. Lifting a hand, she touched her lips. They were hot.

  His avid gaze followed her revealing movement as he lifted a hand and roughly dragged the ribbon out. His hair floated free, strands touching his shoulders, making her glad he didn’t wear a wig and powder, as other men did.

  His hair made him resemble a member of one of the ancient hordes that stormed Rome, the barbarian showing from the veneer of respectability.

  “Why are you smiling?” His soft voice held a hint of menace, an edge of exasperation.

  “I was thinking of you as a Visigoth.”

  He barked a short, humorless laugh. “I deserve that. I should never have behaved in such a manner toward you, treated you with such disrespect. Whatever the provocation, I should not have done it.”

  “What p-provocation?” Indignant, she straightened and faced him. “I am no provocation for a man.”

  “You are for this one.” Planting his feet firmly on the polished marquetry floor, he met her gaze fearlessly. “Whatever you may think of me, you shall not call me a liar.”

  Belatedly, she glanced at the door. It was closed.

  He kept his attention on her but smiled grimly. “When you said you had to leave the door open, I decided we were past such childish strictures. It appears we are not.”

  “No.” That much was true. “Is it childish, then?”

  “Being unable to resist is. Losing control is.”

  The swell of emotion she had experienced had been new and overwhelming. But how could she discuss that with him? Her awakening awareness of her own desire, the way he had evoked such a shocking response from her, shocked her. Even at the remove of mere
moments, Phoebe could not imagine why she had done such a thing. “What would you c-call this? What is h-happening?” Why did her carefully developed control melt away when he touched her?

  He must have read the bewilderment in her voice, because his own tones gentled, the harsh note melting away. “Lust. It makes fools of men. It has led to the downfall of nations.” Gathering his hair in one hand, he turned to the mirror and swiftly tied the ribbon around it.

  At least now she did not have the almost irresistible temptation to sink her hands into the dark mass and run them through the strands, just to feel the intimacy of the caress. She’d touched his cheek and felt the prickles of his incipient beard, the power of the man beneath the fine clothes. He’d made her aware of him as she had been of no other man before.

  With sure hands, he refastened his waistcoat and twitched his neckcloth. He wore an emerald pin stuck through the folds today, green fire glimmering against the snowy linen. That reminded her of something. With relief, she recognized her escape path.

  “I will fetch your pearl p-pin.” She moved toward the door.

  He stepped in front of her, preventing her escape. “Tidy yourself instead. If you do not, the servants will carry the news to their mistress and then to the house next door and so around the square. Tidings of our meeting will be all over town by nightfall.”

  Seeing the sense of his remark and hating him for being right, she grabbed her cap and took his place at the mirror, pushing her hair into its bun at the back of her head, and fastening the fine piece of linen and lace over the top. The lappets draped behind, fluttering to her shoulders. “There, will that do?”

  “It will more than do. You look lovely.”

  She clicked her tongue in annoyance. She was anything but lovely. Had he taken her acquiescence for granted? “Was it the letters? Is that why you th-thought I would…?”