by Aston, Alexa
After fetching ratafia for his aunt and her companions, Andrew made his way to where Jon and Elizabeth stood. Her color was high and he noted the gaggle of suitors already gathered around her. Even Jon’s stern looks aimed at the group didn’t seemed to have an impact.
Joining them, he took Elizabeth’s hand and kissed it. It would only make her more appealing to these men if they thought a duke was interested in her.
“May I see your programme, Lady Elizabeth?”
“Certainly, Your Grace. I saved the second dance for you. All the others are now gone.”
He scribbled his name beside it. “I look forward to dancing with you.”
Bowing, he stepped away so she could bask in the attention of the men who were interested in her. Jon moved with him, muttering under his breath.
“You’re taking your role of big brother seriously tonight.”
“She’s like honey, attracting far too many pesky flies,” Jon said. “I think I’ll tell our butler to reject every other man who shows up to court her tomorrow, else the house will be filled beyond capacity.”
“Quit worrying so much. Your sister has a good head on her shoulders. She won’t rush into anything. Or be rushed.”
“If you say so.” Jon paused. “Shall we join the Wicked Dukes or whatever they’re called?”
Andrew had spotted a friend from university whom he hadn’t seen in some time. “Go ahead. I’ll join you in a moment.”
Jon went to meet up with Weston and George as Andrew stopped and chatted for a few minutes. Then he joined the others.
“We were just telling Jon about the beautiful widow who’s stolen both our hearts,” George said.
“What else is new?” Andrew asked.
“What’s new is that she turned us both down,” Weston said. “And we are dukes!”
“I thought you specialized in seducing pretty widows,” Andrew remarked.
“We do—only this one is having none of us,” George said ruefully.
“Which makes us attracted to her all the more,” Weston added. “We have a bet now which one of us can get Lady Borwick into his bed first. I’m certain to win.”
“Are you serious?” George asked. “I am known as the Duke of Charm. I will win her heart long before you.”
“Not if she’s looking for a husband as she said,” Weston said. “She told us not to even speak to her, much less ask her to dance. I suppose she thinks being seen with the likes of us might ruin her chances on the Marriage Mart.”
Andrew laughed. “I like this bold widow. I’m certain neither of you have ever been turned down before. Where is she? Point her out to me. I may have to go and congratulate her on putting your noses out of joint.”
Weston glanced about the room. “There she is. With Viscount Burton. I asked and found out he’s her brother-in-law. She’s wearing the bronze-colored dress. I say, it did bring out all kinds of shades in her hair.”
He looked to where Weston gazed and froze.
Phoebe . . .
Their gazes locked from across the room. His heart sped up, rapidly beating twice its normal rate.
“It’s . . . Phoebe,” he said, shock reverberating through him.
“What?” George asked, looking at her and squinting. “You’re all the way across a ballroom, Andrew. The chit may resemble your Mrs. Smith but I can assure you, she’s not. She is Lady Borwick, a widow.”
“And she’ll be mine,” Weston chimed in.
“Sod off!” George told him.
He shook his head, his gaze still on her. “It’s her.”
As if in a dream, he began weaving his way through the crowd to reach her. Suddenly, the musicians, which had been tuning their instruments, broke out into song. Couples began moving to the dance floor. He watched a man step in front of Phoebe, blocking Andrew’s view. The next thing he knew, the fellow led her onto the dance floor.
Watching her move, he had no doubt this was his Phoebe. The graceful line of her neck. The tilt of her head.
Why had she lied to him—and everyone in Falmouth? What was a dowager countess doing living in a cramped cottage, dusting the furniture and scrubbing the floor like an everyday servant?
Guilt filtered through him. He’d also lied to her, as well. He couldn’t very well be angry at her for having done the same thing he had. Still, he’d found her.
There would be no stopping him now.
Jon joined him. “Is that truly your Mrs. Smith?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I don’t understand the particulars but I will know as soon as she’s finished with this dance.”
“No. You may speak to her after the second dance. Or did you forget you’d promised it to my sister?” Jon’s eyes darkened. “I’ll not have you standing Elizabeth up the first night of her come-out. She would be mortified if a duke ignored her.”
“Yes, of course,” Andrew said, his eyes still following Phoebe’s every step.
One dance. And then he would claim her as his.
Chapter Twenty-One
Phoebe didn’t know how she made it through the first dance with her partner. Fortunately, he seemed to be one of those men who had to count in his head to the music and was incapable of carrying on a conversation while he did so. She wouldn’t have been able to reply if he had spoken to her.
Andrew was here. At a ton ball. He wasn’t some smuggler.
He was Mrs. Butler’s missing duke.
He had to be, especially since he had joined Charm and Disrepute. They had referred to their friends by name, the Dukes of Blackmore and Windham. It was too great a coincidence for Andrew not to be Windham.
Then why had he lied to her all that time?
She thought back to the first few conversations they had and realized he’d never admitted to her that he was a smuggler. It had been an assumption on her part. The fact that he was shot. The way he was dressed. That they were in Cornwall, which was known for smuggling. Why had he not corrected her all those times when she’d lashed out about his so-called chosen profession? Why keep quiet about the fact that he was one of the highest-ranking peers in the land?
The music ended and her partner smiled at her. “Thank you, Lady Borwick. I am not a keen dancer and have to concentrate fiercely when I’m out on the floor.”
“You were very smooth, my lord,” she praised, not remembering their dance at all.
“Let me see you back to Burton.”
He led her to where her brother-in-law now stood with his wife.
“Might I call upon you tomorrow afternoon, Lady Borwick?” the man asked shyly.
When Phoebe didn’t answer, Letty said, “Of course, my lord. We look forward to seeing you.” When her partner left, Letty clutched her elbow. “Phoebe? Where are you?”
She quit skimming the ballroom for Andrew and looked at her sister. “He’s here.”
“Who?”
“The man I told you about,” Phoebe said quietly.
“Oh. Well, I hope it won’t be awkward for you. You said he was unsuited to you. Was he a bit of a rogue? Or a man who doesn’t want children?”
“He’s a duke.”
Letty’s jaw dropped. Before they could continue their conversation, Phoebe’s next partner claimed her. It was a lively dance and she had to focus on the dancing and not scouring the room for Andrew.
Until he was suddenly before her.
Somehow, she danced the few measures required and then peeled away from him, eventually returning to her original partner in a daze. The blood thundered in her ears, driving out the strains of the music. When the dance ended, she allowed herself to be swept from the floor and once more found herself back with Letty.
“I saw him,” she hissed to her sister.
“I know exactly who he is,” Letty replied. “I knew the moment you came across one another in the dance. Oh, Phoebe, tell me.”
“Phoebe?”
She stilled, knowing that voice. The way it caressed her name. Willing herself not to burst into tears
, she turned and curtseyed.
“Your Grace.”
Andrew frowned. “We must talk.”
He took a step toward her. She retreated two, bumping into Letty and sensing Burton step forward protectively.
“Your Grace, is there something I can help you with?” Burton asked smoothly, blocking Andrew from her view.
“There most certainly is. Lady . . . Borwick and I are in sore need of a conversation.”
Phoebe heard the haughtiness in his tone. This man sounded nothing like her Andrew.
Burton held his ground. “My sister-in-law has a full programme this evening, Your Grace. Tonight is not a good time for a conversation.”
She leaned around and saw Andrew barely contained his fury. “I will see her, Burton,” he ground out. “Now.”
“And I say that you are about to make a scene, Your Grace. That is the last thing Lady Borwick would want as she reenters society after mourning the death of her husband.”
“May I call upon Lady Borwick tomorrow afternoon?”
“We would be happy to receive you. Come at one o’clock,” Burton suggested. “Now, smile and walk away, Windham.”
Phoebe didn’t see if he did as her brother-in-law said because she was hiding behind Burton’s large frame again. Letty’s fingers had found hers and they squeezed them tightly. After a moment, Burton turned back to them.
“I’m sure you’ll tell us all about this, Phoebe. He’s gone now. But I hope you realize that I couldn’t put a duke off beyond tomorrow.”
“No, you were very brave to confront him as you did, Burton. I appreciate you coming to my rescue.”
“I’ll want to know how you know him before he arrives tomorrow. I like being prepared.”
“Of course.”
“Do you wish to leave, Phoebe?” Letty asked.
“No,” she said stubbornly. “Why should I? I came to find a husband. I have many gentlemen who wish to dance with me tonight. I am going to thoroughly enjoy myself.”
With that, she released Letty’s hand and smiled at the gentleman who approached her.
“I believe we have arranged to have the next dance together, Lady Borwick. I am Lord Thompson, in case you’d forgotten. I know your dance card has filled quickly tonight but I hope you’ll remember me.”
She smiled. “If you are an excellent dancer, that’s certainly a way to my heart, my lord.”
Phoebe did her best to focus on the men who’d asked her to dance at this first ball. It helped that she spied Andrew leaving the ballroom after their confrontation. He didn’t return. By the end of the night, her feet were sore and she was tired in a good kind of way. She thought she’d done a decent job staying in the moment and putting off thinking about Andrew’s sudden reappearance in her life.
They returned to the carriage and, once inside, Letty said, “Tell us everything.”
She did, explaining how she’d found Andrew washed up on the beach, half-dead from a bullet wound and the surf, and assumed he was a smuggler. How she’d cared for him, nursing him back to health.
“We grew close. I’ll admit that I had feelings for him.”
“Had?” Burton asked.
She felt the blush heat her cheeks and was glad the carriage was so dim inside.
“I suppose I still have them. But they were for a man I thought was running from the law. A man I believed another smuggler had shot in some dispute. One who seemed to be uncomplicated. Caring. Witty.” Passionate.
“And now that you’ve learned he’s a duke?” Letty pressed.
“I don’t know. I wish I did. I’m confused as to why he hid his identity from me but then again, I did the same. He knew me as Mrs. Smith, a middle-class widow.”
“You never told him otherwise?” Letty asked.
“No,” she admitted. “I never thought I would see him again. In fact, we didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye. He was well enough to leave that morning and went to do something. I have no idea what. Ernest arrived with the news of how ill you were and I quickly packed and left Andrew a note telling him I had gone to nurse you.”
“So, not even a kiss goodbye,” Letty said softly.
“No. I thought it for the best, parting that way. I’m afraid I would have become too emotional with a conventional goodbye and not been able to hide my feelings for him.”
“You’ll sort it out tomorrow,” Burton declared. “I know a little about Windham. He is a war hero and a good man. I think last Season was the first since his return from the Continent. I don’t remember his name being linked to anyone else’s.”
At least that was good to know. Phoebe would have hated if he had an understanding with someone else when she had given herself to him. Confusion filled her. She knew answers would come tomorrow. Until then, she was in the dark.
*
Andrew’s carriage pulled up in front of Viscount Burton’s London townhouse.
“I suppose this is it, Caesar,” he said to his furry companion.
The tabby blinked at him, his large eyes peering at Andrew questioningly. He nudged the cat down and closed the lid of the basket he sat in. A footman opened the carriage door and Andrew climbed out. At the door, he saw someone delivering a bouquet of flowers. He wondered how many admirers Phoebe had gained last night.
Approaching the door, he waited for the deliveryman to pass and then stepped up. The butler had kept the door open and looked at him expectantly.
“Lady Borwick will be receiving guests at two o’clock, my lord.”
So, she had gentlemen callers coming this afternoon.
He didn’t bother presenting a card. “It’s Your Grace and Lord Burton told me to arrive at one.”
“Ah, very good, Your Grace.” The butler stepped aside so Andrew could gain entrance. “If you will follow me.”
The servant carried the bouquet as he took Andrew up the staircase and to the drawing room. Immediately, he saw half a dozen other arrangements, their perfume filling the air. At first, he wondered if he should have brought Phoebe flowers and then decided what he had for her would please her even more.
At least, he hoped Caesar would be welcomed.
“I will inform Lord Burton that you are here,” the butler said as he put down the arrangement and then left the room.
Already, Andrew was irritated. He wasn’t here to see Burton. He needed to see Phoebe. Hold her. Kiss her.
He set the basket down and nervously paced until the viscount arrived. Alone.
“I’ve come to see Phoebe,” he said brusquely.
Burton calmly said, “Sit, Your Grace,” and took a chair himself.
Andrew sat.
“Lady Borwick has agreed to see you but she would prefer my wife and I to act as a . . . shall we say . . . buffer. She’s afraid you might act rashly.”
“What you’re telling me is that you’re here to prevent me from kissing her,” he said flatly.
For a moment, Burton appeared nonplussed. Then he said, “Yes, I suppose that’s why she asked us to be present.”
Andrew stood. “I’ll allow it for now but I’m telling you, Burton, that I plan to wed Phoebe. She is the only woman I want as my wife.”
The viscount rose, his attempt to hide his smile failing miserably. “I see. Well, Your Grace, it will be up to Phoebe to make that decision for herself. She was forced into one marriage. My advice is to convince her of your worth and gently persuade her. I do find kissing works with her sister, though.” His lips twitched in amusement.
Hope sprang within him. If Phoebe had been forced to wed, would she still be carrying a tendre for her dead husband?
“Thank you, Burton.” He paused. “If, at any point, you can make up an excuse and give us just a few minutes alone, I would be most appreciative.”
“I’ll consider it.”
The door opened and Phoebe entered, accompanied by a younger woman whom he assumed was the viscountess. They came toward him. Phoebe gave nothing away, her features a mask.
�
�Good afternoon, Lady Borwick, Lady Burton,” he said graciously.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” they repeated.
An awkward silence followed before the viscountess said, “Please, have a seat, Your Grace.”
She sat next to her husband on a settee. Phoebe took a chair. Andrew chose one next to her.
The silence stretched a full two minutes. Phoebe never looked at him while Andrew did nothing but look at her.
Finally, she spoke, her eyes downcast. “I was surprised to see you at a ton event last night, Your Grace.”
“I was equally surprised to see Mrs. Smith at one, as well.”
She stiffened and then turned her head, their gazes finally meeting.
“I am sorry you found out in that way.”
Boldly, he claimed her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “Not half as sorry as I am for you learning who I really was before I had a chance to tell you.” He paused, his eyes pleading with her. “We both made a mistake, Phoebe. One I believe we can easily rectify. I would like to explain matters to you in private, however.”
She looked at him longingly.
Burton rose, bringing his wife with him. “We need to visit the nursery,” he declared.
“We do?” asked Lady Burton, baffled by her husband’s sudden comment.
Her husband nodded. “We most certainly do.”
With that, the viscount led his wife from the room, leaving them alone. Andrew wanted to breathe a sigh of relief but was afraid even a breath might cause Phoebe to take flight. At least she hadn’t pulled away from him. Her fingers rested next to his, their warmth giving him courage.
“Could we move to the settee?” he asked.
She bit her lip. Desire for her rippled through him. Still, he remained unmoving.
“All right,” she agreed.
They both stood and he escorted her the brief way there, sitting beside her. Close—but not too close. He kept their fingers entwined.
