Lord Merritt interrupted his monologue to stare at her. “Is something wrong, Phoebe?”
“Ah . . . not at all, sir. Why do you ask?”
“You have an odd look on your face. Are you not well?”
She held back a sigh. Why must everyone assume she was always on the verge of some kind of collapse? “Not in the least.”
He nodded wisely and gave her gloved hands a reassuring pat. “I expect all this jostling about is making you rather sick to your stomach. Not to worry, we’re almost at Stanton House.”
Not for the first time, Phoebe wished she could swear. Some of the interesting words she had heard the sailors use on the sea voyage would do quite nicely.
Instead, she conjured up a smile. “You are too kind, Lord Merritt.”
He looked dubious, but their timely arrival cut short any further expressions of concern.
Dismissing her irritation, Phoebe drew in a nervous breath and waited for the steps of the carriage to be let down. Lord Merritt unfolded his long legs, ducked his head, and stepped to the pavement. He then carefully guided her to the pavement as she gazed, mouth open, at the building in front of them.
She clutched his muscular arm and stared up at the huge, imposing town house. The short trip through London’s streets had not made her sick, but taking in all the gleaming marble, polished windowpanes, and glittering brass fixtures made her feel more than a little dizzy.
“Don’t be nervous,” he murmured. “Everyone will love you.”
“Lord Merritt, you cannot know that,” she said, hating the quaver in her voice. She had never thought of herself as a coward, but right now she wished she could turn tail and run.
“I wish you would stop calling me Lord Merritt in that gloomy voice,” he said as he led her to the front door of Stanton House. “It makes me think you’re likely to box my ears.”
She cast him an uncertain look. His eyes laughed back at her, and a reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. Under other circumstances, she might have been tempted to scowl at him, but his methods worked. Her nerves began to settle.
Until he knocked and the gleaming white door flew open. Phoebe’s mouth dried up at the sight of a brawny footman dressed in colorful and very ornate livery. Just taking in all his magnificence made her feel exactly like a poor country cousin.
The very trimming of the vain world would clothe all the naked one.
The Quaker epigram popped into her head, steadying her. Having to memorize all those quotations had always seemed pointless, but for once the tedious work served a useful purpose. All men and women were equal before God, and that included the Stantons.
She lifted her chin and gave the footman a bright smile. He slowly blinked, rather like a large owl, then bowed and stepped back.
Lord Merritt squeezed her elbow. “Ready?”
“I am.”
He ushered her across the threshold into a spacious and beautiful entrance hall with a grand staircase that rose in a graceful spiral to the upper floors. Several enormous paintings of men and women in the elaborate costumes of days gone by rose almost from the floor to the wainscoting. Portraits of Stanton ancestors, she assumed. Her ancestors, too. She could not help staring at them, hoping to see a resemblance to her mother.
A dignified older man dressed in sober black garb approached from an alcove under the staircase. “Lord Merritt,” he said, “it is a pleasure to see you.”
“Tolliver, you’re looking fit as a fiddle,” Lord Merritt replied with an easy grin. “This is Miss Linville, General and Lady Stanton’s young relation. She’ll be coming to live with you one day soon, and I expect you to look after her. Cousin Phoebe, this is Tolliver, my uncle’s butler. He’s been with the family as long as I can remember, and knows exactly where all the bodies are buried.”
Phoebe blinked, but not even by a twitch of his white brows did the butler acknowledge Lord Merritt’s jest. Instead, with a precise and formal dignity, he gave her a welcoming bow. “Miss Linville, I am at your service. You must be sure to let me know if I can help you in any way.”
She had no idea how to respond to such a gracious salutation delivered by a servant in the employ of an aristocrat, since the few servants in her brother’s household were generally treated on equal footing with the family. Surely, it would be rude not to acknowledge it.
“Thank you, Mr. Tolliver,” she said, dipping into a shallow curtsy.
The butler’s eyes widened in shock.
Drat.
Lord Merritt’s big shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Likely it would not be the last time she amused him with her social blundering.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered as the butler turned to slide back a set of pocket doors. “He’ll recover from the shock soon enough. Besides, you look very fetching today, especially with that ribbon in your hair. Tolliver could never resist a pretty girl. Come to think of it, neither can I.”
He murmured that last bit right in her ear. After casting him a reproachful glance—which only made him grin—she fixed a smile on her face and allowed him to lead her into a tall-ceilinged, light-filled drawing room. Despite her annoyance, she dug her fingers into his arm, holding on as if he were safe harbor in a stormy sea.
Four people stood to greet them. The petite, dignified woman with snowy white hair was obviously Lady Stanton, and the tall, slightly stoop-shouldered old gentleman with the fierce eyebrows must be General Stanton.
The other man and woman, decades younger, caught Phoebe by surprise. They were both tall and strikingly handsome. The golden-haired man bore a strong family resemblance to Lord Merritt. The woman by his side had a wealth of glossy black hair, and a face and figure that would draw the eye of every man she met. Although the man looked proud and a little aloof, the woman studied her with a friendly and open curiosity.
The older woman spoke first as she moved to Phoebe, hand extended. “My dear child,” she exclaimed with a warm smile, “I can’t tell you how happy we are to finally have you with us in London.”
Phoebe glanced up at Lord Merritt. He gave her a slight nod. She dropped into a proper curtsy, certain this time that she was doing it right.
“Aunt Georgie,” said Lord Merritt, “this is Miss Phoebe Linville.”
Lady Stanton pulled her into a soft, lavender-tinged embrace. “Welcome to England, my child. We have waited so long for this day.”
Phoebe clutched her, the unexpected tightness in her throat making it difficult to answer. “Thank you, Lady Stanton. I am most happy to be here.”
Lady Stanton gave a brisk click of the tongue. “No titles, my dear. You are to call me Aunt Georgina, or Aunt Georgie, as this rascal of a nephew calls me. We do not stand on formality within the family, and you are quite obviously a Stanton, just like your dear mother.”
“Told you so, little doubter,” murmured Lord Merritt.
Phoebe ignored him. “Thank you, Aunt . . . Aunt Georgie,” she stammered.
The older woman smiled. “Come meet your uncle. He’s been most eager to welcome you.”
Phoebe doubted that, given the stern expression on her uncle’s craggy features. Even his iron gray eyebrows seemed to bristle with a fierce life of their own. But to her surprise, he took her hand and gave it a fatherly pat.
“Well, Miss Phoebe, it’s about time we meet. Can’t think what that old scoundrel Merritt was about, leaving you to languish away in that colonial backwater. Should have brought you home the minute your father passed away. Most irregular.”
Phoebe froze, uncertain how to answer. Part of her was offended for her grandfather’s sake, but another part could not help thinking he was correct.
“Really, Arthur,” Aunt Georgie said, “I hardly think now is the time to rattle old family skeletons. Phoebe, greet your uncle, and then I will introduce you to your new cousins.”
Phoebe began to drop into another curtsy, but the old man pulled her into an embrace so vigorous it made her squeak.
“We’re all happy to have y
ou here, gel,” he murmured in her ear. His bushy sideburns tickled her cheek, just like her father’s had when he hugged her as a little girl. “We hope you’ll stay with us for a very long time.”
Her vision suddenly blurred, and she automatically hugged him back. His greeting may have been gruff—and rather insulting to poor Grandfather—but it had been a long time since anyone had embraced her with such genuine enthusiasm. She clung to him, feeling a rush of gratitude.
Aunt Georgie’s soft touch on her shoulder brought Phoebe back to an awareness of her surroundings. Blushing, she drew back, giving her uncle a shy smile. His eyes gleamed with a suspicious brightness and he cleared his throat with a loud cough.
“That’s enough of that nonsense, miss,” he exclaimed. “You say hello to your cousins. We’ll have a comfortable chat later, after you’ve had a rest. You look done to a cow’s thumb, which is not to be wondered after all you’ve been through.”
She gave him a wry smile before turning to meet her other relatives.
“Phoebe,” said Aunt Georgie, “this is my nephew, the Marquess of Silverton, and his wife, Lady Silverton.”
She stared up at the awe-inspiring couple. They were both tall and graceful, and dressed, as even she could tell, in the height of fashion. Although they both regarded her kindly, never had she felt more like an awkward country bumpkin.
“Lady Silverton,” she managed, “I’m very happy to meet you.”
The tall woman gave her a welcoming smile and took her hand. “Dear Phoebe, we don’t stand on formality when amongst ourselves. You must call me Meredith. And don’t be afraid to call my husband by his given name, which is Stephen.” She threw him a laughing glance. “Or Silverton, if that’s more comfortable for you. He can be rather intimidating, and even I sometimes have to fight the urge to curtsy before him.”
Lord Silverton made a scoffing sound, but Phoebe could well believe it. She eyed him, wondering how she could ever be comfortable in the company of someone so magnificent. But then he smiled, and the effect was dazzling. When he smiled, Lord Silverton was quite the most handsome man she had ever met.
Except for Lord Merritt, of course, who was at this moment standing back from their little circle, looking irritated, to be exact.
Before she could puzzle that out, Silverton took her hand and dropped a brief kiss on it. The familiarity of it made her blush, but she supposed she had better get used to it since men in London seemed rather fond of the habit.
“My wife has been longing to meet you,” he said in a deep voice that echoed Lord Merritt’s tones. The family resemblance between the two men struck her anew. “Like you, she is a country woman, and misses that life very much. She’s eager to speak with you about the Christmas holidays, and entreat you to spend time with us and our children at Belfield Abbey, our estate in Kent.”
“I . . . I would like to speak with her about that very much,” Phoebe stammered, not sure what to say. She’d barely met these people and already they were issuing Christmas invitations. Since Christmas was not something Quakers generally celebrated, she had little idea what was involved.
Lord Merritt pointedly cleared his throat, and Phoebe jerked her gaze to him. Had she done something wrong? She looked back at Lord Silverton, who was clearly waiting for an answer.
“Forgive me—” Phoebe cast about for an appropriate form of address, and then settled on one that seemed most appropriate for the circumstances. “—Cousin Stephen. Your offer is most generous, but my plans are not yet fixed, other than hoping to spend time with my aunt and uncle. As Lord Merritt will tell you—”
“Phoebe,” Lord Merritt interrupted, “I told you to stop calling me that. If you can bring yourself to use Silverton’s first name, then I should think you’d be able to use mine, too. It’s Lucas, by the way, in case you’ve forgotten it.”
Phoebe gaped at him. She had known him only a short time, but despite his sometimes imperious manner, he had treated her as carefully as a piece of fragile stemware. But now he not only sounded angry, he looked it. His mouth had thinned into a hard line and his eyes had transformed to a cold, silvery gray.
But he was not glaring at her. The target of his ire was Lord Silverton.
“She might be more inclined to do that if you didn’t bark at her as if you’re her commanding officer,” the marquess replied in a tone that came perilously close to a sneer.
In a flash, the atmosphere in the room grew tense as hostility swirled between the two men. Meredith gave a disgusted snort and Aunt Georgie threw her husband a long-suffering, pleading look.
Uncle Arthur took the hint. “That will be quite enough of that nonsense. You should both have the manners not to act like ruffians in front of your new cousin. And,” he said, scowling fiercely at both men, “in front of my wife.”
Meredith elbowed her husband. “And in front of your wife,” she muttered.
Both men had the grace to look embarrassed.
“Forgive me, Aunt Georgie,” said Lord Silverton with a little bow.
Lord Merritt—Lucas—simply smiled at his aunt and shrugged his big shoulders. After narrowing her eyes at him, the older woman murmured something to Meredith, who crossed to a corner of the room and tugged on an ornate bellpull. The tension in the room gradually eased as everyone moved to a grouping of pretty blue and yellow silk chairs. Phoebe stood transfixed, still stunned by the snarling little interlude, but shook herself free of it when Lucas came up to her.
“Did I do something wrong?” she whispered anxiously.
He sighed. “Of course not, my dear girl. It’s just some old Stanton history, best forgotten. Come sit down. Meredith has rung for tea, and I’m sure you could use a cup.”
She peered at him, startled both by the affectionate term and the bleak glance he cast in Silverton’s direction. Obviously, the old history had not been forgotten—at least not by the two cousins—and she could not help but be curious. For now, though, it seemed as if everyone had decided to ignore the incident, so she had no choice but to follow suit.
Aunt Georgie, seated on the luxuriously stuffed yellow sofa, patted the space next to her in invitation. Phoebe gingerly lowered herself, painfully aware of the delicate and expensive silk fabric. Much as she had in the carriage, she had to resist the temptation to stroke it. She knew it would feel cool and smoothly textured beneath her fingers, and she mentally winced with guilt at what her brother or Mrs. Tanner might think to see her in such rich surroundings.
Actually, she knew exactly what George would say, and none of it would be good.
“Phoebe,” her aunt said, “tell us about your journey. You must have been very nervous to leave your family and embark on such a voyage.”
“Damned irregular,” muttered Uncle Arthur, and his wife cast him a warning glance. The old man subsided into his chair, but that didn’t stop him from scowling when Phoebe related the difficulties of the passage and how so many had fallen sick.
“Oh, dear,” exclaimed Meredith. “There’s nothing worse than nausea for weeks on end. I suffered that for several months earlier this year when I was with child. And to be trapped for weeks on a ship with no respite . . .” She shuddered. “How awful.”
Phoebe smiled, already drawn to her cousin’s warmth and sympathetic nature. “I was fortunate not to succumb until a week before we arrived in England. The worst was watching the children fall ill. We worried that several would not survive the voyage.”
Everyone made the appropriate noises of concern, and the conversation continued until the butler and a footman arrived with a tea service. That seemed to be her uncle’s cue to rise to his feet.
“Well,” he said in a hearty voice, “I expect you ladies will want to talk about my new niece’s move to Stanton House, as well as shopping and all the other silly details you’ll need to decide upon for her coming-out.”
Phoebe’s anxiety spiked. “We will?” Her voice cracked on a high note.
Lucas gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’
t worry, Phoebe. You’re in good hands with Aunt Georgie and Meredith. Just let them take care of everything. Life will be much easier if you do, I promise.”
“But . . . but,” she spluttered.
“Capital,” boomed Uncle Arthur. “I think the lads and I should repair to my library for a brandy. You ladies certainly won’t want us underfoot while you perfect your battle plans.”
Phoebe’s alarm turned to panic when Lucas stood as well. She had no desire to talk about clothes or her move or her coming-out, nor did she feel ready to face any Stanton, no matter how kind, without Lucas there to lend support. She had barely made up her mind to stay in London, much less make such detailed plans.
“Lucas, I do not think . . .” Well, she did not know what to think, and her features must have shown it.
His voice gentled. “It’s all right, Phoebe. I need to run a few errands, and then I’ll return to take you home.” He looked at his aunt. “In about an hour, shall we say?”
“No need for you to leave,” said his uncle. “The girl obviously doesn’t want you to go, either.”
That brought a hot blush to Phoebe’s cheeks. She was not a child, and she had better stop clinging to Lucas as if she were.
Uncle Arthur gestured to Lucas. “Why don’t you join us in the library? It’s been weeks since you and Silverton saw each other, what with the time you’ve been spending down in Kent at the manor.”
Lucas gave his uncle a polite bow. “Forgive me, sir, but I have an appointment I must attend. Another time, I promise.”
His gaze turned wary and slid over to Lord Silverton, who looked down his nose at Lucas in a haughty manner. Just like that, the tension that had gripped the room earlier returned. Aunt Georgie let out a tiny sigh.
“If that’s the case,” the marquess said in a cold voice, “you needn’t trouble yourself to return. Meredith and I will escort Phoebe home.”
His Mistletoe Bride Page 5
