Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two

by Mary Lancaster

  “You agree with me—do you not?” she demanded, raising an eyebrow as she looked at them all, challenging them to refute her.

  “We do agree with you, Phoebe,” Elizabeth reassured her, leaning forward from her place next to her on the corner of the sofa, placing a hand on her knee. “Of course we do, you know that. It is only that such articles as that which you quote are not particularly unbelievable. In fact, I would be surprised were anything written to the contrary.”

  Phoebe loved Elizabeth, truly she did, but damn her endless practicality.

  “How can you say that?” she demanded, as a log in the fire next to her cracked, accentuating her words.

  “How can I not?” Elizabeth replied, waving an elegant hand in the air. Elizabeth’s strength was her steadiness, and she always held an air of refinement that was unmatched by nearly any other woman Phoebe had ever met. “It is the way of the world, Phoebe. It is set in place by men. It is how they see women, and they write their own viewpoints without fear of retribution.”

  Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest and looked at the rest of them. Julia, sitting in the chair across from her, sent a sweet smile her way, while Sarah leaned forward in the seat beside Julia.

  “It is galling, Phoebe, truly it is,” Sarah said, a long tendril of her soft, cinnamon brown hair brushing the side of her temple as she did so. “The ways of the nobility … well, they have certainly been a surprise to me since I arrived in London, to say the least. But these are the rules of society, are they not? You have to play amongst them, or you risk getting hurt.”

  Phoebe worried her bottom lip, a habit that was becoming all too familiar as at times it left her lips painfully dry.

  “But who made the rules?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” responded Elizabeth.

  “These rules you speak of, that we must conform to—how did they come about? They are not rules, so much as conventions that have become part of our lives because we all agree to follow them, because no one speaks otherwise. And why do we not? Because we are afraid.”

  Phoebe pushed away from the mahogany sofa and started pacing the Aubusson carpet lining the floor of their current meeting place, one of the Earl of Torrington’s drawing rooms. Phoebe and the three women who convened together had found themselves seated amongst the wallflowers one time too many. But unlike the other woman who bordered the dance floors with them, they were not cast aside due to their unattractiveness, nor their shyness or unsuitability.

  No, it was rather that none of them had much interest in the games of the ton, the whispers, the flirtations, the giggles behind the fans. One night over a glass or two of sherry, they found that their very disdain for what was considered to be attractive and desirable by most was, in fact, what drew them together.

  They far preferred their lively conversations and debates to watching others make fools of themselves, and so at events such as these, balls and parties and the like, they would often ensconce themselves in a nearby room where they could speak without fear of social disdain.

  Tonight, however, went far beyond simple conversation for Phoebe. If these three women, who she now counted as the closest people in the entire world to her, did not understand, then who would?

  “It was not always this way, was it?” she ventured to her friends. “Men have always been the leaders, the warriors, it is true, but there have been times when women held much more power than we do now. In the Roman era, women possessed great influence over the decisions of men. But only three hundred years ago, there were women who held fortresses, who fought on battlefields alongside their husbands and brothers.”

  Phoebe was now waving her hands emphatically, needing them to understand the importance of what she spoke. “Half the world is composed of women. However, men seem to be able to say whatever they want, whenever they want, in whatever form they choose. Men—of the nobility, at least—receive education, the power of a title, the financial independence to do whatever they seek. And yet women are bred only to please men. We sit and listen to the drivel such as that in the article, and we are expected to not only believe it but to follow it. Why?”

  Julia looked up at her, chin in hand, a riot of blonde curls cascading from the top of her head about her pixie face. She was tiny, almost childlike and angelic, yet she held an inner strength that Phoebe knew few could rival.

  “I suppose,” Julia began slowly, “we follow it because it is what we know. Because no one is doing any different. Because no other woman is challenging it.”

  Looking at the nods of the other two, Phoebe stopped her pacing and simply stared at them, something niggling at the corner of her brain. What Julia said was true. No one questioned such opinions. No one presented any other way of thinking. The newspapers may employ writers of a wide variety of opinions, true, but besides a different political stance, what else truly separated one writer from the other? They all held the same ignorant opinions—at least when it came to women, at any rate. The wife of a Whig was held to the very same expectations as the wife of a Tory.

  “Exactly,” Sarah agreed with Julia, a grin covering her freckled face. “No one has ever spoken out otherwise. So why would any hold an opinion to the contrary? Your thoughts are very opposed to most others, Phoebe, truly, you must know that. I know your parents raised you to be a woman who creates her own opinions, but you are an exception, as you well know.”

  Phoebe nodded slowly, the words of her friends causing an idea to form in her mind. Another public voice was required to provide a different way of thinking, to give women the opportunity to receive knowledge outside of what had been instilled in them since childhood.

  “You are right,” she said, pointing a finger in their general direction with some flourish. “A new viewpoint needs to be shared. It is time.”

  She strode back to the sofa, taking a seat with a flounce of her skirts. She picked up the glass in front of her, containing some type of punch that was altogether too sweet. She reached into the folds of her skirt to find the flask within a deeply hidden pocket, adding the rum to her drink before offering it to her friends.

  “A toast,” she said, holding up her glass. “To the future.”

  Confusion reigned on their faces at her words, but they raised their glasses anyway.

  “To the future,” they chorused, and Phoebe shared a grin of triumph with them.

  “Now,” Elizabeth said, rising gracefully. “We must return to the party, or my mother will never allow me to hear the end of it upon our return.”

  “I suppose we must,” said Phoebe, standing herself, and, being in closest proximity to the door, she began to lead them out. She brought her hand to the doorknob, but gasped when it turned of its own accord, and, off balance, she fell forward through what was now open space, until she collided into something very hard, very immobile, and very unforgiving.

  She looked up. And up further. First to come into her view was a very strong jaw, which currently seemed to be clenched quite tightly. Phoebe took a step back, tilting her head so she could better see the face of the statue in front of her—for it seemed the man was incapable of moving.

  His cheekbones were harsh, his nose pronounced. The only soft thing about him was the lock of sandy blond hair swooping down low over his forehead. His eyes were a deep chocolate brown. And they were currently looking down at her with an icy hard frigidness that nearly made her shiver. Not that she would. She refused to show him any indication of weakness, nor any sign of backing down. For she knew very well who this man was.

  “Lord Berkley,” she finally greeted him. “May I be of assistance?”

  If it were possible, he looked even further down his nose at her.

  “Excuse me?” His voice was low and gravely, sending a wave of shivers down her spine. Not of fear, no—it was something else, something peculiar that she couldn’t quite place.

  “I asked you,” she drawled slowly, as if he couldn’t understand the words coming out of her mouth, “If you requi
red assistance. For I can think of no other reason that you would be standing so immobile in the path of a lady when she is trying to exit a room.”

  She heard one of her friends gasp behind her, and she started a bit, having completely forgotten they were still there for a moment.

  “Lady Phoebe, isn’t it?” the man asked, not moving an inch—and neither did she, as they seemed to be locked in a battle of wills, neither prepared to provide the other any glimpse of weakness or retreat.

  “It is,” she said, holding her head high. She was of average height, but still this man towered above her. It annoyed her, but it wasn’t as though there were anything she could do to change that.

  Finally his lips turned, in what might be considered a smile on another man, but on him it simply made him look as though he were mocking her. He inclined his head slightly, and took a step backward, waving his hand in front of him, as though he were permitting them to leave.

  “Ladies,” he said, his facade softening slightly as he looked past Phoebe to the three women standing behind her. “Forgive me. If you please.”

  Phoebe made to walk around him, but he held up a finger.

  “Lady Phoebe, would you be inclined to stay a moment? I am actually interested in speaking with you.”

  Phoebe narrowed her eyes as she tilted her head back to look at him, wondering what he was about. She had met him a time or two, as she was slightly acquainted with his sister. The marquess being a favorite among polite society, however, meant he had likely hardly ever looked at her, and she had certainly never sought him out. He seemed a serious sort, the type of man typical to the ton, with outdated opinions and interests only for those who were like himself. He often had one young lady or another on his arm, the simpering type with their coquettish grins and flirtatious giggles. Phoebe avoided men who seemed to prefer that mold of woman, as to them, she would certainly prove to be a disappointment.

  She looked past him at her friends. Elizabeth was shaking her head in warning, Julia shrugging her shoulders, and Sarah attempting to smother a grin.

  “Very well, Lord Berkley,” she said, her curiosity overcoming her disdain for the man. “A moment.”

  Chapter Two

  Jeffrey Worthington, Marquess of Berkley, casually strolled into the drawing room, hands behind his back as he made a show of studying the military paintings lining the walls, the intricate carvings in the marble of the hearth, and the time upon the ormolu clock set upon the mantle. The gold walls were bright and cheerful, the carpet a cream that he estimated would likely require much upkeep.

  Finally he turned, seeing the woman was still standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips as she tapped her foot on the floor impatiently.

  “Ah yes, Lady Phoebe,” he said as though he had forgotten she was there, and he saw the cross look on her face deepen, her vivid green eyes narrow in consternation. He wished she would open them further, as they seemed particularly striking. As a whole, she was actually quite attractive, he considered, as he looked her up and down. Her hair, such a dark brown it was near black, was tied back in a chignon but was held loosely away from her head, with wavy, soft tendrils of hair framing her face.

  She wasn’t slim, though she wasn’t overly plump either, he considered. Her curves were … the perfect shape, he realized with a start, an image of his hands upon her hips, caressing her backside overwhelming him.

  His face must have belied his thoughts, for suddenly her hands moved from her hips to cross over her body as though she were hiding something from him. So perhaps the woman was a bit shyer than she came across, he thought with a flare of interest.

  She bit her lip as she stared at him, and his eyes dipped down from her surprisingly delicate nose to her rosy, plush bottom lip. Which was not a particularly smart idea, for it did nothing to remove his mind from her generous curves or the swell of her bosom.

  “Are you done, Lord Berkley?” she finally asked, breaking the silence, and he smiled thinly at her. “Is there anything you would like to actually speak about, or did you simply request that I remain so that you may determine whether any of my attributes are particularly pleasing?”

  He raised his eyebrows. Of course, he expected nothing less from a woman such as this one, who seemed to disregard all propriety and determine for herself what was proper and polite.

  He chuckled to throw her off balance, but she ignored him as she moved to the door, placing a hand on the knob.

  “If that is all, I will be going,” she said, beginning to turn the handle.

  “Actually, Lady Phoebe, there is something else,” he said, and she turned, looking at him expectantly, and he continued. “You see, I opened the door of this drawing room some minutes ago to avail myself of its privacy, however within I found the four of you, deep in conversation. I was about to leave when I heard your words. I must tell you, Lady Phoebe, I was appalled.”

  “Oh?” she asked, coming toward him now, her eyes now wide, fury lurking within them. “And what aspect of our private conversation did you not approve of, Lord Berkley? For I must tell you that what I do not approve of is gentlemen—or ladies, for that matter—lurking around doorways, listening to matters which do not concern them.”

  “On that, I must disagree,” he said, standing tall in front of her, trying to intimidate her. “For when a woman begins to question the order of our society, I find that such views do concern me, as a man with responsibility to uphold our way of life. You disdain the opinions of men toward women, Lady Phoebe, but you must realize that there are reasons our society is shaped as it is. You speak of women warriors, of women who have influenced the decisions of men. But what you declined to note in your tirade was that it is still men who have always made decisions. It is men who have the ability to make change. Women have influenced men, yes, but has that been a good thing? I would argue that when emotion becomes involved, decisions are swayed in a way that removes all practicality, all rational argument. And women, Lady Phoebe, are composed of emotion, so how are they supposed to make any decision logically, the way a man does? Emotion leads only to weakness. To allow a woman such control and responsibility would be a detriment to all society—you must understand this. On that note, I implore you to keep such opinions to yourself, to not affect other young women. In fact, it was why I decided to return and seek you out. For all you will do is keep them from making the matches required of them. For women have a role to play as well. They birth children and raise them, so of course, they are contributing to society in a very important manner. Now, you would not want to harm your closet friends with your foolish notions, would you?”

  Pleased with his speech, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall, studying Phoebe to determine her reaction. As he had spoken, she had remained in one place, her expression stoic, her body frozen. Only her fists, which had tightened into balls, belied any sort of emotion. She opened her mouth once, twice, three times. Jeffrey stood, smiling, pleased that he had gotten through to her. He strode forward, nodded, and was about to walk around her.

  Until she slapped him in the face.

  *

  Well, that captured his attention.

  It was his turn to stand in shocked silence as he stared at her, and finally Phoebe found her words. Her anger had been so great, her frustration so pronounced, that it had taken her a moment to register what he had said to her. It was not such a shock that he believed what he said, or that he actually thought he was correct in his assumption, but it was that he had no qualms in sharing such opinions and felt completely within his rights to say such things to her.

  “You arrogant, impossible man!” she ground out, pointing a finger at him, striding forward until it was buried in his chest. “Do you honestly believe that you are so important, so far above me, that you can come in here and berate me for words that were not even said in your presence, but in a private conversation? You speak of politeness, but you sir, are at the height of rudeness! And let me ask you this. Do you
truly believe that most men are incapable of emotion? While you, Lord Berkley, certainly might be, I truly believe that most men feel as much love, as much emotion, as any woman. It is simply that they do not have the strength to control it, as women do, and therefore most choose to hide it instead. I can tell you that I am capable of making decisions much better than a man because I use both my heart and my head. Love is real, Lord Berkley, and so is hatred, which at the moment, I am feeling in spades.”

  “You slapped me,” he said in wonderment, and she stomped her foot on the floor, frustration coursing through her, made worse by what she knew was a childish response. After all she had said to him, he didn’t hear a word of it, as he was still caught off guard. She knew, belatedly, she had likely made a mistake in taking such an action, but her hand had moved of its own accord before she even knew what she was doing. She didn’t exactly regret it, though she was unsure what repercussions might come of it.

  “I did,” she said, her head held high. “And I am glad of it. You, Lord Berkley, epitomize everything that is wrong with our entire society. Now, if you will excuse me, I have far more important things to do with my time than explain myself to you.”

  And with that, she brushed by him with a flounce of her emerald green skirts. As her shoulder knocked into his, a jolt of heat raced through her, and she was disgusted with herself that part of her found this man attractive, that she had actually appreciated his rugged handsomeness when he had first walked into the room. She simply reminded herself of his words, however, and all thoughts of him as anything other than a stubborn, frustrating, idiotic man fled.

  She pushed open the door, the din of the great room echoing down the hall, breaking the silent tension that had been present between the two of them in the drawing room. She slammed the door behind her and continued down the corridor toward the noise, for once welcoming it and the people it held.