*
Jeffrey rubbed his cheek where it still slightly stung, and he could imagine a hand imprinted within its folds. A sleek, slender hand, that looked as though it was fair, feminine, and altogether lovely, but in fact held a fierce temper of a different kind. What was wrong with the woman? Who did she think she was, that she could slap him, a marquess, for speaking the truth, one she needed to understand? He was trying to help her. For if she shared her opinion within larger society, it would only be of detriment to herself.
He shook his head as he pushed open the door she had slammed behind her, his face set in a grim line as he followed her likely path to the ballroom. He needed a drink—badly.
He found his way across the wide, cavernous room, filled with color this evening from the multitudes of hues of women’s dresses, to a table on the side, which held an assortment of drinks, pastries, and all sorts of epicurean delights. The only thing he had any interest in, however, was the brandy. He took the glass with relish, letting the amber liquid burn down his throat. Women.
“I say, Berkley, what sort of beast has a hold of you?”
Jeffrey turned, his frustration abating somewhat upon finding his old friend, the Duke of Clarence, at his elbow.
“Nothing that cannot be tamed,” he said with a grin, and the Duke laughed, holding his glass up to his own in a salute.
“Troubles of the female persuasion, then?”
“You could say that,” Jeffrey muttered, his eyes perusing the room for a glimpse of the vixen. When he found no sign of her, he wasn’t sure whether it was relief or dismay churning within his belly. Though why he would want to see a woman such as her, with her viperish tongue and threatening hands again, he had no idea.
“When one disappoints, there is always another,” Clarence said with a shrug, and Jeffrey nodded, though he was sure Lady Phoebe was one of a kind—a kind he should avoid. He looked around the room at the young women and their mothers sending admiring glances and inviting smiles toward the two of them—both extremely eligible, unattached, powerful men of the ton. There were many who would hold no issue with his views nor his presumptions of how a young woman should behave. Yet none of them, despite their attractiveness and their equally lovely shapes, lit a fire in him as did the lady of the drawing room. Lady Phoebe Winters was trouble, and he needed to do all he could to keep from furthering any acquaintance with her.
He shook his head, not realizing that he had spoken her name aloud until Clarence questioned him.
“Lady Phoebe? I know of her. Is it she who is vexing you so?”
Jeffrey came back to the present moment, turning his gaze upon his friend.
“I suppose you could say that. We had an interesting … exchange, but a few moments ago. She has a wicked tongue, but there is something rather intriguing about her.”
“Hers is an interesting story,” the Duke began as he drained his glass. “Her parents died of illnesses within months of one another, though romantics would say her father died of a broken heart. He was a viscount, and his title went to the next in line, of course—some cousin—but he had amassed a plentiful fortune through his lifetime, and ensured his inheritance was bestowed upon his only child—the Lady Phoebe.”
“Indeed?” Jeffrey had heard some of this, of course—of her parents’ untimely passing, but not of the inheritance. He supposed he should pay more attention to the gossips.
“Indeed,” Clarence confirmed. “She has a chaperone—an aunt, I believe—who lives with her, here in London, who attends events such as these so all is proper. As far as I am aware, however, for the most part the Lady Phoebe lives as she pleases, acting upon her own whims.”
“That’s a dangerous thing, a woman on her own in the world,” Jeffrey muttered.
“I suppose,” returned the Duke with a shrug. “Though it has been near a couple of years now, and she seems to do well enough on her own. It’s not my business, I suppose, but that’s the story.”
“Interesting,” Jeffrey said, his eyes scanning the room for her once more. “Very interesting.”
Chapter Three
“The nerve of that man!”
Phoebe was describing to her aunt in great detail her entire conversation with Jeffrey Worthington, Marquess of Berkley. Her aunt, Lady Aurelia, was somewhat sympathetic to her plight, although her expression changed from one of understanding to horror when Phoebe told her of striking the marquess.
“Oh, Phoebe!” she exclaimed, her gloved hand coming up to cover her mouth, which was lined with deep wrinkles. She had never married, choosing to live as a spinster her entire life. Phoebe’s father, much younger than Aurelia, had loved his sister immensely and ensured she lived a comfortable life. One of the stipulations of Phoebe’s inheritance had been that she take her aunt in to live with her, a requirement with which Phoebe had no reservations.
After her encounter with the marquess, Phoebe had found Aurelia amongst the crowd and feigned a headache, requesting that they return home. She no longer had any desire for company—polite or otherwise. Seeing the look upon her face, her aunt had quickly agreed, bidding farewell to her acquaintances.
Now, sitting in the carriage together, Phoebe let all of the anger that had been building within steam out of her, and her aunt, silent for the most part, allowed her to vent.
Finished, Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back into the squabs, and her aunt reached out a hand and pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen out of her chignon and over her face.
“Phoebe, dear,” Aurelia began. “I am sorry that you had to listen to that, truly I am. I understand how you feel, you must know that. The marquess, however, is a powerful man, with many friends in high places, and he only speaks the truth of which he knows, and many others believe. I am not sure that he is a man of whom you should be making an enemy.”
Phoebe shrugged. “Does it really matter? It is not as though I am exactly beloved in all social circles.”
“No, and I am not saying that you have to be,” her aunt said, shaking her head. “I am only saying to be careful, darling. And, while he is terribly wrong on much of what he said, there are some aspects of which he has the right of it.”
Phoebe opened her mouth to retort, aghast that her aunt, a woman who had shared many of the same thoughts regarding the female role in their world, would say such a thing.
Aurelia held up a hand before Phoebe could say anything further.
“Let me explain,” she said in a soft, but stern voice and Phoebe respectfully sat back to listen.
“He is correct in that this is the society in which we live. You can voice your displeasure to a few friends, but if you speak any louder, you will only be ostracized. Is that what you truly want?”
Phoebe waited a moment before responding. She had an idea—one that had begun to form when Sarah questioned whether anything would change if no one did anything about such views, if no one presented another option. Her thought was outrageous, now that she had time to consider it further, but … perhaps … an outrageous act was required.
“Aunt Aurelia,” she began, needing her aunt to understand, for in order for this to work, she would need her cooperation. “You read the newsletters and journals every day, just as I do, do you not?”
“Most of them,” her aunt said, the feather on the top of her velvet maroon hat bobbing as she nodded her head at Phoebe. “Though not nearly as many as you. I do not believe anyone in all of London reads as much as you do, my dear.”
“And of all that you read, who writes such publications?”
“A wide assortment of people I should say,” said Aurelia, looking at Phoebe quizzically. “We read the papers of the Whigs and the Tories, the gossips and the reformers. It is the only way to truly understand all that is happening in the world.”
“We do not read the words of an assortment of people,” Phoebe said, holding a finger up to note one clear, particular distinction, “But of an assortment of men. Men who use the power of the
written word to portray their opinions, to shape the thoughts of those who read them. Men who are friends, or acquaintances, with those who influence their way of thinking. We are guided by the very people who want women to stay within their particular role. That is the problem, Aunt Aurelia.”
Aurelia cocked her head to the side, considering Phoebe’s words. “You are correct, darling, as you always are. And that’s all very well and good, but whatever are we supposed to do about it?”
“I’m so glad you asked,” said Phoebe with a triumphant smile. “For I actually have a solution. I have an opinion on the world as well. And I am going to share it.”
*
Shadowed by his large, unruly mutt, Maxwell, Jeffrey marched down the stairs of his London townhome the next morning with a weight in his chest. Last night had been a disaster. The woman had gotten into his head, and she wouldn’t leave it, no matter how hard he tried to shove her out of it. After his conversation with Clarence the previous night, Jeffrey had lost all interest in anything occurring around him at the party. In fact, he had found himself completely tired of the affair, as well as any others to come.
Suddenly all he could focus on was the fact that he repeated the same actions night after night. He spoke to the same people, had the same coy words whispered in his ear, was approached by the same women, none of whom seemed to have an original thought in their heads. What was the use of it all?
He sighed as he rounded the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, pushing his hair back off of his forehead. He was being ridiculous. He had never had thoughts like this before. Why one conversation with her would make a difference, he had no idea whatsoever.
Well, it was a new day. A day in which he was sure, he thought with a wry grin crossing his face, that he would face many new challenges.
He was not disappointed, for when he entered the breakfast room, four beautiful, luminous, yet mischievous faces were grinning up at him, as though they had been waiting for him to appear. His mother—equally as beautiful and luminous, in his opinion—also looked on, contemplating her children.
“Jeffrey!” shouted Annie, the youngest, now sixteen. “We have been waiting for you.”
“So it would seem,” he said wryly. He loved his family—truly he did—but sometimes he wished they would allow him at least a few minutes to drink his coffee and clear his head in the mornings before they began shouting questions and making demands at him.
He smiled gratefully at the footman, who poured a steaming cup of the bitter drink for him, and he closed his eyes as he swallowed it, for just a moment turning out the cacophony of voices that resonated in his ears.
He opened his eyes to find four pairs of expectant eyes upon him as Maxwell placed his shaggy head upon Jeffrey’s knee, the dog’s droopy ears and chin settling upon Jeffrey’s leg.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Oh, Jeffrey.” Penny rolled her eyes. At eighteen, she felt she was already a woman, and she shook her head at him, her blonde curls swinging around her face. “Why do you never listen?”
“I do,” he said gruffly, looking around the table, finding only his mother had any ounce of sympathy on her face. The rest were simply looking at him as though he had told them he was going to ship them off to boarding school. Not that they would ever allow it.
“Fine,” he sighed. “What is it?”
“We heard a rather interesting tale about you last night,” said Rebecca, looking at him with her chin on her fist and a gleam in her eye. “About you ensconced in a drawing room with an unmarried woman.”
“That is ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head and returning his focus to the eggs and ham on the plate in front of him. How in the world had anyone even known the two of them had been there? As far as he was aware, no one had been the wiser.
“And she did not look particularly pleased when she left,” Rebecca continued, leaning toward him now. “In fact, after your conversation, she found her aunt and left the party completely.”
“I didn’t realize you were all so inclined to believe everything the gossips told you,” he muttered, looking up to see that his sisters had all cleared their plates, obviously having remained at the table only to pester him about this story, which truly was of no particular consequence. “Do you not all have things to do? Lessons to see to? Friends to visit?”
“We are not leaving until you tell us more about this liaison,” Penny said primly, and Jeffrey slammed his coffee cup on the table much harder than he intended to, but nevertheless it made his sisters and his mother jump. Maxwell even left him to explore the plates of his sisters instead.
“There was no liaison,” he said in a tone to make them understand that he would not speak any further on the subject. “I simply had a conversation with a woman that turned into a slight disagreement. It is of no consequence and I am sure I will not be speaking with her again. It has nothing to do with any of you, and I would be pleased if you would simply leave it be. Do you understand?”
He looked round at each of them individually, the youngest blinking at the bite to his words. He typically was soft with his sisters—he knew it was a failing, but since he had taken responsibility of them five years ago when his father passed, he had never had the heart to be particularly stern with them, and now, perhaps, he would find he was paying the consequences.
“Very well,” Penny finally said, and she led Annie away from the table, Rebecca following, although not before she turned to send him a venomous look, and while he wanted them to understand his consternation, he had to hide his smile.
His mother leaned over, covering his fist with her hand as she looked at him imploringly.
“It is not like you to be so upset over something so minor,” she said softly. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course, Mother,” he said, bestowing a smile upon her as he turned his palm to grip her hand in his. She was still beautiful, her blonde hair, so like his own, just beginning to show signs of grey woven through it when the light hit it just right. Somehow, it suited her.
“What did you think of Lady Phoebe?” His sister, Viola, finally spoke from across the table. Unlike her sisters, she was a serious sort, and she was able to ascertain his feelings better than anyone.
“That she is rude and I should be glad not to speak to her again,” he said, waving his hand in the air.
“I would think otherwise, the way you have responded,” said Viola, her smile as gentle as her mother’s. “In fact, this is the first woman that has caused any sort of reaction from you in quite some time.”
“Are you interested in her?” his mother asked hopefully, light coming into her eyes. Jeffrey knew she had been wishing he would soon find a woman he cared for, but he dissuaded her hopefulness by shaking his head vehemently.
“Not at all.”
“Nor any woman?”
“Mother, we have discussed this,” he said patiently. “I have enough women to care for without having to worry about a wife.”
“Oh, you know we are the ones who take care of you,” Viola joked, and he shook his head at her with a laugh.
“Maybe so,” he said. “But I have not yet met a young woman who is appealing enough to spend the rest of my life with. I should like to a meet a woman who, for once, is real, not saying what she believes I would like to hear.”
“Perhaps you have simply not given these ladies a chance to be themselves around you,” his mother said practically. “You can be an imposing man to some.”
To some. Not his family, nor to Lady Phoebe Winters, apparently.
His mother rose from the table, coming around behind him to place her hands on his shoulders. She leaned down to kiss him quickly but softly on the cheek.
“Whoever you choose to marry one day—hopefully soon—I’m sure she will be lovely.”
With that, she patted him on the shoulders and left, leaving Jeffrey sitting with only Viola across from him at the table, arms crossed as she leaned back and stared at him con
templatively.
“So tell me the truth,” she said. “What really happened?”
Jeffrey sighed. Viola was as soft and gentle as she appeared, but she could be relentless when she wanted something.
“Her name is Lady Phoebe Winters and her father was a viscount,” he began, and Viola’s eyes lit up from behind her spectacles.
“Of course, Jeffrey. I am acquainted with Lady Phoebe, and have, in fact, introduced the two of you in the past. Do you not recall her? She is striking.”
Striking—that was the word for her. Not beautiful, but there was something about her that captivated him like no other woman had as of yet.
“I overheard a conversation between the lady and her friends. She—”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“It was an accident,” he defended himself. “Anyway, she was going on about women, and men and women’s place in our society. She seems to think women should be equal to men, that anyone who says they do not have the ability to make the same decisions or also hold power is in error, that they are preposterous. Can you believe it? She thinks that we should all change so that women’s opinions can be heard. I can hardly imagine it.”
He snorted, picking up a bit of toast, but when Viola was silent, he looked back up at her to judge her reaction.
“Let me guess,” she said, leaning onto the table, her brown eyes intent upon him. “You argued with her.”
“I did not argue,” he said indignantly. “I simply suggested that it would be best if she no longer spread such ideas to other young women. She could impede her own friends’ ability to find a match if they begin to share such ideas. Lady Phoebe herself had best be careful, or she will find that she no longer has any prospects at all, if she did to begin with. She is lucky that I did not widely share her thoughts.”
Viola was shaking her head at him, pieces of light brown hair escaping the knot at the back of her head.
“What?”
“Do you really believe so strongly that you are right?”
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