Seeing Sarah study at her with her head tilted, one side of her lips curved in a look of sympathy, Phoebe shook her head with a smile. “Do not pity me. This is what I choose. This is what I would far rather do with my life. Now, a glass of rum punch, anyone?”
*
Jeffrey leaned back against a sculpted marble column, shifting positions when the corner of a carved angel wing dug into his back. He was itchy, but not for any reason he could easily identify. He was brooding, he knew, as he kept his eye on Lady Phoebe, ensconced in a corner with three other ladies—the very same ones he had found her speaking with upon the occasion of their meeting at the Earl of Torrington’s. Their heads were together, Lady Phoebe gesturing animatedly. They reminded him of his sisters, the way they spoke without reserve, assured in unwavering friendship.
What was she up to? One moment she was arguing with him, slapping him without reservation, the next she was prettily flirting with him like every other young miss who approached him. Though none, he knew, would be so bold as to approach him without introduction nor cause for conversation.
His view of her was momentarily obstructed by a face—one rather like his own, but covered in a perpetual—though disingenuous—smile.
“Jeffrey,” Ambrose said with a nod, his grin increasing as he knew very well his brother preferred to be called by his title when out in a public setting.
“Ambrose,” Jeffrey responded, as he attempted to peer around his brother’s head when he noticed Lady Phoebe and her friends were departing from their station in the shadows.
“Something—or someone—catch your interest over there, brother? A certain heiress, perhaps?”
“What are you on about?” Jeffrey muttered.
“Why, it’s on everyone’s lips,” said Ambrose before his words took on a mocking tone. “The Marquess of Berkley, who waltzes with no one, who avoids showing interest in any one particular young woman, on the dance floor and during a waltz, no less! And with none other than Lady Phoebe Winters, a wallflower who looks as though she has never danced a set before in her life within polite society. Why, Jeffrey, why?”
He asked the question in mock interest, holding a hand to his breast, and Jeffrey rolled his eyes at him. “Go away, Ambrose.”
Ambrose only laughed, and it was then Viola passed by, inserting herself between the two of them, knowing their propensity for disagreement, clearly not wanting them to make a scene in the Holderness ballroom.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, looking from one of them to the other, and Jeffrey couldn’t help but smile at his sister. She was so calm, so gentle, and he knew that it bothered her when he and his brother found themselves in conflict in her presence.
“Everything is fine, Vi,” he said reassuringly. “Ambrose here is shocked that I was able to locate the dance floor of the ballroom, that is all.” He sent a glare his brother’s way. “And he was just leaving.”
Ambrose bowed mockingly to his brother, kissed his sister on the cheek, and, thankfully, continued on his way, likely to find a woman who would believe his charming words were genuine.
“What was that about?” Viola asked, and Jeffrey waved a hand. “You know Ambrose.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she said, looking up at him meaningfully through her spectacles. “Lady Phoebe. I had thought that the two of you did not get on particularly well, and yet there you were together, looking as though you might actually be having a nice time.”
“It was just a dance, Viola,” he said with a sigh. Had everyone been watching him, or did his family not have their own affairs to see to? “I thought you enjoyed your acquaintance with Lady Phoebe.”
“I do, but that has nothing to do with this conversation. Now you, Jeffrey, are not one to ask just any young woman to waltz in front of all the ton,” she said, an eyebrow raised as she studied him for a moment before continuing on her way.
A moment alone, in silence, Jeffrey thought. That is all I need. Then I will—
“Berkley.”
So much for that.
“Clarence,” he replied, pushing himself away from the pillar. At least the Duke wouldn’t question his dance. His friend would understand that one waltz meant nothing at all, was as regular an occurrence as any other.
“I hear you were dancing with the Lady Phoebe.”
Or not.
“Yes,” Jeffrey said, gritting his teeth. “That I was. One dance. As every other gentleman dances with every other young lady. It is nothing to be particularly shocked about, nor to make any note of.”
“True,” Clarence said, standing beside him to peruse the scene in front of them. He took a sip of his drink before tilting his head toward Jeffrey. “Unless the one dancing is a marquess who avoids waltzes with young ladies of the ton. And his partner is a woman who, as far as I am aware, is not particularly enamored by said marquess and is not typically found on the dance floor.”
Jeffrey snorted at that. Clarence had a point.
“She apologized,” he said by way of explanation, and now Clarence actually turned to look at him, disbelief on his face.
“One apology and you are in one another’s arms? How do you do it, Berkley? I wish I had such a way with women. You will have to teach me your skill. But tell me—you could dance with any woman in this ballroom. Most are desperate for you to even look at them. Why choose a woman who vexes you so?”
Jeffrey contemplated his words for a moment. They were true, but the issue was he himself didn’t quite know the answer. Clarence was patient, and finally Jeffrey spoke words that were as true as he could gather.
“There is something about Lady Phoebe that I cannot exactly explain,” he said. “But the very reason she captures my attention is that she is not at all like most other young women with whom I am acquainted. From what I have gathered, she is unpredictable, it is true, she holds opinions that are rather unpopular, and she is not afraid to speak of them. And yet, I find myself intrigued.”
Incredulity only grew on Clarence’s face as Jeffrey spoke, and finally the Duke shook his head.
“I cannot say I completely understand you, Berkley, but it is good to see you interested in a woman, at the very least. It has been far too long for you—at least, as far as I am aware. Nevertheless,” he tipped his drink toward him. “I myself like to know what to expect when it comes to women. I believe I will go find myself one of the young ladies whom you so despair and engage her in a dance. I will leave you to your lady of mystery.”
Unwilling to explain himself to yet another friend or family member, Jeffrey passed his drink to a waiting footman and perused the ballroom for a means of escape. The expansive garden doors beckoned, and he climbed the stairs before lighting his cheroot on a wall sconce and pushing open the door, the slight wind pushing at the glass door as he did so.
The fresh air, however, was cool against his skin, refreshing after the close heat of the ballroom. The early spring air nipped at him, but it would mean there would be far less possibility of running into anyone out here. He took a deep breath of the misty air, which held a hint of the rain that had been threatening all evening. Meandering down the garden path, he took a puff of his cheroot. He slowly blew out the smoke in front of him, seeing it curl through the evening air.
“I would really prefer you didn’t do that.”
Chapter Nine
“Lady Phoebe,” he drawled as he slowly turned to her, seeming to know who was in the shadows before seeing her face. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were following me.”
Phoebe smiled as she stood from the bench where she had been taking a moment alone, away from the people and the prying eyes of the ballroom, and stepped out into the light of the moon and that from the house above them.
“Would that not be my line, Lord Berkley, as I was out here first?”
He tapped his cheroot against his leg.
“I am sorry to intrude,” he managed.
She shrugged, ignoring his words as she t
ook in the offensive instrument swirling between his fingers.
“I do not understand the appeal.”
“Pardon me?”
“The appeal of those things,” she said, gesturing to the cheroot. “They smell disgusting, and while you may like them, everyone else has to breathe in your smoke as well. It is quite a selfish hobby.”
He lifted an eyebrow at her words before he glanced down at his hand. He seemed about to drop the cheroot but then paused for a moment. He smiled wickedly at her, then purposefully brought it to his lips, taking a deep inhale without breaking eye contact with her.
She narrowed her eyes at him, knowing he purposefully was continuing to smoke it in order to spite her, but decided that to say anything further would only give him additional pleasure. Instead she crossed her arms and waited for an answer to her question, and he finally acquiesced with a sigh.
“It’s just as you said—a hobby. I do not partake often, and nor do I typically do so unless I am with others who express a similar interest. I must say, however, Lady Phoebe, that many women enjoy the scent, or so I am told.”
“Have your sisters told you that?”
“No,” he said slowly.
“Well, I would ask them how they feel, as they are the young ladies who are most likely to be truthful and straightforward with you,” she said, waving a hand. “The rest, well, they say what you want to hear.”
“Not all the rest,” he said, stepping closer to her. “There is one in particular who does not seem inclined to hide her thoughts from me.”
Despite her bravado, when he stepped toward her, a headiness came over her. Perhaps she was simply overwhelmed by the dizzying array of scents surrounding her—the brandy on his breath through the smoke of the cheroot, which he had yet to bring to his lips once more, the spice of the scent that seemed to be emanating from his very body, all mixed within the rain-scented air. Or perhaps it was simply him. She was going about this all wrong. She was supposed to be flirting with him, to become closer with him, and yet here she was, vexing him all over again. “Forgive me, Lord Berkley, if I have offended you.”
“No offense taken,” he said, and she thought his eyes crinkled a bit as he grinned at her. Or perhaps that was simply a trick of the shadows. For he wouldn’t be actually pleased with her about this, now would he?
“I-I’m glad to hear it,” she responded, frowning when she heard the hitch in her voice. No man had ever made her cower before, and Lord Berkley was not going to be the first.
“Lady Phoebe,” he said slowly as he inched toward her once more, now dropping the cheroot on the stones of the garden path and grinding it out with his heel. “Would you mind if I called on you?”
“Called on me?” she echoed, sounded like a dim-witted idiot.
“Yes,” he said with a slight laugh. “As in, came to your home for a visit. A short visit. With your aunt present, of course—all aboveboard.”
She chuckled herself now. “I think you may have come to realize by now, Lord Berkley, that I am not particularly ‘aboveboard,’ as you say, when it comes to much.”
He smiled then, and Phoebe was shocked by how it changed his countenance. The ruggedness of his face, his prominent features, lost their edge, and he seemed actually … charming. Friendly, even. Certainly attractive.
“No, Lady Phoebe,” he said, his face descending dangerously close to hers. “You certainly are not.”
Before she could even contemplate his words or his actions any further, she let out a gasp, the sound lost when his lips descended on hers. His kissed her with some hesitation at first, as though he was questioning whether he should be doing so. But, Lord help her, as much as she knew she should resist, it was as though her body became disconnected from her mind, and not only did she return his kiss, but she pressed herself closer against him, feeling his warmth through the thin material of her silk dress.
This man thinks nothing of the value of women, she attempted to remind herself, but then his arms came around her back, and she let herself go with him. He believes your role should be to marry and to bear children—that’s all you’re good for. Oh, but now he was kissing her neck.
And, a small unwelcome voice told her from deep within the recesses of her mind, he also has four sisters whom he loves and respects. Clearly he can’t be all bad?
And then she stopped thinking completely as his mouth returned to her lips, and his tongue teased against her seam and she opened to him. He was tasting her, teasing her, one hand still at her back, the other in her hair, his strong fingers kneading into her scalp as he ravaged her mouth with the abandon of a man who was starving for her touch.
Phoebe didn’t know how long they would have continued, practically making love in the gardens of the Holderness estate, but suddenly a drop of moisture hit the back of her neck and she shivered involuntarily. It was but the first warning, however, as soon a deluge of rain descended from the sky, the clouds having collected the water throughout the day, now opening up and sending it all down upon them, seemingly at once.
They broke apart, staring at one another in astonishment for one crazed moment before he took her hand in his, and, fingers intertwined, he led her racing back toward the house. Instead of returning to the ballroom, however, he pulled her under the balcony so that they were hugging the wall, though he didn’t pull her up against him once more, leaving her confusingly bereft.
“We cannot go in there like this,” he murmured, his voice husky as his brown eyes analyzed her, and she brought a hand to her hair, finding that it was now all hanging in clumps around her head, soaked right through. Suddenly a horrid thought rushed through her, and she looked down to see what effect the rain had upon her dress. As she feared, the silk gown was now plastered to her skin, the material of the dress hugging her to reveal far more than she would have cared to show.
The marquess apparently noticed as well, as he swallowed and cleared his throat before removing his jacket and throwing it around her shoulders.
“I cannot wear this!” she protested.
“It’s much better that you do,” he responded, staring off into the distance, refusing to look back down at her. Was he really so repulsed by what he saw? “Now, come,” he said. “We’d best get you straight to your carriage.”
He led her around the side of the building, an arm around her back as they slowly navigated the slippery steps and pebbly path that led around the side of the house toward the Mayfair street. Eventually Phoebe found her own carriage, and as she climbed the steps inside, she began to remove his jacket to return it.
He held a hand out, stalling her. “I’ll have the butler find your aunt before I return home myself,” he said. “I will collect the jacket tomorrow when I come to call. Which, I do not remember you agreeing to. So tell me, Lady Phoebe,” he said, leaning further into the carriage, which made it suddenly feel much smaller than it was. “Do you permit me to call upon you tomorrow?”
Yes, she had specifically avoided the question. She had wanted this, a short flirtation, but had never imagined it would become so … heated … so soon. It was moving altogether too fast for her, and yet to say no now would not only push him away but would also force a blockade between them.
“Very well,” she finally said. “I shall see you tomorrow.”
At that he only nodded before shutting the carriage door, leaving her to her musings within.
Whatever was she going to do about him?
*
It was a question she was still mulling over in her mind the next day as she waited anxiously in her drawing room. It seemed silly, to be here waiting for a man when she had much to do at the office, but there was nothing to be done about it. This was why she had hired an editor, she reminded herself. But the problem was that she enjoyed the actual running of the publication, liked the hubbub of people working around her.
But this was more important. Today, without the distraction of his arms and lips—oh, those lips—she would determine exactly what h
e was up to.
And in the meantime, she would write her column. She was going to write it on the fact that one could not pinpoint the very nature of women because women, in fact, were as different from one another as men.
She was having a hard time concentrating, however, and she blamed him for it. He had made her forget everything that was important, and she didn’t like it—not one bit.
Aunt Aurelia had been full of questions when she had joined Phoebe in the carriage, of course, but Phoebe hadn’t felt inclined to share much of her time with Lord Berkeley. She told Aurelia instead that she had been out for a walk in the gardens and been caught in the rain. The marquess had happened upon her and had graciously walked her back to the carriage. That was, after all, the truth. For the most part, anyway.
Despite the fact that she was waiting for it, when the knock came on the door, Phoebe stood abruptly, startled, nodding at the butler when he introduced Lord Berkley, as well as Lady Viola. Wait—Lady Viola? She had no time to contemplate the implications of Lord Berkley bringing his sister along when the two of them were shown into the parlor.
Chapter Ten
“What, exactly, are your intentions with Lady Phoebe?” Viola asked as they pulled up to the modest yet stately home on the other side of Oxford Street, near Cavendish Square, within the neighborhood of Marylebone.
“You sound as though you are her father, Vi, or her mother at the very least.”
“Well, I am neither of those things,” she responded hotly, her head held high. “I am a friend.”
“I am aware,” he responded dryly.
“I am not altogether sure why you brought me here today, for that matter,” she continued, pushing her spectacles back up her nose. “Are you not the one courting her?”
“I am not courting her,” he said patiently. “Not yet, anyway. I am simply calling upon her. And you are here because I would like your opinion of her.”
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 49
