He dabbed his imaginary paint harder. At least, if Phoebe were going to meet a man without a chaperone, she’d had the good sense to come to Gunter’s. It was one of only a handful of places a young lady could do so without risk to her reputation—although typically that maxim only extended when the young lady was in an open curricle across the street sharing an ice with a gentleman who stood outside of said curricle with an ice of his own.
But she didn’t seem concerned. Whatever they were discussing, she clearly enjoyed the subject. Her face was alight and her hands gestured with happy energy. She tilted her head and listened to the man, nodding and smiling at something he said, and Malcolm’s stomach knotted.
No, he did not like this man one bit.
Loathed him, in fact. Which was ridiculous, he knew. Hell, he didn’t even know the chap. What Malcolm did know was that he wanted Phoebe to look at him like that, only—
A tug on his greatcoat startled him upright, and he jerked his head around, instinctively looking for the danger. A pickpocket? Or perhaps a—
“What’re you painting?”
Or perhaps a curious little cherub with brown curls and golden brown eyes, blinking up at him. Her nursemaid smiled apologetically and held fast to the girl’s hand, but did not pull her away.
“I—um...” He glanced at the blank paper, wishing they would move on. “A portrait,” he said curtly.
“Of whom?”
Malcolm nodded toward the door. “A lady in the tea shop. And I must really get back to it.” He turned his eyes back to Phoebe’s table. She and the gentleman looked quite cozy now, their heads bent toward one another conspiratorially. Phoebe tugged on her lower lip with her teeth, as if nervously excited. What were they talking about?
The little girl popped in between him and the easel. She scrunched her nose and peered up at him. “But there’s nothing there.”
Malcolm clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. How was he to spy on Phoebe and Ellison with this child underfoot? However, he pasted a smile on his face. Having spent a good deal of his adolescence with another inquisitive young girl with honey-brown eyes, he knew very well he’d have no peace until the imp was satisfied. He backed up a step and crouched down to her level.
“There’s plenty there, poppet. Just not on paper yet. I’ve got to work everything out in my mind first, before I can commit it to paint.” There. That had better be answer enough. No telling what he was missing in there.
But the girl’s lower lip pouted and her little brows dipped dubiously. “Is she pretty, this lady you plan to paint?”
Phoebe’s face came to mind, with her slightly too-prominent chin, her sharp nose, her wide arresting eyes. “Yes, though maybe not in the way some people think of as beautiful. It’s not her outer beauty I wish to capture, anyway, but rather all that’s within her. That’s what truly makes her special.”
As he said the words, he knew that he meant them. He did want to capture Phoebe, and all that she was...not in watercolor, of course, but for his very own.
The little angel in front of him simply shook her head, curls bouncing. “If she’s so special, then paint her already. I don’t know what you’re waiting for.”
Malcolm huffed a laugh. Out of the mouths of babes.
“Indeed.” He reached out and patted her on the head.
He straightened as the girl and her nursemaid bundled off, his heart light and his mind made up. He did intend to “paint” Phoebe, and he’d best get to it before someone else painted her first. He peered over the easel, searching for her.
Her chair was empty. Ellison still sat in his seat, pouring another cup of tea, but it looked as though Phoebe’s dishes had been cleared. His eyes scanned the crowd frantically and then his heart shot to his throat. Bloody hell, she was almost upon him, heading for the door with a stunning smile on her face.
But it wasn’t for him. He was quite sure she hadn’t seen him. Ellison had put that smile on her face. Bloody bastard.
Malcolm scrambled to shut the easel and gather Phoebe’s implements. While he’d made up his mind to woo Phoebe in earnest, he wasn’t prepared to do so this very second.
He snatched everything and ducked into the stoop of the next building just in time. He watched as she floated down the street in her happiness and hailed a hackney. Each bubbly step she took was a kick to him. What chance had he if Phoebe’s heart was already engaged?
But even if it was, who said this Ellison was on the level? If the man was meeting her clandestinely at Gunter’s rather than calling on her at home, as was proper, how could he be? Malcolm determined to keep to his original plan and discover what Phoebe was up to...in addition to sizing up his competition.
When she was safely gone, he pulled his hat low over his eyes and entered the tea shop. Waving off the servant who attempted to greet him, he shouldered past others in the queue and made straight for Ellison.
Malcolm came around the table and stopped short. This man was in his fifth decade at the least. Yes, he had thick brown hair, but it was winged with gray in the front, his face lined in a way that spoke of many years in the sun. Not at all who he pictured Phoebe running away with.
Malcolm glanced around. Perhaps he’d come to the wrong table? But no... The man sitting before him held Phoebe’s painting—the ruined one that had moved Malcolm so—and seemed engrossed in it. Malcolm fisted his hand against the urge to snatch the artwork from him.
“Ellison?”
The man’s head snapped up, but confusion crinkled his eyes more deeply than his crow’s feet.
“Pardon?”
“P. A. Ellison,” Malcolm said. “You are he, yes?”
The gentleman shook his head. “Afraid not. The name’s Updike.” He rolled up Phoebe’s painting almost protectively, and said, “And you are...?”
Updike? Malcolm frowned. Clearly he’d misread something, and now had no idea what to think. He wasn’t about to go poking blindly. He’d just have to confess to Phoebe that he’d followed her and ask her who this man was.
“My apologies. I—” Malcolm scrambled for a way to extricate himself without looking even more foolish. He lifted the bag of painting supplies and easel slightly. “I was asked to deliver these to a Mr. Ellison and was told he’d be here. I’m sorry for interrupting you.”
“Ah,” Updike said, nodding, though he still looked a bit confused. “Well, you did just miss Ellison, and it’s no wonder if you’ve been looking for a man. You’ve made the same mistake I did, my friend.” The man chuckled. “P. A. Ellison is a woman.”
Chapter Seven
Phoebe strove to take a calming breath as she stood at the top of the staircase that led into Lady Davenport’s grand ballroom, but the fist in her middle refused to unclench enough to let air in. Her aunt—whom she’d wrangled into chaperoning her at the last minute—had already deserted her for a group of matrons near the refreshment tables. That left Phoebe to navigate the throng on her own.
It was the last place on earth she wanted to be.
Well, perhaps on the banks of the Congo being chased by headhunters would be the last place on earth she’d want to be... She scanned the candlelit room. Couples twirled on the dance floor as groups of revelers exchanged on-dits behind open fans and gloved hands. Memories of humiliations past burned her eyes.
No. No. She’d take the cannibals any day.
Phoebe blinked away those thoughts and started down the steps. She could do this...she had to. Malcolm had unquestionably fulfilled his end of their bargain—so well, in fact, that her father hadn’t so much as spoken the name Jones. He’d also been quite jovial these past few days, particularly this afternoon. It had been downright unnerving.
Now, she had to keep up her end of the deal. When she’d arrived home to find her art supplies returned to her, along with a very touching gift and Malcolm’s note asking her to meet him here, her sense of fair play insisted that she must. Still, if he didn’t present himself within a quarter of an hour, her consc
ience had no problem claiming a megrim and retreating.
Her palms smoothed over the lavender silk of her scalloped evening gown. It took everything in her not to find the nearest wall and hold it up while she waited, but she refused to give in to her nerves. This could very well be her last foray into the ballrooms of London. She’d hold her head high.
She had much to be proud of. Mr. Updike had been surprised yesterday to learn that the botanical artist he’d been corresponding with was a young lady, but he’d also been suitably impressed with her vision for his forthcoming book, and was happy to hire her as his illustrator. The botanist was certain an advance from his publisher would be possible. He was bringing the man to Lord Pickford’s symposium tomorrow evening to introduce her.
And just today, she’d met with a widow who had an affordable room to let. Should the advance come through, Phoebe was certain she could make it stretch the extra time.
A satisfied smile curled her lips. No, nothing could dampen her spirits tonight.
“Why, if it isn’t Lady Dervish,” came an insidious voice she could have lived the whole of her life never hearing again. Still, she knew it would do her no good to pretend she hadn’t heard it now.
She turned to face Chester Harvey, her smile gone brittle. She dropped it altogether and warily nodded acknowledgement.
As usual, he stood at the center of his group of admirers, no doubt entertaining them by passing judgment on anyone who had the misfortune to wander by.
“I do hope you each have your affairs in order,” he drawled to the group. “First the Thames freezes over, then Haverstan and Lady Juliette Trent are seen out and about together, and now Lady Dervish has whirled out of the woodwork—all in the same week. I daresay the apocalypse may be upon us.”
Harvey’s sycophants chortled and twittered, as expected. The tips of Phoebe’s ears burned. That was the absolute last snide comment she was going to entertain from that man. She had nothing left to lose, after all. She opened her mouth, intent on giving him a set-down for the ages.
“Miss Anson,” a voice interrupted. Malcolm’s voice. A tingle coursed down her spine. He’d appeared behind her, she knew. And not just because he’d spoken. She actually felt the heat of his nearness, an awareness that set her nerves aflame.
She swallowed the insult she’d been about to hurl at Harvey. ’Twas probably for the best. There was nothing to be gained by it, not really. It would only give them more fodder to add to the gossip that would come when she walked away from Society.
“Lord Coverdale,” she murmured as she turned to face Malcolm. Her breath caught at the green flames burning in his eyes. Oh, my. He seemed quite angry. Surely not at her. On her behalf, then?
His voice was deceptively pleasant. “I am gratified to have found you at last,” he said. “Now my evening can be deemed a success.” He was doing it up thick, this fwoo-age. He actually sounded as though he meant it. Then he asked a question that surprised her. “If, of course, you will do me the honor of partnering me in the next dance?”
The titters had stopped, and Phoebe had the surreal feeling that more than Harvey’s little group watched them now. Their last dance, five years past in this very ballroom, had been a disaster—and the ton had a long memory. She’d humiliated herself thoroughly in her exuberance, twirling too heartily and knocking over the poor dancer next to her in the line.
Given Malcolm’s admission of a few afternoons ago, she could see now that she’d likely mortified him at a time when he was trying so hard to fit in.
Why must you always be such a whirling dervish? He’d hurled the words at her in harsh accusation—in front of all and sundry—before stalking off of the dancefloor. An endearment turned insult—one Harvey and his set had been only too happy to take up.
It had been the last time she’d danced in company. She didn’t even know if she remembered the intricate steps anymore. Why was he asking this of her now? And in the very same ballroom? Quivers of nerves fluttered, but she answered, “Of course, my lord.”
Malcolm’s smile was quick, but the heat in his eyes remained. He offered her his elbow. She placed her hand upon his forearm, which he promptly secured by covering it with his large palm.
And then Malcolm quite shocked Phoebe to her slippers.
He looked Harvey straight in the eye and then swung Phoebe neatly around, turning their backs decidedly on the gossip and his group, effectively giving the man the cut direct.
Several gasps behind them let her know the slight had not gone unnoticed.
This time Phoebe knew eyes followed them as they made their way to the dance floor. She felt them as surely as she felt Malcolm’s warmth even through her glove.
“Everyone’s staring at us,” she whispered.
“Only because I have the most beautiful lady in the room on my arm,” Malcolm said, not in a whisper, which sent heat flushing to her cheeks. She should really tell him he no longer needed to pretend to woo her. Her future was all but set.
Still, she couldn’t help but snort. “I’d rather say it’s because you just publicly made an enemy out of a darling of the ton,” she said, just loud enough for his ears. “Whyever did you do it?”
Malcolm brought them to a halt, pulling her into his arms as the strains of violins lilted on the air. “Harvey’s an ass,” he said simply.
He encircled her waist with one arm, and lifted her other hand. She glanced around at the other dancers, who were doing the same—not lining up across from each other at all. Her palms started to sweat. What dance was this? She didn’t know it at all.
She didn’t have much time to wonder at it because Malcolm gave her something else entirely to wonder over.
“But surely you must know,” he murmured, leaning close so that his mouth nearly brushed her ear, “I did it for you. Only for you.”
Phoebe’s heart tripped. What did he mean by that? But the question was lost as he pulled them into a twirl. At first, she nearly stumbled, unsure what to do with her feet. But Malcolm led her with gentle pressure on her waist and the pull of his body. Only a few moments in, and the mortification of their long ago dance flew from her mind, to be replaced with sheer joy.
This must be the waltz she’d heard whispers of. What a dance! No wonder there was such an uproar over it. It was enough to put ideas in a young lady’s head. Not only did her partner get to hold her scandalously close, but the jubilant twirling felt almost like...freedom.
“I thought you’d like this,” Malcolm murmured in her ear. “It’s as near as one can get to a carnival ride in a ballroom.”
Phoebe grinned at him. She couldn’t help it any more than she could contain the laugh that bubbled from her lips. But far from seeming embarrassed by her, Malcolm grinned as well and led her into the next twirl.
He didn’t relinquish her hand when the dance came to an end. Rather, he placed it back on his forearm and covered it with his own once again. Nor did he deposit her with her aunt, but kept her by his side as he made the rounds, visiting with his friends and acquaintances throughout the room.
It was a strange hour for Phoebe, one that was both dreamlike and bittersweet. This is what it might have been like, she thought. If things had not gone as they had. If someone actually had wooed her...shielded her...loved her.
No, not someone. Malcolm. Only Malcolm could make her feel as she did now. Standing as she was in the heart of a lion’s den, by his side she felt safe. Understood. Valued.
Not because he’d rescued her from Harvey and his company, or because he’d introduced her to his friends, or even because he included her in every conversation easily, as if she belonged at his side. That was all an act, she knew. His way of trying to undo whatever damage he thought he’d caused her.
But in the past few days, in just the short time they’d spent together, Malcolm had glimpsed her. The real her. And he hadn’t laughed at her, or derided her, or insisted she change. No, he’d told her she had passion, that she was something special, that others
were the mad ones for not having seen it. And he’d gone out of his way to make her feel it was true.
Phoebe thought of the gift that had been waiting in the parlor when she’d returned home this afternoon.
Selenicereus grandiflorus. The Queen of the Night, a rare and precious plant so named because its large flower bloomed only once per year, in the dead of night. She could only imagine the lengths he must have gone to in finding one, not to mention the expense. She’d certainly never seen one in bloom before, outside of a drawing. The Royal Gardens at Hampton Court had one, but of course she’d never been there in the wee hours when the flower opened beneath the moonlight.
For my late bloomer, the card had read.
But she wasn’t his at all, was she? Suddenly, the bittersweetness of the past days overwhelmed Phoebe.
She tugged her hand from beneath Malcolm’s, mumbling something about the ladies’ retiring room, and fled the ballroom.
Chapter Eight
Malcolm paced the hallway—not precisely in front of the necessary that had been set aside for the fairer sex, as that wouldn’t be seemly—but near enough he could intercept Phoebe when she emerged.
What had come over her? He’d been deep in conversation with Lord Dorrington about an upcoming vote relating to the war effort, when he’d felt Phoebe’s hand slip from his arm. After she’d dashed off, he’d looked around to see what might have upset her. Harvey had been nowhere near, nor any other apparent threat.
Which left him flummoxed.
Up until that moment, he’d thought the evening perfect. ’Twas all going to plan. Malcolm understood that once he and Phoebe were married, any past faux pas would be forgotten. She would be a viscountess, and many who had looked down upon her would now curry her favor.
But he’d wanted Phoebe to understand it, too. That’s why he’d insisted on her meeting him here tonight, to show her how different it would be. For as his wife, Phoebe would have to move amongst Society, at least some. He hadn’t wanted her dread of the ton to influence her decision when he asked her to marry him.
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