A long oak table, its thick legs carved in twisted spirals, dominated the linen-fold-paneled dining room. Joseph was placed on the left of the Marchioness of Richmond, a place of honor Arthur had said. The Duke of Royston sat directly across from him, Lady Sophia at the duke’s right, which meant the duke could not leer at her without being conspicuous. Disgust bristled the nape of Joseph’s neck. A wrinkled, portly man ogling a girl who looked as if she could be his granddaughter was just grotesque. Not only was the duke presumably lacking in wealth, he most definitely lacked manners. Why Lady Sophia allowed his suit was beyond comprehension.
For the moment though, Joseph had the advantage. Unlike Royston’s sidelong glances with slivered gray eyes, Joseph had a full view of her stunningly low neckline, the pale skin of her bosom flushing a delicate rose whenever she dared meet his gaze.
Peel sat next to Joseph and it seemed when Lady Sophia wasn’t glancing at him she was glancing at Peel. Her gaze was more confident when turned on the lanky solicitor, the flush mellowing to a creamy ivory, the curl of the lip knowing. There was definitely something between them.
The marquess, his face lined too deeply for a man probably only in his forties, occupied the far end of the table. Arthur sat on his left, Lady Henrietta across from her fiancé in the place of honor. A flicker of joy brightened Arthur’s face every time he looked at his beloved, a sight wonderfully sweet to behold.
Of the other men and women present, Joseph had only a passing acquaintance. A few were potential investors Arthur had said. But most were friends of the marquess and marchioness who had stayed on after Lady Sophia’s birthday ball and who now eyed him with the same curiosity reserved for the creatures in a zoo. The marchioness, at least, tried to engage him, probably at Arthur’s behest.
“Did you say your father owns the docks in New York, Mr. Phillips?” Lady Richmond’s voice dripped with honeyed hauteur.
Joseph looked up from cutting the succulent spring lamb on the gold-rimmed porcelain dinner plate set before him. “No, ma’am. I said he works on the docks in New York City. These days he takes care of the books—the accounts—for a few companies.”
“Oh my word.” She gasped in obvious shock, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes clouding with incredulity. She glanced around at the guests, whose own conversations had paused at her outburst. “Then how is it you seem so well-educated and refined?”
Joseph ignored the condescension in her voice. Maintaining a veneer of civility took a lot of fucking effort around the half-witted upper crust. “One meets quite a number of interesting people growing up around the port. I ingratiated myself to the best among them, worked hard and gained their trust and respect. In the mornings, I was tutored with the children of New York society. In the afternoons and evenings, I worked. Nights I studied. I had to scrounge in the trash heaps for enough candles.”
“Goodness! When did you have time to sleep?” Lady Henrietta blurted.
Joseph chuckled. “Sleep is a luxury to the laboring classes, my lady.”
He caught the butler’s eye. The old man looked away in horror. Even the servants of England’s aristocracy felt themselves above him.
“I apologize,” Lady Henrietta said ingenuously. “I hope I did not cause offense.”
“No offense, my lady.” He smiled at her. He really liked Lady Henrietta, liked that she said what she thought.
“Might we know any of these families of New York society, Mr. Phillips?” The marchioness seemed hopeful, perhaps a tad desperate for her son’s reputation.
“I sincerely doubt it, ma’am. Not unless you know the Stuyvesants, Coopers, Schermerhorns and Astors.”
“Those sound like foreign names,” the duke snorted.
“I would assume so, Your Grace,” Peel said. “America is known for its surfeit of immigrants. They are building a new country as opportunity is lacking in their own.”
Joseph hid a smile as he resumed eating his dinner. The conversation quickly turned to more pleasant, vacuous topics, which suited him just fine. It gave him a chance to observe the marquess and marchioness. Lady Richmond wore a striped dress of emerald and rust, the green matching her eyes, the rust-red a reminder of the former vivid color of her graying tresses. Lord Richmond’s formerly brown hair was now graying in a frame around his face, his green-brown eyes almost the twin of Arthur’s but with the sadness of regret. The couple looked weary and seemed to merely tolerate each other despite their having been wed for what must have been nigh on thirty years. So unlike his parents. Mother and Father acted more like Arthur and Lady Henrietta.
He glanced at Lady Sophia and caught her looking at him. Her guilty blush sent an inappropriate shiver down his back. That morning he had masturbated to a fantasy of her, to a remembrance of her body trapped by his against the balustrade. But that fleeting moment of intimacy would be all he would have with her, especially as her supposed fiancé was fawning possessively at her side.
The Duke of Royston was a dour man and utterly unsuitable for the captivating innocent that was Lady Sophia. But marriage amongst the upper classes was not for love and passion. Such unions were for wealth and connections. Joseph had seen some of the daughters of American society married off at far too young an age to men old enough to be their fathers. Probably their fathers’ friends and business associates. The practice was despicable.
Inwardly Joseph sighed. Men such as the duke and the marquess were mired in history, in tenaciously preserving the past instead of exploring new opportunities, planning new adventures. There would be more evenings like this one. Joseph would just have to brace himself.
* * * * *
Geoffrey carefully negotiated the warren of dim, oak-paneled passageways in Harwell Hall on his way to the drawing room. He did appreciate that the Richmonds were modern enough to have indoor plumbing in their Tudor manor but the journey from the dining room to the water closet was a bit circuitous. Of course he might have taken a wrong turn at some point. Perhaps he needed to visit the main house more often to get to know the place.
He chuckled. Royston probably knew every blasted nook and cranny in the estate for all the time he spent there.
The next corridor should lead him back to the drawing room, which was next to the dining room. The men would have finished their port by now. He turned the corner—
“Oof!” Geoffrey grunted as he crashed into a woman, instinctively grasping her shoulders to steady them both.
Her yelp of surprise lingered in midair as her book fell to the floor, just missing his foot.
Anna. Wonderfully kissable Anna. He flushed. He should not think of such things in mixed company.
“Mr. Peel!”
He continued to hold her at the shoulders. The only thing preventing him from pulling her against him was his damnable honor and an accursed sewing basket she clutched before her.
“Miss…Miss…”
“I’m Anna, sir.” Her gaze fell to the basket.
“I thought to give you the same courtesy of using your surname.”
She smiled a sweet, sweet smile with her kissable lips. “Colney, sir. Anna Colney.”
“Well, Miss Colney, will you accept an apology from an ungraceful clod?” His hands tingled from the lingering touch. He drew them down her arms adroitly.
She looked up at him. Her brown eyes matched the rich oak of the wainscoting and her cheeks were accentuated with a rosy flush. He had never noticed until that moment how much she resembled Sophia. If not for the severe servant’s uniform, one might mistake her for a cousin. Perhaps a cousin in mourning.
“You’re not a clod, sir. It’s a hazard of the ground floor. Such accidents happen more often than not amongst the servants.”
“Ah.” He should leave but he couldn’t. “So what are you doing down here on the ground floor?”
“Lady Sophia called. She needed a quick repair to her bodice.”
Hence the sewing basket. “You’re wearing a different dress,” he blurted.
�
�Sir?” She blushed.
Bollocks. “From the other night. This one is black. And is it silk?”
“It is last year’s mourning gown from my lady.” She nibbled on her lower lip. “When guests are lodging we’re to dress for dinner as well, sir. I need to be presentable in case I am called upon.”
He could not take his eyes off her now-moistened lip. “You would think my house barbaric then. I’m certain we do no such thing.”
She smiled the loveliest of smiles. “I’m sure the lady of your house sees to it, sir.”
“My mother.”
“Sir?”
“My mother. Lady Bucknall. There is no Mrs. Peel.”
She blushed. “I had gathered that, sir.”
Of course. His kissing Sophia. Or Anna, rather.
She curtsied. “I’ll take my leave, if you don’t mind, sir.”
She bent to pick up her book, almost crashing into him again as he thought to do the same.
He straightened and glanced at the gilded letters on the cover. “North and South. I’ve not read that one. Is it good?”
“I am enjoying it, sir.”
“It’s about industrialization, is it not? I should probably read it.”
She laughed softly. “Yes, I suppose Mrs. Gaskell does touch on similar themes to what you and Lord Petersham are about to embark upon.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m dreadfully sorry, sir. My lady has spoken a little about your scheme. I have not been indiscreet with the knowledge.”
“You have already proved your penchant for discretion with your silence concerning my relationship with Lady Sophia.” He handed her the book.
She looked away as she tucked it inside her basket. “Thank you, sir.” She curtsied and started in the direction from where he had just come.
“Wait.”
She hesitated. “Sir?”
He had to say something. Really he just wanted to kiss her but such a move would reek of power and privilege, making him yet another aristocrat abusing a servant. He did not want such a base relationship with her. He wanted something more. But such a thing could never be managed.
“I just wanted…I mean to say that…I think you look lovely tonight.”
She blushed. “Thank you, sir.”
“Last time I saw you it was practically pitch dark, otherwise I would have told you then.” Blast. That sounded stupid.
“And you were otherwise occupied. Good night, sir.” She turned and left.
Otherwise occupied, indeed. Geoffrey chuckled to himself. Anna Colney was simply magnificent.
* * * * *
Arthur gritted his teeth and clenched his fists as he crossed from the dining room into the drawing room to join the women. Henny furrowed her brow briefly then offered a comforting expression as she took his arm.
“Was the port that bad, darling?” she said.
“They excoriated him and by default, excoriated me.”
“Who, darling?”
“Father for one.”
“You and the marquess have never really got on. It’s a shame.”
That was, unfortunately, too true. Relations between father and son had always been rather formal, even when Arthur was a boy. He watched as more of the men filed leisurely into the drawing room. “And him.”
Arthur eyed Royston cautiously as the duke approached. He not only abhorred Royston’s cutting remarks regarding Joseph’s background, he was wary of Royston’s continued fascination with Henny. The duke practically leered at her.
“Henny, my darling—”
Arthur buried his fury. The man had no right to call her anything but Lady Henrietta.
“You look absolutely ravishing this evening.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. My engagement to the most fascinating of men has heightened my complexion and my spirits.”
God he loved her. She was fabulously clever. And he had to agree, absolutely ravishing in a blue-and-gold-striped, ruffled confection that matched her coloring to perfection.
“Fascinating is right, my dear, what with his unusual choice of a business partner.”
Arthur seethed.
Father joined them. “Yes, I must agree with that, Royston.” He scowled at Arthur. “Where on earth did you find him?”
“In New York,” Arthur shot back, searching the room for Joseph, catching his eye as he conversed with Geoffrey and Sophia. Arthur raised a brow in invitation.
“Unusual, Your Grace?” Henny responded coolly. “Why, the Americans are a most enterprising lot. Arthur is poised to make millions, if you ask me.” She smiled sweetly.
Arthur squelched a grin. Royston had just lost quite a bundle in his last investment. Something involving whale oil, as Arthur understood it.
“Why would I ever seek the opinion of a woman, my dear?” Royston asked derisively.
Father chuckled.
“Because she’s got a point, Your Grace,” Geoffrey retorted as he approached them.
Joseph and Sophia followed close behind, Sophia’s blush a little too deep. Really, his sister’s dalliance with Geoffrey had gone too far. He would have to scold her about her behavior later. She needed to maintain her reputation, for God’s sake.
“Really, Peel? And what is that?” Royston’s tone reflected his annoyance. He moved next to Sophia as if he owned her.
“Well, the scheme is absolutely brilliant,” Geoffrey effused. “There’s talk of building a railway all the way from the east coast of America to California. That’s three thousand miles. That’s a lot of railway carriages and that’s a lot of railway parts. Phillips here has a plan to supply all those carriages with parts. I mean no offense, Your Grace, but only a fool would eschew such an investment.”
“An investment in a scheme that merely supports a fantastical future is not my idea of a sound investment.” Royston’s lips thinned disdainfully. “You boys go ahead and spend your money on outlandish propositions. But don’t gripe about it when you end up in the poorhouse.” He shifted his attention to Henny, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I do hope, for your sake, that profits are more than a mere trifle so as to keep you in such splendid gowns.” He let his hand slide down her arm to her hand. “My dear.” He bowed his head over her hand and made his exit to the other side of the room.
Father followed at his heels.
Arthur’s blood boiled too hot for him to speak and Joseph clearly struggled to keep a lid on his own fumes. Luckily Geoffrey had a cool head.
“Don’t pay him any mind, Phillips. Petersham has shown me some of your preliminary sketches and really, I think they’re brilliant. However we must be reasonable and keep in mind men of Royston’s generation will be skeptical. We must make it presentable to them. We can add some interest, something unique for the younger investors, but for his lot we need to balance that with the practicalities. You know…a sound investment in the future.”
Arthur shook his head in amazement. Geoffrey was a lifesaver. So maybe Arthur wouldn’t scold his sister so much. She should have her fun while she could.
Sophia turned her attention from Geoffrey to Joseph. “I’d love to see your sketches, Mr. Phillips.” She looked at Arthur. “If I’m allowed that is.”
“I suppose.” He sought confirmation from Joseph.
He nodded with a quirk of his lips.
“But it’s a secret, Sophie, so you can’t tell anyone,” Arthur chided.
“Who am I going to tell?”
Henny laughed. “And who would believe a mere woman anyway, Arthur, darling?”
Arthur grunted in annoyance. “Tomorrow. Come by the studio tomorrow.”
Sophia clapped her hands. “Oh what fun!” she chirped. She boldly took Geoffrey’s arm. “Now you two gentlemen can tell me all about railways while Arthur and Henny coo.”
Joseph offered his arm for her other side. She blushed as she took it and bit her lip with a grin as they sauntered away.
A pang of regret gripped Arthur’s heart. Such a shame that after one year of marriage to Roy
ston she’d have lost all that girlish exuberance.
Chapter Three
Sophia huffed and puffed in laughter and exhaustion as she ran across the estate with Henny, her exertions warming her against the chill of early spring.
“C’mon, Sophie, the studio is just there.” Henny was glowing. She wanted to see Arthur as much as Sophia wanted to see Mr. Phillips.
Henny was far too encouraging an ally when it came to matters regarding Mr. Phillips. She confessed she knew Sophia was utterly smitten but counseled a connection with Mr. Phillips would be dangerous. Yet Henny acknowledged she trusted Sophia could be discreet when she put her mind to it, as her liaison with Geoffrey proved.
The folly finally came into view, its exuberance of wrought iron a testament to an earlier time when a fascination for the material indicated modernity and progress. That such a harsh material could be shaped and cast into delicate columns and curlicue capitals supporting roofs and frames filled with expanses of glass had been a symbol of the new industrial age. The Marquesses of Richmond had prided themselves as forward thinkers. Alas, Papa seemed to have forgotten such a sentiment, although Arthur was taking up the standard of their forebears with alacrity.
Inside the glazed outbuilding Mr. Phillips sat hunched over a writing desk, his pen moving over paper, while Arthur paced about, waving his hands. Mr. Phillips worked steadily, intent on whatever it was he was doing, not at all distracted by Arthur’s dramatic gestures. Such focus was so very…attractive.
Henny grabbed her hand and they skulked closer.
“Let’s not go in just yet,” Henny whispered. “It looks as if they’re mired in something important.”
Indeed. Arthur had pulled up a chair alongside the desk and seemed to be listening intently, nodding as Mr. Phillips pointed then traced his finger around the document before him. While Mr. Phillips continued to talk Arthur stared at him, examining him, his face cast by a queer expression, something akin to how he regarded Henny sometimes. Mr. Phillips finished talking and met Arthur’s gaze and for a moment the two men remained in that position, until Arthur shook his head, got up and flopped down in a stuffed armchair.
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