by Regina Darcy
“What of your own prospects, Dorothea?” she asked, releasing her friend. “Is there anyone among the local swains, in whom you are particularly interested?”
Dorothea laughed. “Not a one, my dear. They are all either already spoken for, or else they are buffoons. And as my parents are not as keen to see me married and taken from them, I have time to search further afield.”
“I envy you your freedom,” Phoebe sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to choose or refuse who I spend my time with. But you’re not too keen to marry anyone anyway, are you? The last time we spoke of this, you were vehemently against it, if I recall correctly. Has anything changed in that regard?”
“Not really, but I suppose if someone were to catch my attention, I might be persuaded to change my mind.”
Both ladies chuckled at that.
It was good to laugh, Phoebe thought. She had spent countless sleepless nights worrying over the situation, and over the fact that despite her very real annoyance and resentment at her parents, she could not shake the unwanted attraction she felt towards the man they had chosen for her to marry.
He had been arrogant, self-important, and even rude at the ball, and she had left his side as quickly as she could manage after their dance. But she could not deny that his outward appearance was anything but perfection. His attire bespoke a man of great wealth, though the clothing was understated. It was the cut and the cloth that gave him away.
And his physical presence was also more striking to her than she liked. She didn’t wish to acknowledge even to herself that she liked the way his curly mop of black hair fell around his head, that one wayward curl finding its way repeatedly over his left eye, no matter how often he pushed it back. She’d had the impulse to push it back a time or two herself. And his black eyes snapped and sparkled, though he had barely even looked at her directly while they danced. He had not smiled at her, but she had observed him with his friends, and his smile had been like lightning in a dark sky, illuminating his features, making him positively angelic in aspect. An archangel was nothing by comparison, she thought fancifully, and then frowned. She had no intention of becoming distracted by his beauty when his character was offensive to her.
She ruthlessly pushed the thought of his high cheekbones and square chin from her mind, and asked Dorothea a question instead. “What is it about a man that would make him attractive to you?”
Her friend thought for a moment, and then said, “Obviously, I would need to begin with what I can see. I like tall, dark men. Well-defined features are helpful.”
“And once he passes the physical examination?”
“Then he must be intelligent, amusing, and passionately enamoured with me.” She chuckled as she spoke those last words, and Phoebe joined in. “I will not abide a man who would as soon take me as leave me.”
“I must agree with you there,” Phoebe said. “Which is another reason I do not see myself being happy as the wife of the Lord of Ice! He is not at all interested in me. He didn’t compliment me on my appearance, or try to convers about anything!”
“There is a rumour circulating that he is really extraordinarily shy,” Dorothea said.
Phoebe made a disbelieving noise in her throat.
“Someone of his stature and position, with as much wealth and power as he has, cannot be shy. The man is apparently most eloquent in Parliament! How could he be shy?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Dorothea replied. “Perhaps you made him feel self-conscious?”
Phoebe laughed. “I love your loyalty, Dorothea, but even for you, that is unbelievable. There is nothing about me to generate even the remotest apprehension in anyone.”
“Well, perhaps self-conscious is not the right word. Perhaps cautious? You can be intimidating, you know.”
“Whom? Me? I cannot believe you would say that of me! I do not strike fear into anyone’s heart, believe me.”
Dorothea regarded her with some amusement. “You have no idea how beautiful you are Phe. Some men find a beautiful woman intimidating.”
“There is nothing remarkable in my looks. Besides, how can one’s looks be intimidating?” Phoebe countered.
“How do you find Lord Beckton? Assume he was not your betrothed. How would you describe him?”
Dorothea’s question, coming so closely on the heels of her own private thoughts on the subject of her betrotheds looks, startled Phoebe. “Well, I...he’s a very tall man,” she said.
“And?” Dorothea urged her on.
“He has a noble aspect, and handsome features,” she continued reluctantly.
“And?” Dorothea pushed her to continue, a smile forming on her face.
“He seems to be very much in control, self-assured, proud. He carries his head high and holds himself erect at all times. He seems to be a man of temperate habits; I didn’t observe him drink but once.”
“Some people might find that combination intimidating, don’t you think? A short woman, or a man who was less confident in himself? Short men might also find him threatening because he appears well-built.”
“I suppose you could be right,” Phoebe conceded. “I didn’t find him intimidating in the slightest, though.” She curled her lip and frowned.
Dorothea observed her friend keenly for a moment, and then chuckled. “Obviously! But I wager that you liked what you saw.”
Phoebe stood up and paced away, suddenly agitated. Dorothea joined her and they walked around the garden, as it seemed clear that her friend needed to move to keep her thoughts at bay.
“It’s inconceivable to me that I should find such an insufferable man eye-catching, Dorothea! And frankly, it is humiliating!”
“Some of the most handsome and charming men are also some of the worst human beings. We both know this. There are at least two in the village. We all acknowledge their outward appeal to our gender, but only the most desperate women, or those of questionable character, would even consider having anything to do with them.”
“You are right, of course.” She smiled at Dorothea and added resolutely, “I will no longer dwell on it. Shall we return indoors? I’d like a glass of lemonade. It’s such a warm day.”
“You can help me decide what to wear on Friday evening. Perhaps I’ll be lucky and land myself a suitor.”
Both women laughed merrily as they strolled back into the large front hall of the Kendall residence and ascended the stairs. Phoebe was determined to forget about her troubles until she could no longer avoid thinking about them. Her parents, Lord Beckton, and the whole world would just have to move along without her.
THREE
“My lord, I thought that your father had given you all the particulars of the arrangement.”
Lord Beckton glared angrily at his solicitor before throwing himself into the armchair across the desk from the man who looked blandly back at him, undisturbed by his behaviour.
“The extent of my father’s conversation with me is as I have told you, Hemsworth. This was news to me. And I assume it will also be news to Miss Alexander.”
“Her parents and his lordship met with me to discuss the details, and it was agreed that you would marry when she turns twenty-one.”
Lord Beckton thought he espied a moment of compassion in the solicitor’s eyes before he schooled his features to blank legal aloofness once again. Though the man had been with their family, and had become somewhat of a business mentor to the Earl, Hemsworth knew when to retain a professional front.
“How would you like to proceed, my lord?” Hemsworth asked eventually. “Would you like me to arrange a meeting between yourself and her father to review the arrangements?”
Lord Beckton shook his head. “The last thing I want to do right now is meet with a man whose neck I could quite cheerfully wring.” His voice echoed the depth of his irritation and disquiet.
After a moment’s hesitation, the solicitor said quietly, “Forgive me, my lord, but did I misunderstand your words earlier?”
Lord Be
ckton looked over at him. “What words? What did I say?”
Mr Hemsworth cleared his throat. “You indicated that you had formed an attachment to Miss Alexander in the interim, my lord.” Another pause, and then he said, “I just wondered if I had misinterpreted your intentions.”
Lord Beckton let loose a bitter laugh. “You didn’t misinterpret me, Hemsworth. I find myself in the unfortunate position of being in love with the woman my father and hers have thrust upon me.”
The lawyer scratched his chin, a puzzled look on his face.
“Then sir, I do not understand your reaction to this news.”
“You are a married man are you not, Hemsworth?” Lord Beckton asked in an unexpected change of topic.
“I am, my lord. Why do you ask?”
“Was your wife chosen for you?”
“Only by myself, my lord.”
“And did she wish to marry you in return?”
“She did, my lord.”
The solicitor stood up and went to a cabinet by the window, removing two glasses and a bottle of brandy. As he poured drinks for each of them, he said, “I beg your pardon my lord, but how is my situation relevant? I am not a member of the aristocracy, and we do things a little differently than you all do.”
Lord Beckton accepted the glass gratefully, and took a great gulp before replying. “You have known me all my life, Hemsworth. You are almost like family to me. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would, my lord,” that gentleman answered gravely, sipping his own drink.
“I find myself in love with a woman who despises me, because I cannot seem to find the bon mot to speak to her. I recently had the opportunity to get to know her a little better, and to let her see who I am, and I botched the job pretty spectacularly. Now she thinks I am arrogant at best, and rude at worst.”
“The Lord of Ice?”
Lord Beckton looked up sharply. “I see you are aware of that unfortunate title.”
The solicitor chuckled. “I know a great deal more than you think I do, my lord,” he said, smiling into his drink. “It’s my job.”
Lord Beckton sighed. “I was asking about your situation because I wanted to know whether or not you would have married her if you had had no personal regard for her.”
Hemsworth frowned briefly, then replied, “I had no intention of marrying anyone until I met my wife, and neither did she. We formed an attachment that we agreed our marriage would allow us to happily retain.” Hemsworth took another sip of his drink and went to sit at his desk. “However, I should caution you, my lord, to refrain from making comparisons between my youth and your own. We are very different, despite the closeness of our personal connection.”
“That’s a snobbish thing to say, Hemsworth,” the Earl replied, noting that the man merely smiled at his reprimand. “What does my station matter if I am to be made unhappy by bearing its obligations?”
Hemsworth seemed to consider the question for a moment before replying. “And are you unhappy about having to marry Miss Alexander?” he wanted to know.
“I am not,” Lord Beckton admitted, “but I am concerned that we do not begin a lifetime’s commitment to each other if she wants no part of it.”
“Can you not simply release her from the promise your father made, if she remains so opposed to the match?”
The solicitor eyed him keenly.
“I suppose I could do so,” Lord Beckton replied, “but aside from it not being a particularly honourable thing to do, our wishes notwithstanding, it could reflect rather badly on the girl should she wish to marry someone else. As you have pointed out, society treats those of her station and gender differently, and it is not beyond the realm of possibility for her chances at marriage to be severely curtailed by such an action on my part, even if my intentions are to help her. I cannot have that on my conscience.”
Hemsworth drained his glass. “Then it appears that your only alternative is the one presented by this arrangement.” He clasped his hands before him on the desk as he leaned forward. “May I be so bold, my lord, as to suggest a course of action?”
“Please do,” the Earl said.
“The Season is almost upon us. Why don’t you invite her family up for a visit? It would save them the cost of renting a house, and would give you both, under the close supervision of her parents, a chance to get to know each other. And while they are with you, you will be better able to ascertain how to win her regard.”
Lord Beckton gazed out at the street, as the bustle of the early afternoon went by. “That is an excellent idea, Hemsworth. And my Aunt Iris will be happy to play the hostess, and might even host a dinner party or two before they return to Derbyshire.” He finished his drink and stood up. “I had best be heading back, to set this plan in motion. I will, of course, keep you informed as to my progress.”
He shook the solicitor’s hand warmly, and walked out, feeling better because he had a plan to address the problem that had been weighing on him heavily, especially after Hemsworth had told him he was expected to marry Phoebe in a year. He made his way back to his townhouse in Mayfair, and as he was walking in, he heard his name called. Turning, he found the Viscount of Wiltshire alighting from his phaeton, and smiled a greeting.
“I was hoping to find you here, old chap,” Lord Wiltshire said as they shook hands.
“Come in. I have news for you. We can discuss it over drinks.”
Lord Beckton led the way into his study, where he gave the butler instructions for dinner, which would now include his friend. “Where is my aunt?’ he asked the man before he left.
“She is calling on friends, my lord,” the butler answered, “and advised me that she would likely be late returning home.”
“Thank you, Bailey.” The Earl dismissed the man and turned his attention to his friend.
“Take a seat. I’ve just been with my solicitor,” he began, “It seems I am to be married in a year.”
Lord Wiltshire brows shot up in astonishment. “That was fast,” he commented. “Two weeks ago, you were not been happy at the prospect of marrying an unwilling bride.”
“And I am still not,” Lord Beckton replied, “but I have now some idea of how I may overcome the problems I have created by my inability to hold a normal conversation with my betrothed.” At Lord Wiltshire’s pointed stare, he continued, “Hemsworth suggested that I invite the Alexanders to visit for the end of the Season. That will no doubt throw us into each other’s company more, and we will be better able to become acquainted. As long as others are around, I will not feel so heavily the weight of my affection for her, or be hamstrung by it, and she will see that I can, in fact, speak coherently about whatever latest thing young women find interesting to talk about.”
Lord Wiltshire shook his head pityingly. Lord Beckton glared at him.
“What? I can sense your concern.”
“If it is your intention to bring her round to seeing you as an acceptable life partner, you’ll need to initiate conversation with her, not wait for her or others to set the pace. Tell her you like the way the colour of her dress highlights her eyes, talk about the way she speaks in soft tones, express enjoyment of her skill at the pianoforte.”
Lord Beckton went to the buffet behind his desk and brought out a half bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He offered Lord Wiltshire a glass of the golden liquid, and settled himself behind the desk with his own, sipping from it before saying,
“I could compose poetry about her beauty, but to say those things to her seems somehow awkward. It’s not who I am, as you well know, Wiltshire.”
“Yes, you are right. You have not learned the fine art of courting.” He swallowed some of the liquid in his glass and then said, “Perhaps you could ask her about her interests? Do you know what sort of things she enjoys?”
“I do not,” Lord Beckton confessed, “but in the same way that I think courtly flirtation sends the wrong message about my intentions, I have no wish to sound like I am interviewing her for a position in my hou
sehold. She is to be my wife, not my servant.”
The Viscount made an impatient noise. “You are thinking to deeply about this, my dear fellow. Simply say the usual pleasantries to begin with, and then go where the conversation leads you.”
“Easy for you to say,” Lord Beckton grumbled, but conceded that his friend was probably right.
FOUR
Late on Friday afternoon, Phoebe walked into the Kendalls’ drawing room where the gaming tables had been set up. People were beginning to choose which game they wished to play, and the sideboard was heavily laden with port, sherry, and the breads, cheeses, and fruit that would be the main source of sustenance as the evening wore on.
“Come along, Phoebe,” her mother said behind her, urging her forward by the elbow. “We shall play whist together. Your father will play too, of course.”
Judith Alexander was a slender woman of average height and looks, whose mousy brown hair was piled high atop her head, and dressed with a sparkling tiara. The emerald green dress she wore set off her beautiful green eyes, but her whole aspect was spoiled by the thin lips that were nearly always pursed in disapproval, even when she seemed most relaxed. She smiled widely at everyone she passed, and Phoebe wished she would be less...effervescent. She thought a woman of her mother’s years ought to be quieter, instead of always seeming to push herself into public view. But she knew her mother well, and she was not the retiring sort.
The card game went on for an hour before Phoebe grew tired of it, and rose to take a turn about the room. She went to help herself to a glass of sherry and as she turned away, she bumped into a hard body. Springing away quickly, she apologised before looking into a handsome face. The young man was smiling at her, and he bowed as he stepped back and accepted her apology, offering one of his own.
“My pardon, madam. I ought to have been paying more attention to where I was going. I’m Michael Howe, at your service.”
