Certain the girl would remain in seclusion until she had recovered her countenance, Phoebe worked her way into the main drawing room then searched through the fashionables who spilled out into the adjoining rooms. When Xanthe had first spoken of a card party Phoebe had imagined a small gathering, perhaps ten people in all. But she must have counted more than fifty.
To her relief, she discovered Lucilla’s aunt in the second room she tried and the woman set forth at once to sit with her distressed niece. Sir Miles proved more difficult to find, but she spotted him at last on the far side of one of the card salons. He was easy to pick out, his restrained elegance showed in marked contrast to the excesses of the Tulips and Pinks. Only a single fob crossed the subdued brocade of his waistcoat and the ruby signet ring on his hand was not the least bit ostentatious as were so many she had seen. She had only to look for broad shoulders set off by a superbly cut coat and the muscled frame that must always proclaim him a Corinthian. Memory flooded through her of being lifted in those strong arms from her precarious perch atop an iron rail, of the feel of his fingers tight about her waist, of his air of amused confidence… Her cheeks burned.
At the moment he conversed with a rather pretty lady just past the bloom of youth but by no means marred by age. Their discussion seemed serious, or at least solemn and Phoebe hesitated to intrude. A certain understanding seemed to exist between the two as though they had known one another for a long time. Or perhaps it indicated something more?
Curiosity welled in her and she watched the lady covertly. She could detect no signs of humor in her docile eyes. In fact the lady didn’t seem at all suited to the lively humor that all too often overcame Sir Miles. But then perhaps he preferred a companion of a less animated turn of mind. She probably accepted—or even welcomed—his meddling in her affairs. Phoebe doubted an argument had ever sprung up between them.
She turned away and almost collided with a gentleman who had been walking at right angles to her. To her consternation she found herself staring at an elaborate brocade waistcoat shot through with gold thread and a coat of deep mulberry velvet. Her gaze traveled upward, past an impeccably tied cravat boasting a sapphire stickpin, into the handsome tanned face of the Marquis of Rushmere.
Rushmere. Phoebe stared at him, disoriented to see him here, so far from the Misses Crippenham’s Academy in Bath. But so many things had changed since last she’d seen him there.
He stared back. His expression of polite boredom faded behind a confident smile which in turn faded into a puzzled crease in his brow. “Do you know,” he said with the smile that had caused her former pupils to whisper his name in awe, “I feel certain we have been introduced yet I cannot imagine how I could have forgotten the name of any lady so lovely.”
He delivered the line with practiced ease but that didn’t detract from its charm in the least, she decided. She smiled back. “We have indeed met, my lord.”
A gleam lit his eyes. “Then I may claim you for a game of cards without the least impropriety. If you will grant me the pleasure?” He offered his arm.
“I cannot guarantee my ability will please you.”
“Sometimes,” he asserted in heart-melting tones, “the company more than makes up for the game.”
Another delightful line. But this one too sounded like the type a practiced flirt kept in his repertoire. Phoebe placed her fingers on his sleeve, flattered and not a little smug that he should bother to make her the object of his gallantries. For one reprehensible moment she wished Miss Georgeana Middleton or Lady Jane Hatcher could see her now, strolling off so casually with their idol. It quite set her up in her own conceit.
Of course if she were honest with herself—as she had a disconcerting tendency to be—she had to admit she could not think of a single reason why the marquis should single her out in so flattering a manner. Unless…
Xanthe. Had her fairy godmother released another of her “suggestions” in the marquis’s vicinity?
She allowed him to seat her at an empty table for two and as he broke the seal on a fresh pack of cards and sorted out the lower pips, she cast a surreptitious look about for Xanthe. And there she sat close by, indulging in a rather peculiar game of silver loo. Peculiar of course in that Xanthe’s wagers floated several inches above the cloth and not one of the other players seemed to notice that her coins rainbowed through a sparkling array of color or that the size of her cards shifted with carefree abandon.
Xanthe, it appeared, enjoyed herself. Did she intend for Phoebe to do so also? Or had she some greater purpose in mind? A nobleman of Rushmere’s rank would not pay attention to a penniless ex-schoolmistress without a little outside influence.
As the marquis dealt she considered the possibilities. Rushmere had been the epitome of her students’ dreams for so long, the object of their gossip and sighs, she had come to include him in a few daydreams of her own. Had Xanthe known this when she gifted Phoebe with a wish for a husband? And if so, then was Rushmere more than a confidence-building interlude? Might he be the answer she sought?
Marriage to a marquis. That would be quite in keeping with the doings of a fairy godmother. For it would take a fairy godmother to bring it about. It seemed she would have to give serious consideration to such an arrangement.
They declared point, sequence and sets and the game began. As Rushmere took the first trick he directed at her that dazzling smile that would have sent one or two of her pupils—such as Miss Hanna Brookstone or Miss Sophronia Farhnam—off into a swoon of ecstasy. “Why can I not recall where we have met before, Miss—” He broke off, inviting her to provide her name.
“Caldicot,” she said. If he were not a gift of Xanthe’s to her, the next information would cool the gleam in his eyes. “Until very recently I was one of the instructresses at your daughter’s school.”
The gleam, if anything, brightened. “And what brings you to town? Or need I ask? The Saunderton child I suppose. How very wise of her brother to keep so sharp an eye on her.”
Phoebe stiffened. “Whatever can you mean, my lord?”
His eyebrows rose. “You need not pretend, you know. Her little escapades in Bath did not go unnoticed. I cannot blame Saunderton in the least for trying to marry her off as quickly as possible. But if I were you, I would keep my eye on that rather handsome lieutenant she was speaking with earlier.”
She straightened and fixed him with the quelling regard that sobered the more riotous of her former pupils. On him it seemed to have no effect but she pressed on anyway. “I am not here because of Miss Saunderton. Nor has she behaved in a manner that is in the least discreditable. A chance encounter has given rise to dreadful rumors, it is true but I can assure you there is not one word of truth in them.”
His eyebrows rose. “You would know best of course.”
“I would.” She played her next card then turned the conversation to the upcoming Season with more determination than finesse.
Over the next two hands the unpleasantness faded to the back of her mind as they discussed the balls, plays and other anticipated events of the upcoming weeks. He could be every bit as charming as her pupils claimed, she reflected when at last she rose. He came to his feet as well, claiming her hand as he thanked her for the games. His gaze holding hers, he carried her fingers to his lips. She inclined her head, accepting this gallantry as the flirtatious gesture it undoubtedly was and they parted company.
Almost she could regret the fact she would not be returning to the Misses Crippenham’s establishment. But then Lady Jane Hatcher and Miss Georgeana Middleton would refuse to believe what had just occurred. She must remember to thank Xanthe for allowing this daydream to come true. Unless it was to be more than that?
Musing on this, she strolled into the drawing room where she saw Sir Miles Saunderton almost at once. That put her in mind of her reluctant promise to Lucilla and, bracing herself, she strode up to him. He turned as she stopped at his side and the frown lines lessened in his brow.
“You are lo
oking grim,” she said, which was not at all how she had meant to begin.
His lips twitched into a wry smile. “I had forgotten the difficulties of shepherding a green girl through a London Season.”
She spotted Lucilla, who sat on one of the sofas beside a rather dashing Corinthian. His dress bespoke a sporting carelessness and his handsome countenance betrayed a considerable amount of good humor. A marked familiarity showed in his manner and she frowned. “Oh dear, he seems just the sort of gentleman to most appeal to her. Is he dangerous?”
“Ashby? Lord no.” Sir Miles frowned. “Not to her at least. If she only would take an interest in him I would be glad. Unfortunately they have known one another practically since she was in the cradle.”
“A definite barrier to romance,” Phoebe agreed, “but not insurmountable.” She noticed Lucy’s attention wander from one who should have been a most fascinating companion, her gaze drifting about the room until suddenly the girl’s entire countenance lit with pleasure. Phoebe followed the direction of that gaze and spotted her dashing lieutenant standing not far away, staring steadily back at Lucilla. Sir Miles, it seemed, had noticed the scarlet-coated officer as well and glowered at him. Curious, Phoebe asked, “Have you any objection to that lieutenant? He appears quite enamored of your sister.”
“Enamored of her portion, you mean,” Miles snapped. “I don’t want any fortune hunter pursuing her.”
“Are you positive that’s what he is?”
He cast her an impatient glance. “Lucilla isn’t the first heiress the fellow’s made up to. And the devil’s in it she’s too green to show any discretion.”
Phoebe frowned. “It is a pity he is possessed of so pleasing a manner.”
“A man bent on marrying an heiress can hardly be displeasing, can he?” came Miles’ short answer.
With that she had to agree.
“Ashby’s popular enough with the other young ladies,” he said in disgust. “He’s forever having caps set at him.”
But not the one he wanted? Did Lucy make the mistake of despising the familiar and being enchanted by the unknown? There sat Ashby, a matrimonial catch of no mean order, showering attentions upon the girl to the obvious envy of a number of other young ladies present. And Lucy remained oblivious to the singular honor he bestowed upon her.
“If he were to make another lady the object of his attentions it might make her notice him,” she said with diffidence.
He shot her a look from beneath his lowered brow. “Make her jealous, do you mean? But he’d never raise expectations he had no intention of fulfilling.”
No he wouldn’t. Despite his modish dress and his sporting manner, he remained too obviously a man of honor. “If he were a touch less respectable he would appeal more to a young girl with a romantic nature.”
“Romantic!” Miles said the word with disgust. “How can any female turn her nose up at a matrimonial prize like Ashby in favor of some shady ne’er-do-well?”
“Simply because he is shady,” Phoebe said then gathered her courage to press on with her appointed task. “Sir Miles, if I might have a word with you in private?”
His gaze narrowed on her. “Difficult in so crowded a party.” He glanced about then led the way to the apartment to which he had taken Lucy less than an hour before.
They left the door ajar and Phoebe seated herself on a sofa at the far end of the room. “Please understand that I have no desire to interfere.”
“No,” he murmured, “that would be meddling.”
“You are not making this easy,” she snapped. “I have only come to you because of my sincere attachment to Lucilla.”
He inclined his head but made no comment.
She rose, strode to the hearth while she searched for words then turned to face him and plunged right in. “Sir Miles, I beg you will not forbid Lucilla to see her lieutenant.”
His brow snapped down. “Do you desire me to permit her to throw herself away on a curst fortune hunter?”
“Do not be absurd. Only consider. She is of a romantic disposition. If you forbid what she believes to be her only chance for happiness, desperation will drive her into running away with him, or someone like him.”
“So I am to encourage her in her folly?”
“You could, if you insist upon it but I wouldn’t recommend it. An attitude of amused tolerance will stand you in better stead.”
“Amused tolerance is something I have grown rather good at,” he admitted.
Her jaw tensed. “You may make jokes, of course,” she said, “but I assure you I have considerable experience with young ladies of her age and temperament. Please, for your sister’s sake, consider what I have said.” She hesitated a moment then turned and left the room. Lucy, she feared, required a delicate touch to her bridle while Sir Miles seemed to have a heavy hand where his sister was concerned. She could only hope her words had some affect on him.
The matter still occupied her mind when she emerged from the house the following morning, dressed in a rather stunning riding habit of emerald green velvet and a matching high crowned hat with a wisp of a veil. Really, it could be amazingly simple to turn oneself out in style if one only had a fairy godmother to lend a hand. As she started down the front steps she suddenly realized that the skirt she lifted so she should not trip over it had changed to a ruby red. The next moment the velvet became a rich sapphire blue then a deep purple. Xanthe, apparently, still trying to make up her mind.
“I like green,” she whispered. Her skirt flickered through all the colors of the rainbow then returned to the original emerald. “Thank you,” Phoebe murmured and turned her attention to the waiting Macha.
Another groom, holding three mounts, stood before the Saundertons’ house. Phoebe would recognize that formidable roan anywhere, an admirable animal spoiling for a gallop. A chestnut stood solid at his side, ears back but otherwise ignoring the antics of the sidling roan. So too did the third animal, a dainty tranquil bay who stood with one back fetlock cocked, ears sideways, bordering on sleep. That could only be Lucilla’s mount. The girl, as Phoebe well remembered from their brief excursions at the Misses Crippenham’s Academy, did not enjoy equestrian activities. It surprised her that Lucy had consented to join this expedition—or that Sir Miles had consented to have her come along.
In any event Sir Miles would not be pleased to see Phoebe mounting up as well. She had best depart as quickly as possible. She turned to the groom, saying, “Good morning, Limmer,” then bestowed the bits of the carrot she carried on both horses. Macha shoved gently against her then lipped at her hand for more.
“Ready, miss?” Limmer moved to her side, preparing to toss her into the saddle.
The door of the neighboring house opened and Lucy emerged onto the porch, yawning. “The day cannot possibly start this early,” she protested and cast an accusing glance into the sky as if defying it to be light already.
“It is well advanced.” Sir Miles, very much awake, followed his sister. “I did warn you last night when you said you wished to ride with me.” He looked up, straight at Phoebe and a slight frown flickered across his features. “Miss Caldicot, I see we are of the same mind. Would you care for company?”
For a brief moment she considered refusing but that would be an unpardonable slight. Lucy chimed in, endorsing her brother’s invitation and Phoebe had no choice but to acquiesce with as much appearance of pleasure as she could muster. He had after all bestowed an amazingly amiable greeting upon her, considering what had passed between them the previous night.
He descended the shallow stairs then strode over to join her, the controlled power of his step betraying his repressed energy. She realized her gaze lingered on him and in embarrassment she turned away, back to her horse. Then he reached her side and taking her hand, he bowed over it. No smile but no open animosity either. A truce perhaps?
“Shall we be off? Your mare seems to be eager for her exercise.” He cupped his hands, tossed her into the saddle then gave more consi
derable help to his sister. In a very few minutes he too swung himself onto his mount and turned the roan’s head toward the park.
Lucy, fighting back another yawn, maneuvered her bay into position beside Phoebe. Macha tugged at the reins, striving to forge ahead but Lucy’s presence compelled Phoebe to restrain the eager mare to match the gelding’s plodding pace. Sir Miles not unexpectedly moved ahead, his roan capering sideways, playing off his tricks.
Phoebe couldn’t blame him for taking his moment of freedom. She only wished she could do the same. As it was she could do no more than watch and admire the ease with which he sat his capricious mount’s antics, the steadiness of his hands, the deep richness of his chuckle as he brought the roan under control.
Lucilla sighed. “One must admit Miles is a capital horseman.”
“He is indeed.” And what had passed between these two since last Phoebe saw them? Then, they had barely been on speaking terms with one another. Today, the girl actually complimented her brother. Had Sir Miles listened—and taken to heart—the unsolicited advice she had thrust down his unwilling throat?
Lucy cast her a sideways glance. “I only got up this morning so I would have the opportunity to thank you for speaking to him. I am ever so grateful. Would you believe it? He actually apologized to me.”
“He—” Phoebe blinked. “No. I don’t think I can believe it.”
Lucy laughed. “Now you are being absurd. Really, Miles can be the best of good brothers. Most of the time that is. But he does so like to have everything—and everyone—do just as he would wish. It can be so very trying at times for he only sees things from his own point of view.”
“Which can prove difficult when it does not coincide with yours,” Phoebe agreed.
“Oh you understand! But I knew you must for you have always been the dearest and best of my teachers. You see, he doesn’t believe in permitting love or—or romance to interfere when he chooses our marriage partners.”
“He chooses?” That bald statement startled Phoebe.
Candlelight Wish Page 8
