by Jayne Davis
He remembered how she’d looked at the marquess, and apologised.
She shook her head, biting her lip. “No, you were right. I might have lost control. I think you’d better take them from here.” She held out the reins.
“You did very well until the dog,” he reassured her. “Really,” he added, looking at her chagrined expression. “It’s busy, and you’re tired.”
Phoebe sat rubbing her arms and flexing her hands as he drove back, trying to work out the aches in her muscles. He brought the horses to a stop when they reached Berkeley Square, and asked the groom to go to their heads.
“Thank you,” Phoebe said, smiling at him. “You are a good teacher.”
“You don’t need much instruction,” Alex said, warmed by her compliment and her smile. He jumped down, then helped her. They walked up the steps.
“I’d invite you in, but…”
“Your aunt?” Alex suggested as she hesitated.
“I’m afraid she wouldn’t like it,” Phoebe admitted, with a wry twist to her lips. Then she gave a proper smile, and he caught his breath. This was nothing like the farewell on the beach in France, but he felt the same urge to kiss her. It had been unwise then; it was impossible now.
Resolutely he turned away and plied the knocker, then bowed over her hand.
Alex climbed the flights of stairs to his rooms, breathing in the faint smell of polish. In his sitting room, it was immediately apparent that his cleaning woman
had been in while he’d been driving with Phoebe; the stack of newspapers he’d borrowed from Marstone was neatly aligned with the edge of the table and the fire had been laid.
He hung his hat and coat on the peg behind the bedroom door and lit the fire. The jacket and breeches he’d worn to the theatre last night hung from the curtain pole to air, no doubt carefully brushed. The sight reminded him of Phoebe’s conversation with her brother in the park—for the first time, he regretted not having the entrée to fashionable events such as the ball she’d mentioned.
Would Phoebe be expecting him to go? She’d seen him with the Cartertons the previous night, and as she’d mentioned the ball in his presence, she might think he could get an invitation if he didn’t already have one.
Would she even want him to? Selfishly, he hoped so, although it would be better if she didn’t, he told himself, then she wouldn’t see his non-appearance as a slight. Perhaps he should have made some excuse—a prior appointment—but that would imply he would be able to go to other such events.
For he did want to see her again. He’d occasionally wondered, during these last weeks, if his longing to be with her was only the product of unaccustomed loneliness, too many years of subterfuge, but today’s encounter had finally dispelled that idea. Slumping into a chair by the fire, he gazed at the flames beginning to lick around the coals. A memory of Mary Helstone’s father came into his mind—something he’d not thought about for years. Helstone had been furious, insulted that someone of Alex’s birth had dared to look at his daughter, and wished out loud that the days of horsewhipping the lower orders were not past. And Mary, after all those professions of love, had not cared for him enough to defy her father and society. Or didn’t have the courage to.
He rubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t even remember why he had thought he was so in love—other than possessing a china-doll, delicate prettiness and a sweet nature, Mary had little to recommend her. He could see now that he would have been bored within a few months. Phoebe, on the other hand…
Irritated at the way his mind would not leave it alone, he stood and reached for his coat. Nothing could come of it—his birth would be even less acceptable to her family than it had been to Helstone.
He must try to forget her. Some exercise might help him to think of something other than Phoebe—he’d try at the fencing salons. Failing that, he might just get drunk.
Chapter 39
Phoebe stood with her back to a pillar at the edge of Lady Stanton’s ballroom, awaiting her partner for the next dance. The event was a definite squeeze, the room over-warm and packed with people. She couldn’t help scanning the crowds, hoping to see Alex, and had to hide her disappointment each time a late arrival turned out to be a stranger. Hélène passed her with Lord Harlford, a happy smile on her face as she met Phoebe’s eyes.
Her next partner arrived, a rather plump young man with a red, shiny face. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief, apologising profusely for being late. Phoebe did her best to concentrate and make conversation, all the while wishing she had Alex before her instead of this nervous young man.
Her cotillion with Lord Harlford was next, and they joined the same set as Hélène and Lord Tresham. Hélène’s smile faded as she noted who Phoebe was dancing with. She might have had some sympathy with her cousin if she thought Hélène cared for anything other than his wealth and title.
Their conversation was rather disjointed because of the movements of the dance, but when they had exchanged the usual pleasantries, Lord Harlford mentioned seeing her in the park.
“It was a pleasant morning for a drive,” Phoebe said. She thought it might be rude to say she hadn’t noticed him—her attention had been on Alex or on her driving most of the time.
“Not many people go driving so early,” he continued the next time the dance brought them together. His voice held a faint note of enquiry—was he trying to find out who she’d been with?
“It is often more enjoyable when it is quiet. You must find it so yourself, my lord?” she added.
“I was… well, yes.”
She could see from his expression that he wasn’t satisfied with her answer. “It is so much easier to enjoy being among trees and grass when there are no interruptions from other people,” she went on, attempting to divert the conversation. She had no wish to discuss Alex with him. “It is the nearest I get to being in the country.”
“You prefer the country to Town?” he asked.
“Oh, balls and so on are amusing for a while,” she said, pleased her tactic had worked. “I enjoy visiting museums and attending the theatre, but I do miss being out of doors. The parks here are pleasant, but it is not the same.”
“You have lived in the countryside, then?”
Phoebe studied his expression as the dance took them apart. This was the longest conversation they’d had about anything unconnected with balloons or horses, but he did seem to be genuinely interested in hearing her answer. When they paired up again, she described the Hampshire countryside where she had grown up.
Lord Harlford asked about her parents, and although one brow rose when she explained that her father had been a combined surgeon and apothecary, his interest in her descriptions did not wane. Then, the dance not yet being finished, she went on to talk about the countryside around Calvac. Was she chattering on as badly as Hélène usually did? She had no way of knowing—he was too polite to show any boredom he might be feeling.
“Thank you, Miss Deane,” he said when the set ended. “Would you care to drive with me tomorrow?”
“Thank you, yes.” She hoped he would not borrow those placid horses again, but before she could work out a diplomatic way of saying so, he raised her hand to his lips and took his leave.
Phoebe stared after him, surprised at his last action.
“My sister, a future marchioness!” Joe spoke behind her, a laugh in his voice. Thankfully Lord Harlford was well out of earshot.
“Nothing of the sort!”
“Does everyone kiss your hand, then, Fee?” he asked, more seriously.
“No, but he was just being polite, I should think.”
“Pity,” Joe said with a grin, then led her into the next set. He talked about his hopes for another posting soon, and Phoebe reminded him that he was supposed to accompany their party to see HMS Antelope at Greenwich the following day. During the set, she spotted Lord Hilvern dancing with a young matron, his florid face dewed with sweat. His eyes met Phoebe’s as the pattern of the dance took him close to
her, and he scowled and quickly looked away. She wondered if he still remembered their discussion about women learning languages.
Joe and Marlow left after supper, but Phoebe was not short of partners. She was just reflecting that she was enjoying herself despite Alex’s absence when she saw a familiar figure at the far side of the ballroom. Brevare?
He appeared quite different in his elegant and colourful clothing, looking around him as he wandered between groups of people talking at the edge of the room. Phoebe’s partner returned her to a chair near her aunt, and she opened her fan, waving it gently while keeping it between her face and Brevare. Her heart raced at the thought that he might recognise her and speak to her here, in full view of the highest sticklers in the ton. With such a potentially scandalous story to tell, he could get the whole family ostracised if he chose to.
Should she go to the ladies’ retiring room? No, her movement might draw attention to herself. The fan still gently waving, she kept a stealthy eye on Brevare as he surveyed the room, breathing a sigh of relief when his gaze fixed on something and he began to push his way through the crowd. Phoebe tensed again as she realised he was making for Hélène. What did he want with her cousin?
“Miss Deane? This is our dance, I believe.” Lord Tresham sounded impatient. Had he needed to speak a second time?
“I do beg your pardon, my lord,” she said, rising. “I’m afraid my wits were wandering!”
“Are you feeling quite well?” he asked, his brow creased in concern.
“Yes, thank you. I was merely thinking on a puzzle. But a dance will clear my head.”
“Very well.” He offered his arm, and they moved over to where the set was forming. With any luck, Brevare would be taken up with Hélène and would not notice her. If he still thought her a servant, he wouldn’t be expecting to see her here, which would help.
She managed to avoid Brevare for the rest for the rest of the evening, and not much was said in the carriage on the way home, although Hélène’s expression could be described as smug. Phoebe wondered what Brevare had wanted, but managed to dismiss him from her mind for the moment. No doubt she would soon find out.
Phoebe didn’t sleep well that night—it wasn’t Brevare’s appearance keeping her awake, but Joe’s flippant comment about Lord Harlford’s intentions. If Joe was right, she was on the point of making the catch of the season—with her red hair too!
Instead of excitement, she felt a knot of something more like doom in her stomach. The marquess was a decent man—polite and considerate—he danced well, and she couldn’t ask for better in terms of wealth and rank. He was pleasant company, too, even if not very talkative.
But he wasn’t the man she’d been thinking about every day for the last three weeks. She and Alex had slipped into their easy way of talking to each other today, almost as if no time had passed, but then they had parted with nothing more than a farewell she could have received from a mere acquaintance.
Alex had not come to the Stantons’ ball, even though he had heard her mentioning it to Joe. Bella had been there, and if Alex had wanted to come, he could surely have asked Bella to bring him.
That kiss in France—she could still feel a faint echo of the way it had affected her. Had it meant more to her than to him? He must have kissed many women. If he had been prevented from attending the ball by another appointment, he could have said so.
It was unrealistic to expect Alex to feel the same way, she told herself. She had to marry someone; she could not expect her uncle to support her for ever. If Alex did not return her feelings, and if Joe was correct, could she put her own desires aside to marry the marquess? Did she owe it to her uncle to accept?
As Phoebe descended the stairs the next morning, heavy-eyed and tired, she could hear Georges’ excited chatter from the dining room, and Miss Bryant’s calm replies.
Green was on duty. “Monsieur le Comte wants to see you in his study, miss, before breakfast.”
“Thank you, Green.” It would be something about today’s trip to see the frigate, no doubt.
Her uncle looked up as she entered. “Good morning, Phoebe.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Lord Harlford is coming to speak to me this morning.”
“Oh.” Not the frigate, then. All her anxiety from the previous night came back to her.
“I suspect he is going to request my permission to pay his addresses to you,” the comte went on.
She hadn’t thought she’d need to make this decision so soon. “Are you sure it’s me he wishes to ask about?”
“No, I’m not sure. His note only enquired if this morning would be convenient for him to call. If he is coming to ask about you, what do you wish me to say?”
Phoebe hesitated. She couldn’t make this decision now, not without a chance to find out what Alex felt for her. The comte’s words implied he would allow her to choose.
“Do you want me to accept, sir?” Best to be sure about that.
“It is a matter of what you wish, Phoebe,” her uncle said, his expression concerned. “Do not accept him because you think I want you gone! You are family, and you may make your home with us for as long as you need to.”
“I would like to marry someone who…” She took a deep breath. “My parents married for love, sir. I would like to do so too.”
“Your parents were happy together? I did not see much of them after they were wed.”
“Yes, very happy, sir.”
“I’m happy to hear that.” His gaze became unfocused, then he rubbed one hand across his forehead. “You do not wish to accept him, Phoebe?”
No, she did not. But nor did she want to explain her feelings for Alex.
“I feel I should, sir. I am not likely to get another offer from someone so… eligible. But…” She didn’t have any real objections to Lord Harlford, other than not being the man she did want.
“You don’t like him?”
“I don’t dislike him. He isn’t easy to talk to, but he is all a gentleman should be. I would like more than that in a marriage, though.”
“I’m sure you will become more at ease with him when you know him better.”
“I… yes, sir. I suppose so.
The comte’s eyes narrowed as he studied her face. Phoebe glanced away, aware that her uncle was an astute observer.
“There is someone else?” he asked.
“Yes. I mean, no. There is someone I like better. A lot better, but I don’t know if he… if he feels the same way about me.” Saying it out loud brought a lump to her throat.
The comte’s gaze briefly became unfocused again, and he did not press her to say who she meant. That was some relief.
“If this… this other man does not return your feelings, would you consider Harlford?”
“I… yes, I would give it serious consideration.” Her heart sank—it felt so wrong to even think it.
“Very well. He may want to see me about something else altogether, of course. Now, you had best go to breakfast. I suspect you will need fortifying to cope with my son’s enthusiasm.”
“Yes, sir,” Phoebe said, managing a smile, and headed for the sound of excited chatter.
* * *
Alex sat down in the chair indicated, wondering why he’d been summoned to the parlour to meet Admiral Fenton. He didn’t think Fenton was involved in Marstone’s operations, other than occasionally helping to organise transport of agents.
“Fenton was showing some people over a frigate today,” Marstone said. “How did it go, Fenton?”
The admiral chuckled. “Most entertaining. I sent young Calvac off with some middies, and one of the lieutenants was free to show the ladies around.”
Alex sat straighter in his chair at the mention of the Calvac name. Was Marstone trying to get Phoebe involved in something else?
“Ladies?” Marstone asked.
“Miss Deane asked if the boy’s governess could come along. A Miss Bryant, I think it was.” He laughed. “I’d have the
pair of them on the board for lieutenants’ examinations if I could—most amusing.”
“How so?”
“I’d come across one of the lieutenants before,” Fenton said. “Stanwick is an arrogant little lordling, thinks he knows it all. He began by trying to impress the young ladies with complicated explanations, but Miss Deane seemed to know a reasonable amount about rigging and such like already—”
Alex imagined her quizzing Trasker on the Lily, and smiled despite his growing concern.
“—and Miss Bryant has a technical mind. She kept asking him why, and persisting until she got a sensible explanation. Never seen a chap so chastened!”
The earl gave a crack of laughter.
“Why are you interested, Marstone?” Fenton asked.
That was a good question.
“In fact, why was Miss Deane at your dinner? An unusual guest for you.”
Alex frowned, recalling the night he returned from Devonshire, and the red-haired woman leaving the house. It had been Phoebe after all. His fingers gripped his brandy glass harder—Marstone was definitely planning something.
“Indeed,” Marstone said. “She’s an interesting young woman—got involved in a bit of trouble in France, but seemed to have handled herself well.”
“Hmm.” Fenton obviously thought this explanation was somewhat lacking, but didn’t persist. “I had a talk with the brother while the women were being shown around. Competent chap, bit unfortunate in his last ship, but I think he’ll go far.”
“You’ll sponsor him?”
“I think so, yes. From what he said, the second lieutenant on the Galene also seems worth a bit of attention. We’re going to need all the good men we can get.” The admiral glanced at the clock. “Was that all you wanted, Marstone?”