“Where is Lord Huxley, may I ask, My Lord Duke?”
“He will arrive presently. He has been at the naval offices preparing for voyage.” The Duke raised an eyebrow. “He is making arrangement to transport certain fauna, I believe. He has made order of specialist glass cases for this purpose.”
Phoebe laid a hand over her heart. “How sweet of him! I can only attest to the gentleness and kindness of the Marquess. He is a most noble gentleman.”
“Indeed, he is. And in time you will be his wife, the Marchioness of Huxley.”
The thought brought about lightheadedness within Phoebe. The title of Marchioness seemed so large and looming for a lady who still felt so young and small. She would be the lady of a manor all her own, the spouse of a noble husband with an immaculate reputation.
She drew in a deep breath and smiled. “My priority will always be the contentment and good health of Lord Huxley.”
The Duke puffed out his chest. Phoebe could see the pride in his stance, and his pleasure at her response. His cropped grey curls rested on the shoulders of his tailcoat and his white-silk cravat seemed to hold up the weight of his loose jowls. He hooked his thumbs beneath the lapels of his jacket and rocked on his heels for a moment before standing fully erect and proper.
“I must attend to my other guests, but please enjoy the evening. My Lady, your arrival is most anticipated by all present here tonight.”
The Duke left them and Phoebe drew in a shuddering breath. She smoothed down her skirts once, twice, then steadied her gloved hands by clasping them in front of her.
Her brother, Roger Elkins, the Viscount Saxby, smiled at her graciously.
“What is the cause of all this nervousness, Phoebe? It is simply a dance.”
“Simply a dance!” she scoffed. “You and I both know that this is far more than a dance. This is my formal presentation. This is the announcement of our engagement, and I was given such marginal time to prepare.”
“Tell me, Sister, what preparation does one require for the announcement of an engagement?”
“Any kind at all is beneficial.”
“You just upheld the most elegant conversation with the Duke. Like a true Marchioness. Qualm your fears, Phoebe, you are a natural lady. You’ve developed a grace of which you are unaware. Do not doubt your charm, for it is notable.”
Phoebe sat at the sidelines of the ball while her brother and father circulated amongst the guests until Evan arrived for her at last. She saw him enter the ballroom and search for her amongst the crowd.
He was wearing white knee breeches and stockings, highly-polished shoes, and a black cut-away coat with long tails. Unlike his father, the Duke, Evan’s cravat made him appear distinguished and handsome. He was notably taller than all other gentlemen in the room; he was the most dapper gentleman of them all.
At last, Evan caught sight of her and he crossed the room swiftly to meet her with a bow.
“My Lady, forgive me for not being present upon your arrival. There was business that demanded my attention.”
“Glass cases?”
Evan smiled. “I would never break a promise to my love.” He invited her to stand. “Please, My Lady, come with me. I would like to introduce you to my mother.”
“The Duchess? I haven’t seen her Grace in many years, Lord Huxley.”
“She is well-consumed by her own affairs. A charitable lady, as you know.”
“Of course. Evan, it would be my pleasure to see her again.”
A smile played at the edge of Evan’s lips. “My Lady, you haven’t called me by my Christian name since we were children.”
“Forgive me, My Lord. I forgot myself for a moment.”
“It won’t be long before there will be no more formality between us, my love. We are on the cusp of being wed. In fact, let us do away with these stale terms of address this moment. It would please me for you to call me simply ‘Evan.’”
“Evan. And I am yours—your Phoebe.”
She bit down on her lip, overcome by a sudden shyness. Another obstacle between them had been disassembled, bringing them ever closer toward their ultimate and unbreakable union.
Phoebe continued. “The thought of being a marchioness is almost impossible to conceive. Often I still feel I am the same girl who ran from her governess to watch the birds each morning before her lessons began.”
“I cared deeply for that girl, and I care for the lady she has become.”
“Tonight, we must talk in depth, Evan. I do not know the slightest thing about your interests or activities outside of your career. I hardly know what kind of thoughts occupy the mind of Lord Huxley.”
“Believe me, Phoebe, your thoughts hold far more interest than mine. You are a delight.”
Phoebe followed him through the crowd toward Tabitha Boltmon, the Duchess of Bentley.
The Duchess was a lady whose posture and general air made those around her feel intimidated. She was taller than any lady Phoebe had ever met before and thinner than a flagpole to the point where Phoebe could see the edges of her corset beneath the silk of her dress; the corset not able to cling tightly enough to a body that was skeletal in appearance.
Her once-blonde hair was now streaked with grey and was pinned into a severe style atop her head without so much as a single tendril hanging loose from its position.
Her white dress was tight and made of a soft material that drifted around her angular body, creating the effect that the Duchess was walking in smoke, like she was an apparition.
Her jaw was strong and wide, very masculine in appearance and her nose was long and hooked. Her eyes, once blue, were now a charcoal gray, but as sharp and cold as icicles that rested in sunken sockets.
“Mother, may I reintroduce you to my wife-to-be, the Lady Phoebe Elkins. My Lady, it is my pleasure to reacquaint you with my mother, Her Grace, the Duchess of Bentley.”
Phoebe quickly bowed her head and curtsied in the presence of the Duchess.
“Your Grace, it is a pleasure to meet you once again. I look forward to our future relationship.”
The Duchess produced an expression of revulsion that Phoebe could only describe as a snarl. She stood upright and drew back her shoulders like a raven atop a fencepost, looking down the length of her crooked nose at Phoebe with condescension.
“Which future relationship would that be?”
“Why, when you are my mother-in-law, of course. Although it might be too sentimental a gesture for such an early acquaintance, I must confess it will bring me such great joy to have a motherly figure in my life since losing my own mother at such a young age.”
The Duchess rolled her tongue around her mouth and lifted her chin in a manner most dismissive. “I wouldn’t hope for too much of a maternal connection from me, my dear. I am not the motherly sort.”
“I see. Well, I’m sure we will find we have a great deal in common upon which to form a bond.”
“I’m doubtful, but we shall see.” The Duchess forced a sickly smile and swept away without another word.
Phoebe felt tears prickling at her eyes and her jaw began to tremble. She turned to Evan in distress. “Did I offend her?”
He chuckled. “You will learn to accept my mother’s turns of phrase, Phoebe. She speaks directly and does not indulge in pleasantries. It is simply her manner.”
“She seems to despise me.”
“Her respect and affections are hard earned but sincere. In time, she will grow to adore you. I promise you this.”
Evan lifted his head to listen as the Master of Ceremonies announced the first dance, the minuet. “I’ve already informed the Master of Ceremonies that we wish to dance, Phoebe. I hope I have not spoken out of turn.”
Phoebe’s worry dissipated at the prospect of dancing. “I’ve been holding my breath in anticipation since the moment you said there would be a ball.”
“Then let us join the dance.”
* * *
Owen had no partner with whom to dance the minuet, s
o he stayed at the sides of the ballroom to watch the other guests perform the arrangement.
The Lord George Hayfield was in line opposite the young Lady Harriet Mormon, and Mr. Stanley, the son of Thomas Whitley, the Baron of Tathwell, was preparing to take the hand of the lovely Miss Fairstone.
The gentlemen aligned themselves along one side of the ballroom with their lady partners standing in line opposite them. Pair by pair, they met in the middle of the row and walked hand in hand down the center of the assembled dancers and parted when they reached the end of the line.
Once the first display was done, each couple would take their turn to perform a dance alone at the center of the ballroom, backs straight and arms raised to their sides.
Owen watched each couple amongst the other spectators gathered around the edges of the room. Every couple moved with elegance and grace, but no single dancer was more beautiful than Phoebe.
She was wearing the most exquisite pale rose-colored lace dress with a silk ribbon about the waist. The locket his brother gave her hung at her neck.
Her movements were divine. She appeared as if she was floating as she moved flawlessly across the hardwood floors, her spine straight and her head raised. Her body was both relaxed and controlled, her eyes fixed upon Evan.
Owen could hardly contain his envy at the sight of Phoebe dancing with his brother. The eldest son, the Marquess, would always be superior to him, in status and in character.
In Evan’s absence, Owen had been certain Phoebe had loved him, but now she gazed up at Evan with adoration in her eyes and her cheeks flushed with pleasure. She laughed gaily as she spun in slow, precise circles only to meet him again at the center of the dance.
Roger came to stand beside Owen to watch the performance.
“I am surprised to find you alone tonight, Owen,” he said. “I’d heard rumor that you were courting the Lady Eleanor Forrest. She’s here tonight, is she not?”
“Lady Eleanor is overwhelmed by her suitors, Roger. I’m afraid I do not feel a connection strong enough toward her to warrant offering myself as a competitor for her hand.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps I may introduce you to some of the ladies from within my father’s circles? The Earl of Rotheringham’s youngest daughter is plain, but overwhelmingly sweet. Or my colleague, the Marquess of Denmoore, has a sister who is known for her radiance and musical talent. It is my understanding that neither of these ladies are yet spoken for, and they are certainly of age to be seeking a suitor. You are the son of a Duke; you’d make a fine suitor, indeed.”
“It is a shame that one must court a stranger. Courtships are such formal and restrictive affairs. Far better it would be to court an old friend.”
Roger took in a sharp breath. “Phoebe is promised to your brother, Owen.”
“I know.” Owen patted Roger’s arms in a brotherly manner. “And I wish them both the world of happiness.”
“Let us arrange an occasion for me to make your introduction to the Lady Margaret Blythe or the Lady Ann Walters. You are an eligible suitor, and you waste your time in yearning for a Lady who is spoken for.”
“Am I suffering from some form of insanity, Roger?” Owen looked to the distance and sighed deeply. “I know she cannot be mine, yet I cannot turn my thoughts away from her. She is under my skin and in my heart.”
“Yes, my friend. You are afflicted. You are far wiser than this. You know better than to speak openly about this infatuation you harbor. You leave yourself open to intense scrutiny. You must stop speaking about it at once and pursue another lady before you besmirch my sister’s honor.”
“She is entirely honorable. Nothing untoward has ever happened between us, Roger. I hope you know me well enough to trust me in this truth.”
“I trust you entirely. Still, it is best for us all if you find another lady upon whom to lavish your affections.”
“You are, as always, entirely correct, Roger. Let us make those arrangements for an introduction. One of these ladies is musically inclined, you say? I’ve always had a fondness for a lady who can play the pianoforte.”
Chapter 7
“Owen!”
Phoebe’s voice echoing from behind caused Owen to draw to a stop and turn.
“Phoebe. What are you doing away from the ball?”
“I saw you leaving before you’d even said hello or goodbye. You know that is highly frowned upon to leave before the dance is over.”
“I have something of a headache from too much wine. I was headed to my room to rest.”
They were standing together in the hall just outside the ballroom. Owen could still see the swirling couples to his right through the doorway. The music was still frightfully loud, and the laughter of the guests still reverberated around them.
She was beautiful in her anger. Owen wished to remove the scowl from her face by kissing those sweet heart-shaped lips. Alas, she had made it clear she was not his to kiss.
Owen could be seen by the guests where he stood at the doorway, but Phoebe could not, for she stood behind the wall beyond the doorway, hidden from sight.
“Would you really depart without greeting me? Without talking to me at all?” Phoebe’s expression was drawn with sorrow, her bottom lip slightly protruding in what was almost a pout. “One would think you were no longer my friend.”
“I believe the time for friendship has passed, Phoebe,” Owen replied.
“Have I done something wrong?”
“Our paths are simply heading in different directions. Soon you will have your spousal duties and I must find a purpose for myself also.”
Phoebe bowed her head, speaking softly. “Your brother told me you’d decided not to join the military. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It would be improper for us to maintain such a correspondence. I always trust that such news will reach you in its own time through the proper channels.”
“But I should have liked to hear it from you, Owen. You do not visit my father anymore. You avoid Wycliff House.”
“There is no reason for me to visit, Phoebe. Your father is my father’s acquaintance, and I have nothing for his attention. And you are my brother’s betrothed. Not mine.”
“So all the memories we share, those that I cherish, are for nothing? You would avoid me now for life in case someone should declare a scandal? You never used to care about such things.”
“You never used to care for Evan.”
“Evan…” Phoebe’s voice trailed off. Owen could see the pain in her eyes. She seemed to shrink before him, her shoulders slumping, her spine relaxing from its straight posture. Her face was flushed with emotion, blotchy from her anger and upset. “You are angry with me for marrying him. Owen, do you believe I have ever had a choice?”
“It wouldn’t matter. To see you dance with him with true affection in your eyes in a fortnight—more for him than I’ve ever seen there for me, despite all our years of companionship—is more than I can endure.”
The thought of Phoebe dancing filled Owen with a sense of lust and raw desire that was unbecoming of a gentleman yet so difficult to deny. He wanted to hold her and spin her. He wanted to watch her twirl as her clothes fell away…
“My affections for you have never wavered, Owen. But you are foolish and naïve if you believe I can control whose hand I take in marriage.”
“Would you take mine, Phoebe…if I asked?”
Phoebe drew up her skirts and took a deep breath, looking scandalized and shaking her head quickly. “You overstep, Owen. What a question to ask of me! Perhaps it is best we no longer communicate if you are going to be prone to such outbursts. It is entirely improper.”
“Yet you propose I am the one who is fearful of a scandal?”
“There is friendship and there is adultery. I fear you are walking a thin line between the two.”
“I fear you are walking into a loveless marriage.”
Phoebe’s eyes filled with tears and she scowled at Owen. “You are supposed to be my f
riend, Owen. When I have fears, you are supposed to alleviate them, not reinforce them with words.”
“I believe I have done a great deal to comfort you over these years.”
“Of course, Owen—of course you have. But this is something altogether different. The most monumental events of my life are upon me.”
“The loss of you is the most monumental event of mine.”
Phoebe lifted her hands in despair. “Your life? I am to marry a gentleman I have hardly known these last six years and to inhabit the same social circles as his mother, who hates me for some reason unbeknownst to me. And now my oldest and dearest friend is turning on me for being victim to all of this, as if I had means to object in any way.”
An Immoral Dilemma For The Scandalous Lady (Steamy Historical Romance) Page 5