by Regina Darcy
His “I find myself very well, Miss Alexander,” had been cool, at best, and not seasoned with an answering smile.
Beckton despaired of himself as the set came to an end. Giving himself a mental shake, he tried again, as he escorted her back to where her mother stood anxiously waiting.
“I would be honoured if you would dance the evening’s final set with me, Miss Alexander,” he said, managing to keep his tone cool and even.
Phoebe looked up into his dark brown eyes, and he wished he knew what she saw. Instead, she looked away and said coldly, “If my dance card has not since been filled, my lord, I will happily oblige.”
She walked away then, leaving him standing at the edge of the dance floor feeling like all kinds of a fool. She was haughty and dismissive, and though it burned in his gut, he could not fault her. He had been no less as they danced, unable to speak even ordinary pleasantries because he was so undone by the fragrance of her that bloomed in his nostrils each time she exhaled. And her beauty took his breath away. Her deep auburn hair fell in endearing ringlets about her face, and down her back, and her green eyes sparkled with animus the longer they had danced together. And when she had dismissed him just now, they had shone with active disdain...and hurt.
He walked out to the balcony, where he knew he would be alone...almost everyone was dancing, or watching the dancing, or playing cards in the adjoining room. He needed to be alone, to get himself in control.
He struggled with anger that a mere chit of a girl could treat him with such barely disguised contempt, while finding himself unable to deny how strongly attracted to that same chit he was. He wished he could overcome this unwelcome weakness that made him clam up in the presence of beautiful women of substance. He knew who he was, what he was worth. He knew that, in the eyes of the ton he was considered quite the catch. He knew all this, but found it did nothing to bolster his confidence with the one person in whose company he most needed to be assertive. Where Phoebe Alexander was concerned, he was a total wreak.
“What on earth are you doing out here by yourself, old chap? You’ve been missing for upwards of half an hour.” The Viscount’s voice interrupted his shame and self-castigation, and he turned to him with a frown.
“I think I may have topped myself this evening, Wiltshire,” he said. “It might have been better all round if you hadn’t tried to play Cupid this time.”
The Viscount of Wiltshire, observed the downcast features of his close friend with some concern. “Whatever’s the matter, man?” he asked, moving to stand by the Earl, a glass of brandy in his hand.
“I have managed to affront yet another charming woman,” Lord Beckton replied. “This time, the one I least wish to offend.”
“Are we talking about the delectable morsel that is Phoebe Alexander?”
Lord Wiltshire had lowered his voice to a sultry softness, and the Earl moved away from his side, to prevent himself from punching his friend on the nose.
“She is not a piece of meat!” Lord Beckton hissed at his friend through clenched teeth. “I would prefer it if you would refrain from mentioning her name in the tone of voice you use for talking of the women with whom you normally associate.” He was furious, and paused to acknowledge that a good part of it was jealousy that the Viscount seemed to be able to charm any woman he wanted because he was so amiable and devil-may-care, where he himself was a tongue-tied mass of romantic ineptitude.
“I see I am right. You are more than smitten with the lady. You really must overcome this...this problem you have, my friend. You will not win her affections if you pursue your current course of cold aloofness.”
The Viscount’s smirk was irritating in the extreme, but Lord Beckton knew that despite the amused tone of his words, he was in earnest. And he admitted that his friend was right. How was he to be the kind of man Phoebe would not despise if he couldn’t manage to string two civil words together around her, or to show his very real interest in her person? He sighed and turned back to the drawing room.
“I suppose I had better get back in,” he conceded. “I did ask her to dance the last set with me.”
“Well, try to speak up this time, won’t you? Imagine you’re in the House of Lords, pushing for some cause dear to your heart. After all, she is dear to your heart, isn’t she, old chap?” Lord Wiltshire patted his shoulder in commiseration.
“She is also to be my betrothed,” Beckton muttered. “A childhood arrangement.”
The Viscount stopped walking, and the Earl halted his steps.
“No, you didn’t tell me this. How long have you known?”
Lord Beckton sighed. “Since my father was on his deathbed.”
Lord Wiltshire’s brows rose in astonishment. “It has been a whole year, Beckton. Surely you are able to say something to her after all this time?”
Lord Beckton wrinkled his brow. “I do not know if she is aware of it. She was but a girl of thirteen when it was first agreed upon, if my father is to be believed. And even then, I was not apprised of the agreement until he was at death’s door.” He sounded aggrieved.
“Her parents are excessively ambitious, are they not?” Lord Wiltshire asked. “One must be very careful to pay attention when Percy Alexander is about. One slip, and you’ll find yourself footing the bill for extravagances unnecessary for the pursuit of anyone’s happiness but his own, and no way to extricate yourself. And it has always been clear that he has held high hopes of his daughter making a fortuitous marriage.”
“I cannot imagine that she holds any interest in marrying me,” Lord Beckton said. “So far, I have done nothing to encourage any further connection between us.”
“You will have the chance to redeem yourself in another few minutes. Make good use of the time.”
The two friends walked back into the ballroom, where the final set was about to begin. Lord Beckton made his way hastily over to the young woman who was tying him up in knots and said, “Are you free for this dance, Miss Alexander?”
He watched her school her features into placid acceptance and extend her hand to him. He escorted her onto the floor, and as the music started, he said, “Have you enjoyed your evening?”
“Yes. It has been quite a pleasant diversion, more or less,” she replied. “And you?”
“I’m afraid I am a dullard,” he confessed. “I find little pleasure in balls and the like.”
“Perhaps if you attended them more often you would find much to enjoy.”
The Earl sensed that she had curtailed her comment, possibly censoring the things she might otherwise have said to him. And he found he couldn’t ask her to finish her thought, for fear it would prove derogatory. He searched around for something else to say, and finally lighted on the subject of the Luddites. He chanced to look up, as he was advancing his theory for how to settle the question that was currently causing an uprising among the mill workers, and saw the glaze in her eyes that told him he had lost her.
“Do pardon me, Miss Alexander, if I am boring you,” he said coolly. “Perhaps you would prefer that we discuss the weather?” His tone was sharper than he had intended, and he saw her eyes narrow though she did not immediately respond. When she did, it was to say,
“We are not all as well acquainted with the circumstances as you are, my lord. And in any case, I am not normally expected to have a thought or opinion on such weighty matters.”
Her tone was as sharp as his had been, and he found that he rather liked her feistiness. It warmed him in places he knew would frighten her, were she to be aware of her effect on him.
“Surely you jest! I cannot imagine a situation in which your opinions would not be welcomed.”
She eyed him warily, and he raised a brow, finding himself unable to address her obvious suspicion. He knew he was being genuine, but she clearly didn’t believe him, and his silence only seemed to prove her intuition to be accurate.
The Viscount had often told him that his habit of raising a brow in question was often misconstrued as a sign of
arrogance. It seemed that in this instance, at least, his friend was correct. He sighed inwardly. He had bungled the opportunity to make a good impression yet again, and was now so self-conscious that he grew silent, in an attempt to preserve what little was left of his dignity, finishing the dance without uttering another word. As soon as the dance was over, she pulled her hand away from his and said,
“You must excuse me, my lord, but I must needs retire. My parents do not like to linger once the dancing is done.”
She hurried away before he could say a word in response, and he watched her disappear from view around a corner. He sighed...once again he had failed to please.
How was he to make sufficient progress to ask the question that would legally betroth her to him, if he couldn’t hold a sensible conversation with Phoebe without boring or offending her? Perhaps it was a good thing that he was returning to London in a few days. Country living grated on him, especially now, when he was feeling so little inclined to appreciate the pleasures of the bucolic life. Maybe when he was back in his own element he would be able to communicate better. He fervently prayed that it would be so.
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