She certainly couldn’t explain all of that to the eager young ladies, however—nor especially their brother.
They were going down to dinner—Maxwell was sent to the kitchens for his own supper—when they heard a voice within the foyer, and soon a smiling face greeted them at the bottom of the stairs.
“Ah, I’m just in time!”
“Ambrose!” the girls shouted in chorus.
“You’re late,” Lady Clarissa admonished, though she still placed a gentle hand on his cheek as she strode by.
“My brother, Lord Ambrose,” Lord Berkley said to Phoebe with a wave of his hand, not even looking at the man as he walked by. Phoebe looked from him to Ambrose with some consternation at the animosity between them, but before she could ask anything, Lord Ambrose took her hand and bowed low over it.
“Ah, the Lady Phoebe Winters,” he said with a charming smile. He looked like Lord Berkley, except that his smile seemed much easier, his features slightly softer. “You have been on the lips of my family ever since my brother was found with you on the gossip pages and the Holderness dance floor. I am pleased to finally have the opportunity to make your acquaintance.”
Lord Berkley apparently re-thought his dismissal of his brother as he returned to the foyer, taking Phoebe’s hand from his brother’s and placing it on his own arm.
“If you were so eager, Ambrose, then perhaps you should have been here on time,” was all he said, and as he led her away, Phoebe looked over her shoulder with a smile. “A pleasure!” she called, to irritate Lord Berkley more than anything else.
Phoebe could not recall ever being part of a more lively dinner, particularly one with so prestigious a family. She glanced over at Aunt Aurelia, who was laughing at Ambrose beside her. Apparently the man did not reserve his charm for young ladies.
“Tell me, Lady Clarissa,” she said to the woman seated next to her, who, for the most part, watched her family’s banter with a smile on her face, “Did you happen to know my parents? The Viscount and Viscountess of Keith?”
“But of course,” she said, her smile warm yet confused. “Did your aunt not tell you? My late husband was a great friend of your father’s in their youth.”
“Truly?” she asked, sitting back in her chair, slightly stunned. Why would her aunt not say anything on their travels? And was the marquess aware of their relationship?
“But of course,” Lady Clarissa continued. “Their family homes were but a mile from one another when they were boys. We always enjoyed your parents’ company when we saw them in the city.”
“Interesting,” Phoebe murmured. “I had no idea.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lady Clarissa whimsically. “Why, I can remember many times spent together. We would have dinner parties, sometimes just the four of us, sometimes with others invited as well. Or we would attend parties that would last long into the night, so late that the hours would turn into early mornings. Your father always told the most wonderful stories, and your mother was such a gentle soul. Your father fell in love with her the moment he saw her, and that love never waned.”
She continued on, remembering parties and balls from their first days in London, as Phoebe listened with rapt attention and wide eyes.
“Thank you for sharing such wonderful stories,” she said, leaning toward Lady Clarissa. “I do not mean to pry but why … why did I never know you?”
“Oh, well, I suppose we drifted apart at some point,” she said, with some regret in her tone. “John, my husband, and your father had a bit of a falling out as it were, and unfortunately never did reconcile. It’s been years…” her face turned wistful. “Anyway, I am so glad to have you here, to make amends with you if not your parents.”
Phoebe simply smiled, her mind full of thoughts, curious at all Lady Clarissa had told her.
She had hardly paid any attention to the rest of the table, and she looked around now, her gaze stopping suddenly when she felt the marquess’ eyes upon her. They were slightly hooded, and yet nothing could hide the intensity of the deep brown that stared at her.
She managed a slight smile and a nod of her head. She reminded herself why she was here and determined that before this night was over, she must discover what the marquess was up to.
When they rose to leave the dinner table and return to the drawing room—the entire lot of them, as the men were composed only of the marquess and his brother—Lord Berkley appeared at her elbow, holding her back as the rest of the party drifted out of the room.
“A moment of your time, Lady Phoebe?” he asked, to which she nodded. Perfect. Time to ask her questions.
He drew her down the corridor, but stopped at a door before the stairs, pushing it open to reveal what must be his study. An ornate mahogany desk sat in the corner, while three of the walls were lined with filled bookshelves. A huge globe dominated one corner, while a portrait of a man who must have been his father hung in prominence between shelves behind the desk. The fire crackled merrily in the grate, and the marquess led her over to a pair of brown leather mahogany chairs sitting in front of it.
“I realize it is not altogether done for you and me to be alone, but I do not believe, Lady Phoebe, that you are particularly concerned about propriety.”
“Not really,” she laughed. “Now, what can I do for you?”
Chapter Twelve
Well, she certainly got to the point quickly. He had hoped to draw her out slowly, to ask his questions with more tact. But that, apparently, was not to be done with Lady Phoebe.
He didn’t want her to think that the only reason he had invited her to dinner was to question her—but after Viola had asked, he had realized the opportunity. He was, however, enjoying her company more than he cared to admit.
After he and his sister had visited her yesterday, Viola had spent the entire carriage ride home entertaining him with the many wonderful attributes of Lady Phoebe, and how perfectly she would fit in with their family—“Just you see!” she told him, when she explained that was the very reason she had invited her for supper. She seemed to think that the woman was exactly what—or who—Jeffrey needed. Jeffrey wasn’t so sure.
He tapped his finger now against the arm of the chair.
“I do not wish to cause discord between us once again, Lady Phoebe,” he began. “However, as you may know, this publication we have previously discussed continues to come to my attention. As you share … similar beliefs as the publisher, I was hoping that, perhaps, you might be of some assistance to me.”
She said nothing, hardly showing any reaction. She nodded slightly for him to continue. He cleared his throat.
“I have been tasked, so to speak, with determining the identity of the publisher, though it is proving rather difficult. Anyone with any apparent association to The Women’s Weekly remains tight-lipped on the subject. I thought that perhaps others within your circle might have some information in regards to who I might be looking for.”
Lady Phoebe remained silent, stoic, staring at him with her hands folded her lap. The only sign of any response regarding his request was the slight nibbling of her bottom lip. She looked down at her fingers for a moment, and he was distracted by her long, dark eyelashes.
She looked back up at him, meeting his eyes.
“I cannot say whether or not I would be able to help you unless I know how the information would be used,” she said. “If you do unveil the identity of this publisher—what exactly would you plan to do?”
“Speak to him or her,” he explained, though that was not entirely true. His ultimate goal was to encourage—or threaten or bribe if needed—the publisher to quit operations entirely, though a cease to the contrary articles would be agreeable. “Perhaps it might be possible to find a solution that would allow the publisher to continue without putting our entire society at risk.”
“At risk of what?” she challenged, sitting forward in her chair now, her eyes flashing. “At risk of change? And what would be so wrong about that?”
“It could
mean turmoil,” he countered. “There has been enough conflict in our world in recent years—why do we need to add to it? I am told this publication suggests that women should receive more education. Can you imagine if women spent the same amount of time as men at school? What would happen to our homes? Who would learn how to raise a family?”
Her stoic countenance changed as he spoke. What had been a face of serenity grew more tumultuous at every word, until now her fingers were grasping the arms of her chair, biting into the bronze floral mounts at the curve of the arms.
“Thank you, Lord Berkley,” she said, her tone clearly not at all grateful, “for reminding me of all of the reasons that I should want nothing to do with you.”
“I am simply stating fact,” he said, maintaining his control on his temper. “And I believe you sought me out, initially.”
“Tell me,” she said, not moving, though not relenting. “Do you believe men to be smarter than women?”
He thought on that for a moment. They were certainly more educated. Did that make them smarter? He compared Viola to Ambrose and knew with certainty that she was much more intelligent. But were all women like his sister? He stole a glance at Lady Phoebe. This one assuredly was. But when he compared her to the many other women of the ton, or, at least, how they presented themselves…
“I’m not entirely sure,” he said at last. “Some are, some aren’t.”
She nodded, apparently content with his assessment. “And when a woman marries,” she continued, “do you believe that her husband should receive all of her property, all of her funds, everything she owns?”
He shrugged, his brow furrowing. “That is the way of it. Then he can care for all of the financial matters. Often the husband needs those funds for his own estate.”
“Because he has mismanaged it himself.”
He sighed and stood, hands behind his back as he wandered over to the room’s sole window, pushing back the curtains to look out at the dark night beyond.
“Neither one of us is ever going to win this battle of wills.”
“On that, I agree,” she said, her voice just behind his ear, and he jumped slightly, not having realized she had moved from the chair.
“I must tell you one thing, however,” she said, leaning close enough for him to smell the slight hint of perfume she must be wearing. It was sweet, akin to orange blossom, with a hint of spice. Cinnamon, perhaps? A mix of the unexpected—just like its wearer. “Even if I could, I would never, ever help you in your quest.”
He turned to her and narrowed his eyes. This conversation had followed the course he had assumed it was likely to take, but nonetheless, he had to try.
“I do not understand it,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly.
“What’s that?”
He had thought the words had remained inside his head, but apparently, he had spoken aloud.
“Everything about you is altogether wrong for me,” he continued, his hands coming to her elbows so gently he wasn’t even sure she noticed. He traced the lines of her face with his eyes—the delicate nose, defined cheekbones, plump bottom lip. “When the time comes for me to find a wife, I require a woman who is demure, gentle, agreeable, and, of course, attractive. You are none of those things.”
She brought a hand up, and for a moment he feared she would slap him again, but instead she put her hands on his chest and began to push away. “You know exactly how to charm a woman,” she said sarcastically, though he could hear the hurt in her tone. “I agree with you on all you say, but that is not exactly something you actually tell a lady, despite how you may feel about her.”
“You are not attractive,” he said, ignoring her and not letting go. “You are enchantingly breathtaking.”
And with that, he crushed his lips onto hers, taking what he had been desiring since he had first kissed her in the Holderness gardens. She was as delicious as he remembered, and he could still taste the cream on her lips from the dessert the family had just shared.
He tugged her against him, felt the lusciousness of her bosom press against his chest, and he groaned into her mouth, which she had already opened to him. The passionate barbs they had hurled at one another became ardor of another sort as they poured everything out into one another. All the anger, the frustration, the longing they could not ignore flowed between them, and his arms wrapped around her in an effort to pull her even closer.
This was a woman. Not those silly, flippant girls who said what he wanted to hear, who fluttered their fans in the air ever so prettily. No, Lady Phoebe Winters was none of those things, nor was she the type of woman he should seriously consider as a wife. But none of those other women who fit the list of attributes of a future marchioness called to him like Phoebe. His body was betraying him, he told himself. That was all. But as her arms snaked around his neck and her fiery passion overwhelmed him, he had to admit to himself that it was not just his body. It was his soul.
They were in the middle of his study, and he slowly began to move her backward toward the settee across from the chairs. It wasn’t exactly built for comfort—and not at all for romantic trysts—but it would do. For what, however, he had no idea.
He laid her down upon it, and she grasped the lapels of his jacket as she tugged him toward her. Her hands became lost as they roved over him, and as she dissembled his no longer immaculate cravat. His hand, which until now had simply been framing her head, dug into those silky tresses that so called to him. Her hair was fine, yet there were masses of it, now trailing over her shoulders, her collarbones, and the bosom that was straining at the lace of her bodice.
It was only fair that he free it.
He loosened her gown down her shoulder, one of her breasts falling out of the satin material and into his hand. This was better than he could have ever imagined. He brushed his thumb over her nipple and she arched up into him, her breath coming in short pants now in his ear as he kissed his way down her neck, over her delicate, soft skin, searching for her other breast, which he now released from its confines. As his mouth came over it, she moaned deeply in his ear.
When he heard her murmur, “Lord Berkley,” he shook his head.
He came up for a moment to whisper, “Jeffrey.”
She repeated his name, and when he heard it slide from her lips, a sense of satisfaction overcame him. He reached down a hand between them, hunting for the hem of her skirts, but he stilled when a knock came at the door.
“My lord?” came the muffled voice of his butler.
“One moment!” he called out, willing his voice to steady.
“Your mother is asking of your whereabouts, my lord,” Harper continued through the door. “The party is in the first drawing room when you are available to rejoin them.”
“Thank you, Harper,” he said. “I am seeing to some urgent business, but I will return shortly.”
“Very well, my lord,” Harper replied, and Jeffrey sighed when he heard his footsteps retreating down the corridor.
He wiped his brow on his sleeve, as he turned back to Lady Phoebe.
“Phoebe, I—”
He cut off short as he found that in the few moments his attention had wavered, she had replaced her bodice in its proper position and was now re-arranging that beautiful hair as best she could, angrily sticking pins back in to secure it.
“Lady Phoebe,” he said cautiously, clearing his throat. “My apologies if I became … caught up in the moment.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” she retorted, standing, though she certainly seemed perturbed. “I was as ‘caught up in the moment,’ as you say, as you were.”
“Very well,” he said, finding his cravat on the floor, and he clumsily attempted to arrange it in its proper place. She was much more adept at dressing herself than he, who had become far too reliant on his valet. But he couldn’t exactly call the man to his study to re-dress him after this.
“Here,” she said, rolling her eyes at his clumsy attempts. “Allow me.”
; She swiftly pleated the cravat, folding down the creases as expertly as his own valet. He looked at her, astonished.
“How did you know to do that?”
“My father often became caught up in his hobbies and neglected his personal care,” she explained. “My mother and I became accustomed to ensuring he was respectable enough for polite company, as it were.”
She turned away from him, as she ran her hands over her dress once more to ensure all was proper. When she spun back around, he had to say she had recovered remarkably well, though nothing could hide her plump, thoroughly kissed lips, nor the pink stain that covered her cheeks. Apparently the unflappable Lady Phoebe could be flustered, after all.
“Well,” she asked, “shall we go?”
He simply nodded and escorted her out the door. She had better not think they were finished here. Far from it.
Chapter Thirteen
Phoebe attempted to concentrate on the tasks ahead of her the next morning as her maid pulled her hair back to pin it atop her head. She had chosen a lavender muslin gown, which she would wear with her navy cloak overtop. Very practical for the publisher of a newspaper. Which, she reminded herself, was currently her focus. Her only focus.
She stared at herself in the mirror, studying her face. Her lips, far too large. Her eyes, wide and green, not the beautiful blue, like Julia’s, that enticed gentlemen. There was certainly nothing staring back at her that most men would be drawn to. Which led to only one conclusion. She and the marquess had found themselves in a very … improper embrace last evening not because he had wanted anything about her in particular, but simply because they had a clash of wills that became extremely heated, which led to … their liaison.
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 51