Which he seemed to be doing, although whether or not he was proving successful was yet to be seen. Phoebe was open with her thoughts, that was true, but as of yet, she had said nothing regarding their relationship, though her actions proved she was, at the very least, certainly attracted to him.
“Do you truly believe Lady Phoebe would make for an appropriate marchioness?” he asked Lady Clarissa, and his mother seemed somewhat startled when she realized that he was interested in her honest opinion of the woman. It humbled him to ask her, but this was an altogether important decision, and his mother was an intelligent woman who was much more knowledgeable on the subject of a suitable marchioness than most others.
“I believe,” she said slowly, “that the proper wife is one who makes you happy. Who you would feel grateful to wake up with every morning. Who you can laugh with, and will allow you to be yourself. From my short acquaintance with her, it seems that Lady Phoebe may not be the most reserved, demure woman, it is true. But she has a zest for life that, I think, would be most fitting for you, Jeffrey. Do you admire her, respect her?”
“I do.”
“What do you feel when you look at her?”
He simply smiled and shook his head. That was not a discussion he would have with his mother.
“Your silence speaks for you, and tells me all that I need to know,” she said with a satisfied grin. “And does she feel the same toward you?”
Jeffrey frowned, rubbing his forehead to hide any emotion that might show on his face. The truth of the matter was that he had no idea. Phoebe returned his caresses, true, and she had accepted his invitations—or those of his family—but she had never actually said anything regarding her feelings toward him.
“I do not know,” he said honestly, and his mother gave him a look of consternation, though her attention wavered as the carriage slowed, and she leaned forward to peer out the window as they trundled down Bow Street and pulled up to the front of the Theatre Royal at Covent Garden.
“It matters not the number of times I have seen it, this new building remains as dramatic as the plays themselves,” Rebecca sighed as she looked out at the four fluted columns upon which the portico sat.
“It is rather ostentatious, isn’t it?” Viola remarked practically as they exited the carriage.
Jeffrey had no thought for the white marble building at the moment, but rather the night that lay ahead of them.
His mother had invited Phoebe and her aunt to join them in their private box, and Jeffrey found himself eagerly looking one way and the next for Phoebe as they ascended the grand staircase. When they rounded the top of the steps to the anteroom, he was arrested for a moment by the sight before him.
For there, standing next to the statue of Shakespeare, was a vision more animated, more alive, than any other carving or actress on stage could ever do justice. She wore a long red gown that perfectly set off her midnight tresses, some of which were pulled back away from her face, but most were left to cascade down her shoulders in artful, loose curls. It was a scandalous look, and altogether not the style of the day, and yet he knew that she would not care, that she had simply styled it how she pleased. The color of her dress brought out the bright green of her eyes with their striking brows overtop and complemented the lush redness of her lips.
She was a siren. She was drama and mystery and comedy all rolled into one. He hadn’t even realized he had stopped moving until he felt a bony finger poke into his spine.
“Stop staring,” Viola whispered in his ear. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”
Phoebe’s eyes were locked on his, and he allowed them to pull him forward toward her. By the time he reached her side, his family alongside him, he had at least found the words to greet her, as well as her aunt, who he finally noticed. She looked at him now with a smug grin, as though she knew the effect her niece had upon him.
“Lady Aurelia, Lady Phoebe, we are very pleased you could join us this evening,” he said with a smart bow, as the women made their pleasantries.
“We are in for a treat tonight,” his mother said with a smile. “Both J.P. and Charles Kemble are performing, as is Mrs. Siddons. It should be fantastic.”
“Yet dreary,” Rebecca added with a dramatic sigh. “Henry VIII. I should have preferred a comedy.”
“Hush, Rebecca,” Viola said with a glower, and Lady Clarissa chose to subtly march her daughters toward their box rather than admonish them in such a public place.
Jeffrey had not even considered the play. He had been told by his mother when and where he would be in attendance. His refusal had been upon his lips until she told him who would be accompanying them.
Phoebe trailed behind the rest of their party, who left the two of them to bring up the rear. Jeffrey was sure it was not an accident, particularly when he noticed the calculating, self-congratulatory smile between his mother and Lady Aurelia. He wanted to be upset with them and their well-meaning manipulations, but when he looked at Phoebe standing beside him, attempting to hide her uncertainty, he couldn’t help but be pleased to have a moment alone with her.
“You do look lovely tonight,” he said, and when her head turned to his, her profile in the light of the patent lamp, he couldn’t help but add, “though that is not altogether the truth. In actuality, you are beautiful.”
“Thank you, Lord Berkley.”
“Jeffrey.”
“Jeffrey,” she said with a smile. “And thank you for the invitation tonight.”
“For that, you will have to thank my mother,” he returned, “though I was pleased when I heard of your acceptance. Have you been keeping well?”
“Since yesterday?” she asked with a teasing laugh. “Yes, I have, as a matter of fact. And you?”
“I have,” he said with a nod. “Though I have been rather distracted as of late.”
“By your investigation?” she queried, and it took him a moment to discern of what she spoke.
“Oh, into the women’s paper? I can hardly recall its title.”
“The Women’s Weekly,” she supplied. “And yes, that is to what I am referring.”
That, in fact, was one quest he had been quite remiss of lately, which was entirely her fault. He should have been pursuing many more lines of inquiry. It would not be altogether difficult to find the publisher. He simply had to pretend to be an advertiser, perhaps, or come to the paper with a story. But, no, all he had done was ask a few questions of people who may have a connection, and at their refusal to provide further information, he had let it be.
And he knew exactly why he had done so. Because to shut down this paper would displease his sisters, and, most of all, Phoebe Winters. And all he wanted to do at the moment was to make her happy.
His eyes dipped below where was proper, to the lace that teased him as it covered just enough of the top of her creamy breasts to be appropriate. He longed to reach out a finger and trail it along the edge of the lace, to dip it low to feel how soft her skin was underneath it.
“Phoebe,” he said, clearing his throat—and his head. “Follow me.”
He took her hand then, somewhat surprised when she allowed it, as she didn’t seem the type of woman to typically follow the lead of a man anywhere. He ducked around the corner, peering through the doorway of a row of private boxes. Finding one empty, he drew her in quickly enough to elicit a sharp gasp and pressed her back against the wall within the shadows, where he brought his head down to hers and took those plush, enticing lips in his.
He wasted no time in beginning softly or gently, but rather crushed his mouth upon hers, licking the seam of her lips, though she needed hardly any encouragement to open them to him. He tasted the mixture of mint and berries on her tongue, and when her fingers dug into the backs of his shoulders, his desire bloomed within him. He couldn’t get enough of her, and he had no idea what to do about it.
Finally, voices from the corridor beyond brought him back to his senses, and he reluctantly let her go. She looked up at him, her eyes
hazy, her cheeks flushed, and her lips thoroughly ravaged.
“I would apologize,” he said, hearing the gruffness of his voice as he fought to regain control, “however that would mean that I regret my actions, and the truth is, Phoebe, I would do that all over again.”
“I had always thought you to be a patient man,” she replied with an arch of her brow, and he wondered how she could keep such control upon her emotions. “It seems I may have been altogether wrong about you.”
He chuckled low at that and would have kissed her again just for her tart reply, but he sensed a presence in the doorway and turned to find the Earl and Countess of Torrington entering with a look of some incredulity on their faces.
“My apologies, Lord Torrington, Lady Torrington,” he said with a nod of his head. “It has been some time since I have attended the theatre, and I seem to have found myself in the wrong box. I hope to speak with you later on this evening.”
And with that, he led Phoebe out the door, fully aware that they would soon be the subject upon the lips of all in attendance.
Now he had to make it through five acts of a Shakespeare tragedy with this siren sitting beside him. If Phoebe wished to witness patience and control, well, she was about to do just that.
Chapter Seventeen
Phoebe nervously twisted her hands in her lap as she attempted to concentrate on the play before her on the large stage, filled with extensive scenery and a continual exhibition of actors. They were extremely talented, that she knew. Her fingers itched to remove her tablet from her reticle and take notes. The Women’s Weekly should certainly have a column on theatre, she decided, and determined that she would write the very first review herself.
But first, she had to make sure she knew of what she was writing.
The Berkley box was on the second level, with an enormous chandelier hanging overtop of them. As Phoebe watched the actors, she found her gaze wandering to the elegant, lofty pilasters supporting the semi-elliptical arch, the royal arms looking down over all of them. She knew the construction of this building had been a triumphant success following the burning of the first theatre a few years prior. Certainly, it contained marvelous ingenuity, the way the slightest sound resounded around the theatre—such as the whispers of the man across from her as he unabashedly stared down into the bosom of the woman sitting next to him. Hopefully she was his wife, though Phoebe somewhat doubted it.
This was certainly a spectacle, and she was not speaking of the play before her, but rather the players that filled the theatre. What would it be like, she wondered, to be sitting down within the pit? How very different life would be. She noted these thoughts as well, determining that they would make an intriguing sidebar to her review of the play. Or perhaps the review should be the sidebar. She chewed her lip as she contemplated the idea.
“Stop it,” Jeffrey whispered in her ear, and she turned sharply toward him, raising an eyebrow in question. “That thing with your lip,” he explained in the slightest whisper directly in her ear. “It’s driving me mad.”
She stopped immediately but then thought only of him and the kiss in the Torringtons’ private box for the rest of the act. Really, what had he been thinking? If she wasn’t careful, Collette would be writing her into the next gossip column. Although perhaps that would sell more papers.
Phoebe was so distracted that she hardly knew to whom King Henry was currently married when intermission came about. They spilled out into the salon beyond the private boxes, which was suddenly filled with a symphony of voices as all of the attendees emerged with the same mission: to determine who was in attendance, and what they could take away as the gossip of the evening.
Phoebe swiveled her head from one side to the other to see if she recognized anyone, but then she felt a slight touch on her arm.
“Lady Phoebe, would you mind if we had a quick word?” Phoebe nodded in surprise at Lady Clarissa’s request, curious at what Jeffrey’s mother would wish to speak with her about in private. By mutual agreement, they wandered over to a corner against the wall. Phoebe jumped when she felt something dig into her back, but turned only to find that she had backed up too far, into the foot of a statue standing atop a pillar.
“It’s quite an intriguing play, is it not?” she asked Lady Clarissa with a smile, to which the marchioness nodded.
“It is. I have seen it many times, but never with such vivid actors onstage, who make it far too real. One forgets that this actually occurred many years ago,” she said, a dreamy look on her face, before she shook her head as though clearing it. She took a deep breath and Phoebe’s heart raced a little faster, though why she should be nervous about speaking with the amiable woman, she had no idea.
“I am being rather forward in speaking to you of this, Lady Phoebe,” she said nervously. “And really, I should not at all. Please do not tell my son of this conversation, for he would be mortified. It is only … Jeffrey has not portrayed much affection for any particular woman since he came of age. His father died fairly young, leaving Jeffrey with a great amount of responsibility, including four sisters who are, as I’m sure you have ascertained for yourself, a rather unruly bunch, for the most part.
“Jeffrey has always been so focused on his work, on caring for the rest of us, you see, that he has not taken much time to look after his own wellbeing, nor his own heart. As of late, he has seemed a bit more distracted than usual, to which I look upon as a good thing. As a mother, I want my children only to be happy, and with you, Lady Phoebe, he does seem so. Happy, I mean. He is taken with you, though he seems unsure of your own feelings toward him. All I ask, Lady Phoebe, is for you to take care of his heart. It takes quite a bit for him to share it and I only wish for it not to be broken.”
Phoebe stared at her wide-eyed as Lady Clarissa finished her speech, and unconsciously bit her teeth into her lower lip hard enough that she caused herself to jump slightly. Guilt began to roll through her. She had knowingly played Jeffrey, never dreaming that he would ever come to feel something for her besides outrage. She had slapped him, for goodness sake!
Their fiery discord from the outset had certainly led to passionate moments in which they showed one another just how much they physically desired one another, but as for what she actually felt for him… she searched the room now, finding him standing with his sisters and her aunt. His sandy hair atop his tall, wide frame stood out among the crowd. He must have sensed her stare, for he returned her gaze, a slight smile crossing his lips, changing his face from its hard, imposing countenance to one that was warm and inviting.
She sighed as her heart thumped a traitorous beat in her chest. She yearned for him—she could not deny that as much as she wished to. She was also fully aware that her urge for him was running much deeper than a surface attraction. She had to put an end to it.
Or did she?
Of course she did, she thought, reminding herself that the man was out to destroy her publication and all she believed in. He himself believed all sorts of lies about women. It would never do. Besides all that, the moment he found out her secrets, he would lose any sort of attraction he had ever had toward her. For that was all it was. His mother was being hopeful—fanciful even.
She turned back toward Lady Clarissa and the soft smile on her face, as she had clearly been aware of Phoebe’s perusal of her son, likely believing it to be an amorous one.
“I—” Phoebe began, but halted, not knowing what else to say. She didn’t want to lie to the woman, but she also could not very well tell her of the duplicity that began all of this. “I believe that all will work out as it should,” she managed. “You have a wonderful family, Lady Clarissa, and the marquess has proven to be quite a gentleman.”
Lady Clarissa beamed and placed a hand on Phoebe’s arm.
“Thank you, my dear,” she said, then leaned in and said warmly, “You are just what he needs, I believe.”
Just what he needed? She would have thought that she was the last woman on earth a man like Jeffrey wo
uld need. What was the marchioness on about?
As they returned to the rest of their party, Phoebe had to blink back tears as Lady Clarissa’s words left her heart and her mind at war with one another. She could very well tell herself all the lies she wished.
But the truth of the matter was, she was falling for Jeffrey Worthington, Marquess of Berkley, and there was nothing rational thought could do to stop it.
*
Jeffrey longed to know what his mother and Phoebe had been speaking of in the corner of the salon. Most men would look upon such a conversation as something to be fearful of, but Jeffrey had a unique advantage over most other men, which was the fact that his mother was actually a rational woman who cared for more than only her children’s marriage prospects and securing the highest social standing possible.
And Phoebe did not look particularly upset about the conversation. If anything, she looked … contemplative. When she and his mother rejoined them, he searched Phoebe’s face, and she responded with a small curve of her lips. Well, that was encouraging, he supposed.
When it was time to return to the theatre, he took her arm and drew her close, dipping his head down toward hers. “Is everything all right?” he questioned.
“Yes, of course,” she responded before turning to look at him with a quirkily raised eyebrow. “And you?”
“I have a beautiful woman on my arm, and the love of my family surrounding me,” he said in all seriousness. “What more could a man ask for?”
His own words resonated around his mind as they re-took their seats. For there was more that a man could ask for. He could ask for a life with this woman. He imagined it, waking up every day with her lying next to him, her midnight tresses spread upon his pillow as the sun peeked through the gap in the curtains, bathing her beautiful curves with its light.
His heart beat quickly as his mind wandered, watching her open her green eyes to smile up at him as she lifted herself from his bed and reached for him. His daydreaming had him leaning over her, kissing those delicious red lips as he could whenever he chose, for she was his wife, and would be with him for the rest of their days.
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 54