“Will you really, Phoebe?” she asked, her pretty green eyes wide. “I don’t see how you can possibly stop her interfering though,” she added with a dejected sigh.
“That’s because you don’t know me very well,” Phoebe replied with a wink that made Cecily giggle again. “And I’ll be sure to take you shopping and find the most spectacular gowns.”
Cecily looked so enraptured by this idea that Phoebe thought she might actually cry with delight. This was abruptly called to a halt as Miss Pinchbeck bore down on them. She had clearly overheard this last remark.
“Ah yes, Miss Skeffington-Fox, I’m sure Cecily would adore to go shopping with you. You know all the most fashionable places no doubt. Though of course they may not be suitable for such a well brought up young lady as Miss Rothay. She has not seen the world in such a rough and ready manner as you after all.”
Cecily gaped in horror at such an obvious attack but Phoebe was glad that Miss Pinchbeck had finally shown her true colours. It meant she could declare her intent.
She favoured Miss Pinchbeck with a little confused frown. “Oh, dear,” she said, blinking with an innocent expression. “Do you mean to say you find my dress unsuitable? I shall have to speak to Lady Rothay and ask her advice, though it’s very strange as it appears I go to all the same Modistes as she does. We were planning to take dear Cecily shopping together you see, but if you think perhaps we are wrong to do so I shall go and speak with her about it immediately.” She made to get to her feet as Miss Pinchbeck blanched, her mouth tightening.
“Well,” she said, with a cool tone. “I’m sure if Lady Rothay approves I have nothing further to say about it.”
“No,” Phoebe said with a bright smile. “I don’t suppose you do.”
“Though her brother may have something to say on the matter,” she added with a malicious glitter in her eyes that showed she had every intention of making him interfere.
“Well let’s ask him,” Phoebe said, gaining Benedict’s attention with no difficulty as he came into the room with Sylvester leaning on his arm for support. With his uncle’s accord he strode towards them, frowning at the imperious manner she had waved her hand. “Now Benedict, I was just discussing the merits of a brother’s intervention in the matter of his younger sister’s dress for her coming out. Don’t you think you should be fully involved in choosing her wardrobe?”
“Good God, no,” he said, a look of utter revulsion on his face. “I don’t have the least interest or intention of interfering in that. My mother is more than capable of choosing anything she needs I assure you.”
“Yes,” Phoebe said, nodding as though this was sage advice indeed. “You see, Miss Pinchbeck, that’s exactly what I said.” Benedict looked from her to Miss Pinchbeck in surprise, aware that there was some undertone that he had been unaware of. “Only Miss Pinchbeck said neither Lady Rothay nor I was equipped to choose for such a well brought up young lady as Cecily.”
Miss Pinchbeck flushed a rather unbecoming shade of scarlet, her grey eyes glittering with fury. “You’ve twisted my words,” she cried in outrage.
“No she didn’t,” Cecily said with more bravery that Phoebe might have credited her with. “You said the Modistes that Phoebe visits are all well and good for a girl like her who’s seen the rough and tumble of the world but not for me. But mama goes to all the same places as Phoebe does!” To Phoebe’s delight the girl looked flushed and indignant and if he might have believed Phoebe of twisting the truth for her own ends, he didn’t doubt his sister.
Miss Pinchbeck flinched under the frowning gaze of her betrothed though he said nothing to her.
“I ... I think I shall go to bed,” she said, putting a hand to head. “I have a headache.”
“Yes,” Benedict said to her, with a rather cool tone. “I’m sure that accounts for it. I imagine you will feel better in the morning, Theodora.”
Miss Pinchbeck gave a taut nod and walked away from them.
“Now, now, little hell cat,” Sylvester said, his shrewd green eyes looking at her with delight. “At daggers drawn already eh? I knew I was right about you.” He turned to Benedict and slapped his shoulder. “Girl’s got spirit, lad. I like to see it.” And with that ringing endorsement he left Benedict with Phoebe and Cecily. Cecily, no doubt sensing tension leapt to her feet to get her mama another cup of tea as her courage appeared to be all used up.
Phoebe looked up at Benedict and gave him a beatific smile to which he returned a cool, considering expression.
“Now then, Miss Skeffington-Fox,” said another male voice beside her.
Phoebe drew her attention away from the big glowering man staring down at her and to the rather handsome blond fellow who had arrived halfway through the meal. They had been introduced but the seating plan had not allowed for much conversation.
“Mr Bradshaw,” she replied with a warm smile, noting with annoyance that both Harold and his friend Mr Spalding had followed him.
“Oh no, we don’t stand on ceremony when Sylvester holds court do we, Ben?” he replied chuckling. “Call me Oliver, do.”
“Yes, Cousin Phoebe,” Harold replied with a smirk. “We are very informal here you see.”
Phoebe dared a glance at Benedict and saw him raise one eyebrow just a fraction. Damn him. She wasn’t, of course, Harold’s cousin but she couldn’t object to him using her given name in front of Benedict as she’d made such a fuss over him being Cousin Benedict.
“Skeffington-Fox,” replied Mr Spalding, his voice quiet and his eyes roving over her, weighing her up in a manner she took exception to. “I once knew a man who spoke of a Captain Skeffington-Fox, fought a duel with him over some woman. The good Captain put a bullet in his shoulder, damn near killed him,” he drawled, looking to see how this little nugget had gone down.
Phoebe blanched and glared at Mr Spalding in fury. The story about her father had been a dreadful scandal when she was quite a little girl. She drew a breath, fully prepared to rail at him for bringing such a subject up in polite conversation when she was saved by an unlikely ally.
“Shut your damned mouth, Spalding,” Benedict said, his tone dripping ice. “I hardly think that is the kind of conversation for the drawing room, let alone disparaging a man who may or may not be this young woman’s relation.”
He held his arm out to Phoebe who took it with alacrity.
“Come, Miss Skeffington-Fox, you are looking a little flushed, but then it is rather stuffy in here.”
“Yes, indeed, I could do with a little air,” Phoebe agreed quite readily and allowed Benedict to escort her outside onto the terrace that overlooked the gardens.
Chapter 6
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on. - John Keats
The chill wind of earlier had died away and the night was mild if damp. Phoebe drew in a deep breath, finding she really had needed some air and relishing the cool breeze that fluttered against her skin.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling up at Benedict with gratitude. “You were very gallant.”
Benedict’s face darkened a little, his expression just visible in the deepening twilight. It was as though he hadn’t realised or meant to be anything of the sort and was now regretting it.
“I don’t like the man,” he said, sounding gruff now. “He’s far too knowing and ... insinuating. God knows what Harold was thinking of bringing him here.”
Phoebe nodded. “Yes, he does seem rather a sly boots doesn’t he?” Watching with amusement as Benedict frowned harder at the cant expression. “I imagine he fancies himself something of a rakehell,” she added, blinking up at him with an innocent expression. “But he’s really not got the touch has he? He’s merely rude.”
Benedict’s jaw tightened perceptibly. “You should not speak so,” he bit out. “Or you will give the impression of having had some experience with rakes. If you are in search of a husband it won’t help you.”
Phoebe laugh
ed and shook her head. “Oh but it is only you, Cousin Benedict, so I am in no danger and feel I can speak freely.”
“Do you?” he bit out, sounding increasingly annoyed.
“Oh yes,” she said, nodding with the utmost seriousness. “And after all you know very well my father has the most appalling reputation, but he’s the dearest man. But then rakes often are aren’t they? I mean ... they wouldn’t be half so successful if they were bad company.”
“I must bow to your greater knowledge of the subject.”
Phoebe gave an irrepressible burst of laughter. “Oh, how ungracious of you! Though I suppose I deserved it.”
Benedict glowered at her. “You deserve a great deal more, Miss Skeffington-Fox but not being your father I am at a loss for how to proceed.”
Leaning back against the wall, Phoebe tilted her head a little to observe him. “Oh dear, we’re back to formality I see. Yes, I imagine you would take me in hand if you had the responsibility.”
“I would,” he agreed, his posture rigid. Phoebe thought she had never seen a man so utterly taut with annoyance, and she’d annoyed a fair few in her time.
“Yes, I think it’s a good job you don’t have that power,” she muttered. “I imagine you would have spanked me.”
Watching him as closely as she was, she didn’t miss the tiny intake of breath or the way his eyes darkened at her words, though it was immediately followed by a look of disgust.
“This is not an ... appropriate conversation,” he said, turning away from her. “And I demand that you not to be so free with your tongue. You have indeed been encouraged towards the most outrageous freedoms in your speech and I must insist that you do not speak so in front of Cecily.”
Phoebe glared at him, her own temper rising now. “I am not speaking to Cecily though, I am speaking to a grown man. Of course I should never speak so to a green young girl. But I am no such thing and I believed you to be a man of the world to whom I could speak without reserve. But I see I was mistaken, you are in fact ...”
She clamped her lips shut aware that her wretched temper had gotten the better of her, not for the first time.
“Oh don’t stop there,” Benedict said, his tone dark as he stepped closer, glowering down at her, using his massive bulk to intimidate. “What am I?”
It was the wrong thing to do as Phoebe wasn’t easily intimidated and only found such masculine posturing a challenge. She raised her chin, staring at him with defiance. “You’re a prig. You’re so starched and unbending you must look down your nose at everyone. You wouldn’t know how to have fun if your life depended on it and you’ve been determined to disapprove of me since before I even arrived! But you needn’t worry, I promise that I’ll give you plenty more reasons before either of us is very much older. Goodnight, my Lord Rothay.”
Furious both with herself and him, she turned on her heel and left him standing alone on the terrace.
***
Benedict watched the infuriating young woman as she tossed her golden curls and stalked away from him and couldn’t help but feel a grudging sense of admiration. When he’d stood over her, determined that she should be cowed by him, he’d expected that she would stutter and back down immediately. Though he felt guilt for using such tactics he had never known a woman who wouldn’t give up any argument with him after little more than a look of displeasure on his face and a couple of cutting remarks. But then Phoebe Skeffington-Fox was unlike any woman he had ever known before, thank God! The thought of his sisters acting in such a way made his blood run cold. Yet he couldn’t help but remember her rage with a smile as he pictured how she’d stood up to him and hadn’t even looked the slightest bit discomforted. In truth she’d looked furious enough to wring his neck with those slender hands of hers. The little wretch.
But now her words came back to him with a frown and he felt his own anger bubble back to the surface. A prig! Him? Indeed he was no such thing. He’d never looked down at anyone in his life, it was monstrously unfair. And perhaps he had judged her on her father’s reputation but he’d been spot on after all. Any woman who could look him in the eye and suggest he would like to spank her ...
He swallowed convulsively as an unwelcome and forceful surge of desire burst through him. It stole his breath and forced a decadent image of Miss Skeffington-Fox with her blonde hair in as much disarray as her skirts. Benedict hauled in a breath and banished the image from his mind. Damn the woman. With growing agitation he stalked back into the drawing room with the intention of downing a large drink and going early to bed - and putting Miss Skeffington-Fox firmly out of his mind for the rest of the summer.
***
His intentions to avoid Miss Skeffington-Fox did not get off to a good start. Summoned to the drawing room by his mother not long after breakfast he found Lady Rothay with his cousin Lizzie and Phoebe as well as the children and Miss Pinchbeck.
Miss Pinchbeck looked as though her manners were being tested to the utmost if the tight-lipped expression of disapproval was anything to go on. But if he’d believed Phoebe would evade his eyes after last night’s row he was to be sorely disappointed. In fact she beamed at him as he strode in the room, completely ignoring the glower on his face or the fact he was trying as hard as he could to ignore her outside of a formally polite and chilly good morning. Her eyes were full of amusement and he couldn’t help feeling that she was laughing at him because he was being just the prig she’d accused him of being. It didn’t make him feel better.
“You wanted me, mother?” he demanded rather abruptly, wanting to be out of the blasted woman’s presence as quickly as he could.
Lady Rothay frowned at him for a moment but nodded. “Yes, dear. Phoebe has heard all about Grizedale’s armoury and was speaking of going to investigate it, but I said she simply must allow you to show her around. After all it is your area of expertise.”
Benedict hesitated. As much as he wanted to get away from Phoebe it was true he was fascinated by the armoury and all the ancient weaponry it contained. In fact he’d made quite a hobby of it in his youth and had spent a lot of his summer holidays cataloguing all of the items and researching them. The idea of sharing his knowledge with others, particularly someone who found it of interest was tempting. Besides, he could hardly refuse now as his mother well knew.
“Of course,” he said, smiling at his mother and avoiding Phoebe’s gleeful expression. “Theodora, will you be joining us?”
His fiancée grimaced with distaste. “No indeed. Ghastly things. I can’t imagine how anyone can spend the morning looking at such blood thirsty objects, but please don’t let me spoil your fun.”
“Oh, we shan’t,” Phoebe said, with a bright smile as she took Benedict’s arm and followed him out the room.
Benedict gritted his teeth and promised himself he would be meticulously polite. He’d have to be, seeing as Cecily the twins and young Jessamy were coming too.
The armoury was a vast oak panelled room with windows down one length and was dominated by The Knight.
“My what a splendid fellow,” Phoebe said, looking astonished at the gleaming figure astride his ebony steed. The horse was in fact carved of wood and had been Benedict’s idea when he was not much older than Jessamy. He had longed to see the knight and horse, both in full armour and so his uncle had commissioned the work. “And what a wonderful way to display him. I can almost see him galloping into battle.”
“The armour is actually for jousting,” Benedict said, but couldn’t help but smile, pleased that she could see the figure in the same way he had hoped people would. “It dates from the fifteen seventies.” He moved them on to a display cabinet where a large sword rested on a bed of scarlet silk. “This is the oldest piece we have,” he said, quite unable to keep the pride from his voice. “It dates from nine hundred and fifty two AD. It’s five foot five and three quarter inches long and belonged to our ancestor. Guy of Denholm.”
He looked around to find Phoebe staring at it with rapt fascination. “My w
ord,” she whispered. “What stories it could tell us.”
Benedict nodded, finding it hard to look away from her lovely profile as she stared down into the glass covered case.
“Legend has it that the sword was given to Guy by King Eadwig to vanquish a monster.”
He found himself smiling as she stared up at him wide eyed with surprise. “Not really?” she asked, though he could almost see the desire to be told about dragons and fanciful beasts burning in her eyes. The children had wandered away now, all of them having heard his stories before and they were quite alone beside the cabinet. It seemed a shame to disappoint her.
“Yes,” he said, nodding quite seriously. “There is a cave not far from here, very deep and full of ancient paintings. The story says that a fierce three-headed monster lived in the cave and would only be placated by the sacrifice of a virgin every third Sunday.”
Phoebe gaped at him and then burst out laughing. “Oh you wretch!” she exclaimed with delight. “You’re bamming me.”
Benedict’s lips twitched just a little, unwilling to show her that he was really rather pleased by her reaction.
“Well,” she said with a huff. “That serves me right for saying you had no sense of humour doesn’t it.” She looked up at him, a warm expression in her eyes that made him want to make her laugh again. “I owe you an apology I think,” she said, her eyes suddenly growing serious. “I’m afraid my wretched tongue runs away with me sometimes and I say ... oh, the most outrageous things.” She glanced up at him and he found she was looking a little dismayed. To his chagrin he discovered he didn’t like to see such an expression on her face. “Well I’m afraid you know only too well. But I have a frightful temper you see and ... and well you were rather odious,” she added, with a frown.
He gave a bark of laughter, torn between annoyance and delight. What would the dreadful creature say next? “I thought that apology was coming along rather too nicely,” he said with a shake of his head. “And we’d gone almost a half hour in each other’s company without you insulting me or goading my temper.”
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