They regarded her mutely.
“Good afternoon, Miss Runyon, Miss Carew,” she said kindly.
“Good afternoon, Miss Vale!” An angelic chorus.
“Are you looking forward to your holiday?”
“Yes, Miss Vale.”
“And will you be returning home to visit your families or staying on with us at the academy?”
“Home, Miss Vale.” In harmony, once more.
“Are you here to buy gifts for your families?”
“Yes, Miss Vale.”
Miss Runyon had been accused of being light-fingered, and her harried father had installed her at Miss Marietta Endicott’s academy when she was ten years old.
Coincidentally, about the same age Phoebe had been when she’d been taken there.
“I will show you some excellent things, and all can be had for a ha’penny. Buttons and bows and the like,” Mr. Postlethwaite assured them as indulgently as if they were fine ladies, for this was in part what made them behave like ladies, both he and Phoebe knew. She in fact knew how to manage recalcitrant young ladies so well it was almost unfair. Then again, she knew a little bit about being one.
He emerged from behind the counter and handed the two letters to Phoebe. “Do ’ave a look at the seal of this one, Miss Vale,” he murmured, with an upward wag of his eyebrows.
He tapped it with one finger and handed it over.
An elegant and unmistakable R was pressed into red wax.
Well!
Curiosity a bonfire, she took herself back to a sunny corner of the shop—she was of course entirely unaffected by the proximity to The Bonnet—after all, one could admire scenery without needing to own it, was that not true?—and slid her finger under the seal while Postlethwaite helped the girls choose gifts.
My dear Miss Vale,
I hope this finds you well and turning young hoydens into young ladies with as much alacrity as always. I apologize for the sudden nature of this message, but I should be delighted if you would join me for two days at Redmond House when I visit, beginning on Saturday. Mama and Papa are in Italy, as you know, and Mama is under the impression that I will not have a suitable friend or chaperone present for the duration of the visit, since my cousin Miss Violet, as you know, has lately become a countess and it is likely she will be in London with her husband. Mama will happily pay you for your time and Aunt Redmond approves. I have a surprise to share with you, too! I will tell you all about it when I see you. Oh, do say you’ll come!
With affection,
Lisbeth Redmond
Well.
Well, well, well.
She’d once been engaged to tutor Lisbeth—niece to Isaiah and Fanchette Redmond, cousin of all the rest of them—in French. Phoebe spoke five languages fluently and was a more than competent teacher, but Lisbeth had been impressively resistant to learning. She preferred to acquire information by simply asking for it. But she was charming enough company. And her two-month stay with Lisbeth was how Phoebe knew about things like primrose satin and coronets. Her stay with Lisbeth Redmond was also indirectly the reason Phoebe had once been kissed (and if the Redmonds had known this, she certainly wouldn’t have been invited) and the reason she’d decided to leave the country.
Because staying with a family like the Redmonds—and they were so emphatically a family—had emphasized how she belonged nowhere, to no one, wasn’t particularly wanted, and would never have the things the Redmonds had. It would be not only invigorating, she’d decided, but essential, to start her life over somewhere else entirely, someplace of her choosing, since the tide of fate had rather chosen everything for her to date.
Still. She could use a little extra money.
Not to mention a night or two in a featherbed, and excellent meals served on silver, and—
She would mull the invitation.
She knew who the other letter was from and what it would say. She would read it later in her rooms at the academy, and mull that, too.
She looked up when a shadow fell over the letter from Lisbeth. Odd. The day had been so astonishingly clear, so scoured by wind, it seemed unlikely a cloud would ever gain purchase in the sky.
She turned her head toward the window. And she nearly swayed with shock.
An enormous, pristine black landau had come to a halt in front of Postlethwaite’s. Phoebe shielded her eyes against the sunbeam that bounced off the glittering glass and gold lamps and ricocheted off her beauty-loving heart before returning to set the coat of arms—gold leaf, from the looks of things—aglow. One of the horses gave its head a coquettish toss and restively raised a fine leg.
The horse was black.
Its stockings were white.
And Phoebe’s heart jumped into her throat.
Because . . . Mother of God . . . hadn’t the door just jingled . . . ?
She held her body very gingerly when she turned, because if she was dreaming, she didn’t want to accidentally jar herself awake.
She saw him, and the air in the room became thinner, headier, as though she’d been jerked up high and deposited on a mountaintop. He seemed taller than . . . anyone. And suddenly all the hats and ribbons and buttons and gloves seemed like gaudy props arranged on a stage, awaiting just his arrival all these years.
He swept the shop with a glance, taking in ribbons, gloves, Phoebe, hats, watches, her students, reticules, shawls and Postlethwaite, in that order and with equal dispassion.
His coat and boots were black.
His shirt and cravat were white.
And his voice, a baritone edged with smoke, was exactly how she’d imagined it.
“Dryden,” he said.
As if it was the answer to all of life’s most important questions.
Chapter 3
His name echoed all by itself in the shop long enough for everyone to begin wondering whether they’d imagined he’d spoken.
Up went one of his black eyebrows. Like an arrow.
Phoebe saw this in the mirror over the counter. Her view was now of the man’s back, which rivaled the Alps for majesty. His shoulders narrowed to a waist in a line so fundamentally masculine she’d never been more unnervingly aware she was a woman. When he shifted his feet, she could almost sense the lovely slide of muscles beneath the black coat he wore with the same casual grace a panther wears its pelt.
Phoebe’s students stood frozen in the corner like statues of girls for sale. Their eyes were so round they were more whites than pupil.
Postlethwaite darted a glance at Phoebe from over the top of his spectacles. She gave the slightest of nods in confirmation. You’re not hallucinating.
“Mr. Postlethwaite at your service, my lord.” His bow was deep and really very elegant, she thought, even despite the tiny cracking sound his spine made on its way up again. “You honor my humble establishment, indeed! What can I do for you today, my lord?”
She attempted to steal a glance at Dryden’s gloves, the ones that had allegedly cost one hundred pounds. But he’d pulled them from his fingers and bunched them in his fist. He lifted off his hat and held it, pushed his dark hair back from a high pale forehead. The candle flames of the chandelier swinging overhead danced, reflected in the polished toes of his boots—made by Hoby, she knew, because the broadsheets said so.
His bearing was almost aggressively erect.
He either didn’t notice or didn’t care that she was staring at him. Perhaps it would have been more notable if she hadn’t been staring. She wondered if charisma—and his poured from him in veritable rays—was simply a patina formed from the accumulated stares of countless people over years.
“I should like to see your selection of silk fans, if you would, Mr. Postlethwaite.”
His tone was brisk, impersonal, and surprisingly kind. But she heard restraint thrumming through it. He was clearly aware of his impact and was making a concerted effort not to frighten the rabble and freeze them like rabbits before wolves. After all, frozen people could not do his bidding.
&
nbsp; Herself and Postlethwaite being the rabble, of course.
She half resented the loss of the game she played with Postlethwaite. Because it was clear that this was the sort of man who could never be a figure of fun.
But just in case she was dreaming, she succumbed to an impulse to reach across her body and pinch her own arm.
Too late she realized the marquess had a perfect view of her in the mirror over the counter.
He swiveled his body a quarter turn.
She felt his attention like an explosion of light smack in her solar plexus.
His cheekbones were high and stark, and somehow this made his gaze seem particularly potent, as though he were calmly viewing a siege from the crenellations of a castle. His eyes were clear, just a shade darker than whiskey.
Not a gentle face. Nor a safe face.
And not a face one could get accustomed to in a glance.
Three or four or fifteen more glances of the lingering sort, perhaps.
She touched a hand to her wind-ruddied face, as if it was a wand that could change her into a princess before his eyes.
He turned away without a change of expression.
Which was when she began breathing again.
“Of course, of course, my lord.” A whiff of glee had entered Postlethwaite’s voice. “I’ve a lovely selection of silk fans, from plain to ornate.” He gestured to a case in a shadowy corner of the shop near the girls, far away from sunlight that could yellow or fade painted silk. “I hope you find something that pleases you.”
Fat chance, Phoebe thought.
Postlethwaite bustled out from behind the counter and strutted across the floor. “May I ask what brings you to our town, Lord Dryden?”
“I’ve been invited to a party.” She’d never heard the word party sound so ironic. “I am also here to visit Miss Endicott’s storied academy on behalf of my niece.”
Storied? Was it really? Was the niece the recalcitrant girl? And would he be attending the Redmonds’ party? But where else would he be going?
“Miss Vale is a teacher at the academy.” Postlethwaite made a vague gesture in her direction. The marquess dutifully turned.
She took advantage of the moment to show off her curtsy, while he devoted another tick of the clock to her. “An honor to meet you, Lord Dryden.” Her tones were low, and, she liked to think, dulcet.
His long firm mouth turned up only faintly. Perhaps he calibrated smiles according to rank. This time she saw surprising faint shadows of fatigue beneath his eyes.
“Miss Vale.” He gave her a bit of a bow. “I’m to meet with Miss Endicott at the academy.”
The faintest conclusive emphasis landed on the words Miss Endicott. Likely he was accustomed to females of all sorts flinging themselves at him and hoped to discourage her from doing the same.
“Of course.” Too late Phoebe heard the hint of irony in her voice: of course you’ll be meeting with the most important person at the academy.
She could have sworn his eyes glinted swiftly. A flash, there and gone. Then again, it could just as easily have been the reflection from the gold leaf on his carriage’s coat of arms.
When he turned away from her again to follow Postlethwaite toward the corner where the fans were kept, she made an emphatic nudging motion with her chin and raised her eyebrows at the frozen girls.
They stirred to life and curtsied as prettily as two little flowers drifting to the ground. The marquess gifted them with a brief and utterly charming smile and a little semi-bow which they would remember forever while he, Phoebe was sure, promptly forgot them.
When he’d passed Miss Runyon gripped Miss Carew by the elbow and silently slapped the back of her hand to her forehead, and began to buckle her knees in a faux swoon.
In order not to laugh, Phoebe fixed her with a quelling frown and motioned with her chin to the counter. The girls hastened to obey, each of them biting down on their lips to prevent giggling.
“Please do take your time with your selection, my lord,” Postlethwaite told the marquess.
Phoebe doubted the marquess was tempted to do anything other than precisely what he wanted to do.
The bells on the door jingled yet again.
In walked an enormous blond man. Big and pale as a Viking, rectangular where the marquess was rather more . . . tapered. He whipped off his hat and swept back fair hair, and planted himself in the center of the room.
“Saw your carriage, Dryden.” Almost a monotone, the voice, so low was it, as if nothing, nothing could divert him from his ennui. But so aristocratic it could have been carved from diamonds.
A flick of the eyes over his shoulder from the marquess. “Waterburn.”
Phoebe had the distinct impression the marquess was stifling a resigned sigh. Intriguing.
Waterburn was the viscount known for whimsical wagers of staggering amounts. He’d once wagered five hundred pounds on a race between crickets, or so she’d read in the broadsheets.
Waterburn strolled deeper into the shop, pale eyes lighting upon ribbons, hats, and light fixtures like a Bow Street runner searching for evidence of a crime. “I think we may have been invited to the same party.”
“I am stunned.” The marquess’s tone was ironic.
Waterburn smiled.
The marquess was now inspecting two fans he’d chosen from Postlethwaite’s collection the way Leonora Heron, one of the Gypsies who camped on the outskirts of Pennyroyal Green, pored over the tarot cards when she dukkered for paying visitors.
Envy washed over her, spiky and hot and surprising. Who? Who was special enough to warrant that sort of care in selection?
“Lord Waterburn.” Postlethwaite was compelled to bow again. “Mr. Postlethwaite at your service. May I bring tea for Your Lordships?”
“None for me, but thank you for offering, Mr. Postlethwaite.” This came from the marquess.
Waterburn’s idle gaze lit upon Phoebe. She tried a smile and a nod. He dipped his great head unsmilingly, and turned away again.
For heaven’s sake. She was growing a little tired of feeling like part of the decor.
Her students were rustling with the packages and preparing to leave. “Good day, Miss Vale. I hope you have a lovely holiday.”
“Thank you, ladies. I hope yours is lovely as well. But please don’t forget to read your Marcus Aurelius, or you will find yourselves behind in your lessons upon your return.”
“Of course not, Miss Vale! I am looking forward to it greatly!” Miss Runyon lied passionately.
And off they went with a jangle of bells, letting in a rush of wind that fluttered the ribbons on the bonnets and lifted up the horseshoe of hair remaining on Postlethwaite’s head, and then the door was shut once more.
Phoebe took one last hungry look at the bonnet that would never be hers and folded her message from Lisbeth so she could tuck it in her reticule along with her other letter.
Which was when the large blond lordship drifted, much like a galleon, over to the marquess. “Ten pounds says even you cannot get a kiss from the . . . la insegnante, Dryden.”
Insegnante? But . . . insegnante was Italian for teacher.
Waterburn jerked his chin in her direction.
She went numb with shock. He means for the marquess to kiss me!
She whirled immediately around again and began fondling the lavender ribbon on the bonnet, and listened.
“For God’s sake, Waterburn. What need have I of a kiss from her or ten pounds?” the marquess murmured, sounding bored.
“But that’s just it. She hardly looks kissable, wouldn’t you agree?” Waterburn insisted. “Unkissable, in fact. And yet it’s said, Dryden, that you can get one anytime you please from anyone you please. I say . . . well, from the looks of things, you cannot.”
From the looks of things? What things? The tips of her fingers turned white and bloodless from gripping the ribbon.
The marquess’s voice had an edge now. “Don’t be ridiculous. It would be child’s play.”
Oh.
Mortification scorched the entire surface of her skin. She couldn’t breathe for it. The bonnet blurred in front of her eyes.
As Postlethwaite’s hearing wasn’t what it once was, he seemed entirely unaffected. He was now happily counting money, which jingled in his palms, and whistling through his teeth, which likely drowned out scandalous murmurs.
“Then it’s a wager, Dryden. And we know you never lose wagers.”
Phoebe held herself still, as though she’d just taken a great fall. Trying not to breathe or feel, the satiny ribbon in her fingers an alien contrast to her abraded pride. She stared at the bonnet she coveted and would never have, while a man she’d once coveted and would never have dismissed the notion that she might be kissable and painstakingly selected a gift for another woman. Whereupon he would climb once again into that behemoth of a carriage and be driven to the academy whilst she ran up the hill again, doing battle with a wind determined to tear off her old bonnet.
Bloody aristocrats.
How very disappointing to discover they were mortal and childish.
The marquess straightened abruptly. Reminding Phoebe once more of just how unfairly tall he was.
“This one, Mr. Postlethwaite.” He’d chosen the painted fan. It was ivory silk, scattered with a few pale pink blooms twined with very fine, pale green thornless stems. Exquisite.
Naturally.
“Very good, sir!” Postlethwaite all but vaulted the counter in his eagerness to assist.
Not one of the men had looked at her again.
“Thank you for the mail, Postlethwaite,” she said crisply, managing to sound cheery enough. “Good day.”
She left the shop trailing a hand in a farewell wave before he could answer. She gave the legendary carriage a good shunning as she swept past it, when every fiber in her being wanted to feast her eyes, and maybe pat a glossy horse. She dove back into the wind. It was uphill to the academy from Postlethwaite’s. She was suddenly aware that much of her life had always been precisely, metaphorically like that: uphill into the wind.
How the Marquess Was Won Page 2