The Seduction of Lady Phoebe (13 page)

For some reason she could not bring herself to go immediately inside. Glancing up, she said, “We do not attend more than one entertainment an evening. Tonight we will be at Mrs. Moreton’s.”

Marcus bowed before taking her hand. She’d expected him to kiss the knuckles as he had before. Instead, he turned it over and placed a kiss just above the edge of her glove. A tremor shot through her and she had to remember to breathe.

A light gleamed in his eyes. “I shall see you there, milady.”

A shiver of excitement coursed through her at his reminder that he had protected her. Phoebe regained her chambers in total confusion. He
was
charming, dangerously so. She was starting to like him as a person, just a little. Yet that, in itself, was not a good basis for a marriage. Time would help her decide.

Still the fears and doubts she’d buried so long ago rose to the fore. Slurred words rang in her memory and a flush of panic. Dropping her head in her hands, she wondered if she could ever forget?

By the time Marcus arrived at the Moreton party, Phoebe was already talking with a group of men and women. He joined her and the discussion. Though he made a point of standing next to Phoebe, he was unable to draw her attention from the circle.

When he suggested a walk on the terrace, they all decided that was a splendid idea and decamped together. After everyone returned to the ballroom, another gentleman insinuated himself next to Phoebe. Marcus, not wanting to push her too soon, left the party irritated that he’d been unable to keep her next to him. Worse, he’d received no commitment from her to see him again.

Much to his disgust, more than a week passed before he could have any sort of private speech with her. He wondered if he’d been too forward and scared her.

The next two weeks were a little better. He’d been able to convince Phoebe to stroll with him around the rooms a few times. Though in such a venue, there was no opportunity for him to delve deeper into her feelings.

Most of the political entertainments they attended had no dancing, and Phoebe, he found to his perturbation, was much in demand.

He was at a standstill until she deigned to give him permission to call. Why had he agreed to this foolishness? The devil. He could be courting her forever at this rate.

Finally, at yet another entertainment, Phoebe asked him to present himself at St. Eth House the following morning, at ten o’clock. Once again, she selected the time when no one but nursemaids would see them, yet at least he’d be able to speak to her alone.

He arrived promptly on the hour and waited for fifteen minutes before she arrived.

Phoebe set the horses off and they reached the Park entrance shortly afterward. She was silent and tense and continued to keep her focus on her cattle rather than him. Finally she said, “The weather’s been very nice.”

He raised a brow.
The weather?
He glanced at the cloudless sky. They were having what the Americans called an Indian summer, warm weather in autumn. “Yes, though to-day seems a little . . . chilly.”

Phoebe glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Hiding his smile, he replied, “Perhaps it is my imagination? Have you been enjoying the Season?”

She shrugged lightly. “I usually enjoy the Little Season. It’s not quite as hectic as in the spring.”

What could he say to make her open up? Ah yes, he had it. “In Jamaica, we’d be starting to plant in about a month.”

She slowed the horses and turned her head to him a little. “Why is that?”

“The summer is too warm for many plants and, of course, one wouldn’t want to harvest during hurricane season, so we plant in November.”

“How long is your growing season?” she asked with interest, slowing the horses to a walk.

“Until July, if we’re lucky. After that, it becomes too hot again.”

They’d completed the circuit and returned to Grosvenor Square.

When Marcus handed Phoebe down from her phaeton at St. Eth House, she glanced at him. “We shall attend Lady Buxted’s party this evening.”

Although Marcus had hoped to be able to spend more time with her that morning, he brought her hand to his lips. “I’ll see you this evening, my lady.”

Phoebe walked around the garden, lost in her thoughts. During the past three weeks since he’d kissed her, and she had agreed he could court her, she’d succeeded in keeping him at arm’s length and controlling their conversations.

She sometimes had the impression he allowed her to do so. There were no diversions into impropriety, but he’d given her a knowing look to-day, as if he knew what she was doing. She’d become breathless, waiting to see if he would go beyond the line she had set, but he had not.

Phoebe had to admit that controlling their conversations was not very much fun, even if it did make her feel safer, and she hadn’t learned much about his life or what kind of man he was while discussing the weather and other unexceptional topics. His offhand remarks about Jamaica almost made her turn her phaeton back around the park to pursue his comments further.

She’d not yet discovered whether she could trust him. She sensed his frustration building, but he had done nothing to challenge her.

To-day, when he’d lifted her down and held her too long, her heart had beat a hard tattoo. Phoebe wondered what it would be like to kiss him again, now knowing who he was. Maybe just once would be enough to rid her of her growing feelings for him.

But such an intimacy was a risk. If anyone saw them or he pressed her for marriage . . . Phoebe wished she wasn’t looking forward to seeing him tonight.

Marcus entered Lady Buxted’s house that evening and surveyed the room until his eyes lit on Phoebe. He was exasperated to find her once again surrounded by her court. Tonight her circle consisted of several gentlemen, most of whom he knew. How to arrange to detach her from them was his first concern. With great skill, Marcus slid between Phoebe and a Mr. Warwick, a tall, thin, young man with a good-humored countenance.

When Phoebe glanced up, Marcus captured her gaze.

She smiled politely. “Lord Marcus, how nice to see you this evening.”

Her words were neutral, but the warmth in her eyes gave him hope. He smiled, letting her see his joy at seeing her again.

For a moment, they’d recaptured the feelings he knew they both felt and she was trying to deny. Keeping his eyes on hers, he possessed himself of her hand and brought it to his lips. “The pleasure, my lady, is all mine.” Now, if he could only get her alone.

Phoebe’s breath hitched, and Marcus turned to be introduced to Mr. Warwick, who seemed not to understand how it was he now stood next to Marcus rather than Phoebe.

Another gentleman, Lord Travenor, stood nearby. The man appeared about the same age as Marcus but much shorter with a barrel chest and undistinguished features. For a slight moment, Marcus noted a look of pure hate in Travenor’s eyes when they were introduced. Marcus, unsure what he had done to garner such enmity, stared the man down and wondered why the name Travenor was so familiar?

Marcus nodded to Lords Wivenly, Huntley, and Rutherford, whom he’d known when he was at Eton and Oxford. He’d remained in correspondence with the gentlemen for years, and Marcus had easily picked up the threads of their friendship when he returned to England.

Rutherford was as tall as Marcus, but more loose-limbed. Huntley, not as tall, but well above medium height, had an athletic build, curling brown hair, and a deceptively open look in his intelligent face, which ladies seemed to love. Wivenly was tall and slender.

Once the men greeted each other, the talk turned back to the current bills likely to come up in the legislative session.

Phoebe, as Marcus expected, held her own in the discussions. He was impressed to note that not only did his friends listen to her with respect, but earnestly solicited her opinions as well. His father had been right. She would make an excellent political hostess.

Only Lord Travenor, who was not in the same intellectual league as the others, seemed not to hold Phoebe’s opinions in high regard.

For the most part, she allowed his patronizing comments to wash over her, though how she seemed so unconcerned was a mystery to Marcus. He would have been happy to re-arrange Travenor’s opinions—and face—for the man.

However, the gentlemen who formed Phoebe’s regular court were not content to allow this interloper to attempt to discredit her without waging a defense.

During one of these spirited debates, Phoebe glanced up at Marcus under her lashes. “Will you not defend me as well, my lord?”

He responded in a low voice, “You don’t appear to need my help. Does this always happen?”

“Only when someone like Lord Travenor joins our discussions.” Marcus could not like Travenor, something about him was off. “What do you know about him?”

Shrugging lightly, she replied, “Nothing, he just came into the title and is finding his way. Why?”

Marcus tried to shake off his strong sense of unease. “No particular reason.” But there was. The man was a pompous bore.

Phoebe allowed the debate to continue for the next several minutes before, finally, she assumed a perplexed look. “Lord Travenor, I do not understand why you remain in our discussion when you hold everything I say in contempt.”

Travenor puffed out his chest like a bantam rooster. “My dear Lady Phoebe, I am a plain man and know such flummery is nonsense. It is a well-known fact that a gentleman’s understanding of these issues is superior to a lady’s. It is for we gentlemen to guide you ladies and your thoughts to the proper outcome.”

Phoebe’s eyes were wide and innocent, her tone honeyed. “Indeed, my lord, and what do you hope will be the ‘outcome’ this evening?”

Lord Travenor replied in a self-important manner, which made it clear he thought he had won his argument, “I would like to take you for a stroll on the terrace, my dear Lady Phoebe, where we may discuss topics more to your level of comprehension.”

She smiled tightly. “Ah, now I begin to understand you, Lord Travenor. You seek to discredit my intellect in an attempt to seduce me.”

Travenor’s jaw dropped. He had not expected such a direct attack and did not have the social skills to deflect it. He said, rather disjointedly, “No, my dear Lady Phoebe, I have the utmost respect . . .”

She adroitly took control of the conversation. “Lord Travenor, I think my uncle, Lord St. Eth, would disagree with your contention that females, as a race, are inferior to males. In particular, as I am helping him to write the bill he is proposing this session. I understand you are new to politics at this level. I very much suggest you to take the advice given to me upon entering political circles. Listen more than you speak.”

Travenor was seething, but Phoebe appeared not to notice. Marcus had to remind himself that he was in London, where cuts were made with the tongue and not with a blade. He wondered briefly if Travenor adhered to those rules. There was something distinctly under-bred about the man as if he’d be happier drinking Blue Ruin rather than champagne.

Phoebe glanced around. “Now, I find I wish to take a stroll on the terrace. Lord Marcus, will you accompany me?”

He bowed, offering his arm. “I would like nothing better, my lady.”

Rutherford raised his brows and leaned into Marcus. “A signal honor. Don’t try to kiss her or you’ll find yourself on the ground. She’s got the most punishing right I’ve ever had the misfortune to come across.”

Marcus glanced at him, whilst Phoebe excused herself to the rest of her court. He smiled. “I know, and a devilish sharp tongue as well.”

As they left, Rutherford murmured to Huntley, “Do you think she’s finally been caught?”

Huntley whispered in return, “Well, she certainly hasn’t strolled with anyone alone on the terrace since her second season.”

Rutherford responded, “I predict the betting in the clubs will begin soon.”

Although Marcus overheard their comments, he resisted the temptation to look back at his friends. There would be no wagering if he had anything to say about it, but first he had to fix Phoebe’s attention.

The evenings were still comfortably warm enough for there to be many guests on the terrace. Marcus led her away from the others until they were alone in the shadows, under a tree whose branches overhung the stone balustrade. A lingering scent of nicotina and night-blooming jasmine perfumed the air.

He stopped and she faced him, her back to the garden and his to the terrace. A sliver of moonlight came through thinning branches of the tree, casting a silver light to one side, but not illuminating them to anyone else on the terrace. They were, in effect, hidden in darkness.

Marcus searched Phoebe’s face. “Do you come across many men of Lord Travenor’s ilk?”

“Not so much anymore,” she said, returning Marcus’s gaze. “And the ones I do meet are usually newly up to Town. They’ve been lord and master of all their dependents with no one to gainsay them. This allows those men to think they are the only ones with an opinion worth valuing.”

Marcus and Phoebe were standing mere inches apart. “You didn’t seem particularly upset by him.”

“No, why should I?” A perplexed look appeared on her lovely face. “He has no power over me. He is dazzled by a sophistication he does not see much, or at all, in the country. He must live someplace where there are no great families, thus giving him an inflated opinion of his own self-consequence.” Her perfect lips formed a
moue
. “Unfortunately, his manners are deplorable. Only his title gains him entry to the
ton
. His behavior is such that he shan’t be welcomed for long.”