Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
T he Duke of Cheshire was buried in an odd combination of grandeur meeting a pensive somberness that was de rigueuer for most events in the ton . There were a great number of guests who attended the funeral, although Phoebe had the slight feeling that they were there to most likely spectate and gaze upon the new Duke—the once reclusive Marquess of Wentworth.
She frowned as she saw Charles shift, his dark brows snapping together as if he could not wait for the chaplain to be done with the rites. It was rather unusual for him to lose his composure in such a manner that she could not help but reach out to him.
At her touch, he seemed to stiffen a little, and then, his whole body relaxed. She let out an inward sigh of relief at that. Still, she also could not help but wonder if something truly was amiss.
Something else that Charles had not disclosed to her yet.
“My sincerest condolences for your loss, Your Grace.”
She looked up to find a tall, lanky man with nondescript brown eyes and brown hair that appeared to be perpetually tousled. He was smiling at her, although his lips seemed to be twisted in a manner that affected a grimace.
“Thank you, Lord Scunthorpe,” she said in a polite, if cool tone.
“I-I had not seen you in London for quite some time,” he managed. “I thought that—”
Phoebe cut him off with a brilliant smile. “Whatever you thought, I assure you that you have been mistaken, My Lord. I am newly wed and as such, have enjoyed spending my time with my husband .”
She saw the flash of hurt on his features and felt a tinge of remorse for her harshness, but it had to be said. Before she had been officially declared off the shelf, Lord Edwin Oakley—Baron Scunthorpe—had pursued her relentlessly, which became something of an amusement amongst the ton . If her father had not been as lenient as he had been, she had no doubt that the man before her would have become her husband.
Fortunately, Lord Townsend was not of the mind to marry his daughters to men they did not like, even if it meant that they might risk falling into the depths of spinsterhood.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Charles take a swig from his flask and pursed her lips. These days, he seemed to be drinking from his flask particularly often.
“It has been lovely seeing you again, Lord Scunthorpe,” she said softly. “If you will excuse me, I must attend to my husband.”
As she fled the Baron’s presence, she could feel his eyes on her back. It was not her intention to be rude, but Lord Scunthorpe had always made her uncomfortable.
After the last guest had left, Phoebe sighed as she sank into the plush sofa in the parlor of the Duke of Cheshire’s lavish London estate. The new shoes she had worn had not been the most comfortable, but they were highly appropriate for the event.
She frowned as she recalled the way Charles had been drinking from his flask throughout the entire ceremony.
“You called for me, Your Grace?”
She turned her head slightly when she saw his trusted valet enter the parlor. In her lap, Whiteson roused from his nap and began hissing at the man.
“Whiteson, calm down! What is wrong with you?” she chastised her pet. She handed the cat over to Amelia and shot Ambrose an apologetic look. “You must forgive him. He still has not gotten used to the new manor yet.”
The valet looked at the cat suspiciously but did not say anything more.
Phoebe sighed as Whiteson continued to glare and growl at Ambrose from her lap. When he did not look as if he might strike anytime soon, she finally asked Ambrose, “His Grace has been… extremely agitated for the past few days. Do you know if there is anything amiss?”
Something flashed in the valet’s eyes. “His Grace has never particularly enjoyed staying in London,” he replied in clipped tones. “Notably, in Cheshire Estate… Your Grace.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly at his less-than-polite tone. Why did it seem like he had only added Your Grace as an afterthought? As if the thought of referring to her by the title irked him so?
Phoebe pursed her lips. She had guessed as much. However, it still did not explain his erratic behavior. His almost sheer paranoia.
Only last night, she had woken up to find him jerking slightly in his sleep, muttering some things that made no sense to her. He had never done that before when they stayed at Wentworth Park.
Unable to get any more information out of the man, she dismissed the valet and had him return to his duties. Phoebe turned back to Amelia as soon as he left, accepting Whiteson from the maid as she watched the door where Ambrose had exited with a strange gaze. The cat continued to glare at the closed door, as if the valet were to walk through it once more.
“Amelia, how long do you say Mr. Jones has worked for His Grace?” she asked quietly.
“A little over three years, Your Grace.”
“Oh.” Phoebe frowned as she idly stroked Whiteson’s fur. Three years ago, Charles should already have settled in Wentworth Park—she knew because it was around that time when she had begun to watch him through her windows.
If that is the case, how would he know that being in London would make Charles especially anxious?
Some things were not adding up at all.
A fortnight after the funeral, Phoebe was having breakfast with Charles. Every once in a while, she would watch his grip on his usual morning paper tighten as if something in the news had agitated him so. His growing unpredictability had given her great cause for concern, but he would merely brush her off and retreat into his study. The progress they had made over the past few weeks seemed to slide back drastically the days since they stepped foot in London.
“ Phoebe .”
She paused in the effort of furiously buttering her toast and looked up to Charles in surprise. She had not expected him to address her after he pointedly told her five days prior that he did not wish to talk during breakfast.
“Yes, Charles?” she replied in as casual a tone as she could muster.
She watched as he folded the morning paper and set it aside. “What do you think about hosting a ball? It shall be your very first as the new Duchess of Cheshire.”
She very nearly dropped her buttered toast onto her plate as she gaped at him. Any other time, she would have been ecstatic to host a social event as Charles’ wife. However, it had not been a month since his father passed away. To hold any gathering—a ball, even—would not only be frowned upon in Society, it would court the derision of most of the ton itself.
“A-a ball?” she muttered weakly. “I am not sure that’s a good idea. Not so soon into the mourning period, at the very least.”
But Charles merely shrugged his broad shoulders as if he had not just suggested breaking one of the most rigid rules of etiquette. And how were they supposed to hold a ball when they were still in mourning clothes, anyway?
“We can have a black-and-white theme,” he continued. “No bright colors allowed.”
Phoebe had never attended such a ball where the only colors the guests were allowed to wear were white or black. Women preferred to attend such gatherings in all their finery and while they might have some white in their wardrobes, black was mostly reserved for mourning, and not a great many of them might have dresses of that color in short order.
“I-I suppose it can be done,” she managed. “I still highly advise against it, though, even with all the wardrobe restrictions. I do not think that many guests will find it… appropriate.”
“What is and what is not appropriate is up to us,” he told her with a pointed look. “I am the Duke of Cheshire now and you are my Duchess. If we wish to host a ball a fortnight after my father’s funeral, then who shall dare to tell us no?”
She pursed her lips as she watched his belligerent stance and suppressed the sigh of frustration welling in her chest.
“Very well,” she muttered, wiping her lips delicately. “I shall seek the help of Mrs. Cranberry in matters regarding the preparations.”
“Of course. Have it done by next week,” Charles said offhandedly. “It need not be overly grand.”
Phoebe nodded. “I will also require you to make a list of the guests you intend to invite.”
Even if it was the most understated and private ball of the century, the ton still would not look kindly upon a total breach of etiquette. Her family might attend, if only to express support for her as the new Duchess of Cheshire. She failed to see, however, how it would benefit either of their reputations to hold a ball so soon after the old Duke’s passing.
She sighed as she summoned Amelia and Mrs. Cranberry, the housekeeper of Cheshire Hall, to her rooms to assist her in planning for the ball that Charles wanted so desperately to host. She was doing quite a bit of sighing these past weeks, she noticed. Balls often required weeks to months of preparation in advance and Charles wanted it all planned out by the very next week.
As she took out a sheet of paper and began to write down her plans for the event, she could not help but sigh and wish that they had brought Huxley to London. It would have made for a much easier task overall with the trusted butler by her side.
She glanced towards the door that led into the bedchamber they shared together, feeling an odd sort of sadness stirring within her belly. She and Charles had hardly even spent time together, with him choosing to retreat into his study far more often in recent times.
Oh Charles, what is it that is bothering you so? Phoebe wanted to ask him. If you would just let me in, I might be able to help you this time…