Chapter 5
Chapter Five
“It really was only one night,” Phoebe whispered to herself four days after Lord Spencer’s mysterious masquerade ball.
“What was that, darling?” Her mother asked. The words she said were sweet enough, but her tone was condescending, and Phoebe waited... “You know how much I dislike it when you mumble to yourself. It is most unbecoming of a lady, and a future marchioness, at that.”
Only one night for myself.
It was not enough. And as terrified as she had been to go to the ball in the first place, she now wished she had remained there for as long as possible, more than anything.
Alas, such hopes and wishes could not be granted.
Instead of sashaying through the dark hallways of the discreet townhouse, she now stood in the ballroom of one very much in the public eye, open and inviting, even if Phoebe did not feel welcome there at all.
She felt as though she was consistently compelled to accompany her mother to every event, regardless of her own preferences. Like a bit of fabric that was caught after being snagged by the thorn of a rose, Phoebe was dragged from one affair to another most unwillingly.
If I am already engaged, why must I keep on attending these boresome events?
Oh, how did she despise the protocols of the ton.
“I said nothing,” Phoebe answered belatedly.
“No, I definitely heard something,” her mother sighed.
The Countess of Tripleton was poised, her chin high and her eyes sharply fixed on the guests around them. She was always trying to see who was looking at her, at them, and at her husband, whose title she doted on.
Myrtle Webb, Phoebe’s mother, was a woman of crystalline precision, always evaluating, always wanting to be seen.
Even now, as she dismissed Phoebe, she fixed her already-perfect hair, brushing back a non-existent stray curl.
Her tresses, which Phoebe had inherited, were a pretty, ash blonde that turned almost white when they were out walking in the sun or beneath the chandelier which hung heavily above them now.
It is like a halo; one suitor had told Phoebe upon her debut. Your hair, that is, is quite marvelous.
She had grown used to such sentiments. While a few of her features were fine and even considered attractive, Phoebe did not have that particular quality in her countenance that drew men toward her.
More than once she had overheard her mother say she was pretty enough, endurable enough, and even quite tolerable. But none of those remarks were sufficient to arouse the admiration of eligible bachelors.
Just as long as she carried her father’s name, they were interested. Phoebe knew she had never been more than a pawn to them, a way to inherit the vast Tripleton fortune and notoriety.
Her eyes slid to her father, Lewis Webb, the Earl of Tripleton. He had long grayed at the temples, his age spreading through his length of hair that was cut short and proper. He wore a grim smile as he, too, assessed the ballroom.
Phoebe knew exactly who they were hoping to find.
Lord Birchwood, her fiancé.
“I said nothing,” Phoebe muttered, trying to bring her parents’ focus on her.
See me, she wanted to beg. See how I wither in these events you push me into.
Notice how this deplorable engagement is destroying me. See how it is ruining me already, and I have not even faced the long walk to the aisle yet.
But they did not, as they never had. The Earl and Countess of Tripleton pointedly ignored their daughter as they continued to scan the crowded room.
“Phoebe.” Her mother’s voice jumped with excitement as she grasped Phoebe’s elbow. “Look, there he is. Is Lord Birchwood not the handsomest man of your acquaintance? I understand he is an older gentleman, but he has some very fine points, indeed.”
“Quite right,” Phoebe’s father agreed. “He has even better hair than me! Even when I was his age, it was never this lustrous and shiny. Quite admirable, indeed.” He smoothed a shaky hand over his mustache, then cleared his throat. “Look sharp, my dears. The man himself is coming our way.”
“But of course he wishes to greet us,” Phoebe’s mother whispered. “He must long to see his future wife and family members.”
With her mother’s hand wrapped around her elbow, the addition of her father’s hand on her shoulder made Phoebe flinch. Still, she tried to keep up her composed, polite smile, but it felt too tight.
She wished to sink back beneath a mask and become unknowable. She yearned to be nobody other than Vanessa Delamere. Nobody more than a lady at a ball that few people knew about, and even fewer dared to approach.
Except she was not Miss Vanessa Delamere, not right now. At present, because of the firm grip of her parents, she was being forced to stand tall and wait while Lord Birchwood made a beeline toward them.
He hurried around a group of young ladies who were tittering about the latest scandal that had been reported in one of the gossip columns that morning and cut right through a cluster of gentlemen who were discussing the game room that was set up in an adjacent room.
As Lord Birchwood drew closer, Phoebe noticed that her father had been right. His hair was indeed a rich, chestnut hue, but that was the only compliment she could bestow upon him.
His Lordship’s beady eyes were squinting at her, and his color was high in his cheekbones from having exerted himself so greatly by traversing the grounds in such a hasty manner.
“Smile softer,” her father hissed, not even bothering to look at Phoebe while delivering the command. “You are grimacing.”
Phoebe tried her best to soften her smile, but when there was nothing to encourage such a thing, she did not know how to manage it.
As she tried, her mother’s hand moved from her elbow to the middle of her spine, pushing hard. “Stand up straighter, daughter. Heavens, were you not taught better? I know I have told you hundreds of times how men like to see a woman stand up straight.”
Except that is the thing, Phoebe wanted to say, you did not teach me. You only wanted a bauble to decorate our family tree. An ornament, not a daughter.
Still, she had no choice but to smile gentler and compose her posture beneath her parents’ pressure.
By the time Lord Birchwood was in front of her, Phoebe could only hope that she looked pleasing enough.
She did not imagine that he would praise her beauty or whisper sweet words of contentment into her ear.
But she also did not want him to say something harsh and prompt her mother’s wrath and her father’s disappointment.
Their expectations were chains, wrapping around her, tighter and tighter, and she struggled to breathe easily under their watchful eyes.
“Lord Tripleton,” Lord Birchwood greeted, bowing, and receiving Phoebe’s father’s bow in return. “How are you on this fine night?”
“I am well, thank you, Lord Birchwood.”
“Please,” he laughed, “call me Cecil. We are practically family now, are we not?”
“Indeed.” Phoebe’s father beamed, clasping Lord Birchwood on the shoulder, all friendly in a way Phoebe despised. “Indeed, we are. So, call me Lewis in return, then. And my wife is Myrtle, whom you have met.
“Of course,” Lord Birchwood said, turning to Phoebe’s mother. He bowed to her, inclining his head. “Lady Tripleton, you look exquisite tonight, if your husband does not mind me complimenting you so openly.”
Phoebe’s mother laughed shrilly. “I am certain he does not! Why should he? I spent a great deal of money on this gown, and someone ought to tell me just how ravishing I look in it.”
Phoebe’s father nudged Lord Birchwood, chuckling. “I spent a great deal of money.”
“Do all of us not do such things for those we marry?” Lord Birchwood laughed in return, his eyes briefly glancing over Phoebe. He smiled at her, then nodded briskly. “Lady Phoebe… There you are.”
Despite her resentment towards him, she waited for a compliment like he had given her mother, or a longer greeting like the one her father had received, but he barely looked at her. Phoebe swallowed her growing bitterness.
While Phoebe waited, her mother pinched her side, and Phoebe automatically responded by dipping into a curtsey.
“Lord Birchwood, it is a pleasure to see you, I’m sure.” Phoebe knew that her words were less than cordial, and she was not surprised in the slightest way when her mother nudged her once more with the tip of her elbow. “Your suit is…rather fashionable.”
Her fiancé straightened. His grin widened as he tugged at his already perfectly knotted cravat.
“I know. I bought this attire especially for tonight, knowing you would be here. I was hoping that I might look quite dapper and turn a few heads.” He chortled. “Dapper. I think that is the term the fashionable crowd uses nowadays.”
Phoebe coughed, smoothing down her skirt. “I would not know about that, my lord.”
For a fraction of a second, Lord Birchwood seemed flustered. He tugged once more on his tie, then patted his hands down the sides of his waistcoat.
“No offense is meant toward you, Lord Tripleton, of course. You provide beautiful garments for your daughter, but it is not hard to see who is the wealthier of the two families...”
“Certainly. My wealth is vast, but yours doubles, if not triples, my own.” Phoebe’s father nodded stoically. “There is no need to conceal the truth when one is amongst friends.”
Something flitted across Lord Birchwood’s face, something like doubt, or worry, but Phoebe noticed it. If her parents did, they did not comment; it was likely they hadn’t.
Phoebe’s thoughts flew back to the conversation she had with Genevieve before they entered Lord Spencer’s Masquerade.
My father might have debts, but Genevieve thinks Lord Birchwood is only marrying me for my father’s wealth.
Phoebe tilted her head to the side and stared at Lord Birchwood appraisingly.
Can it be that Birchwood owns far less than he pretends? Is he clinging onto his title and putting on airs because that is all he has left?