Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“And you know a lot about throwing balls, Talwyn?” the Duke of Whitestone teased. “You are quite the expert, are you?”
The small group laughed playfully, and Phoebe took the opportunity to turn her face and compose herself for a moment.
When she lifted her head back up, she found her face burning because somehow, even though she had remained quiet while all the others chuckled, she had managed to capture the attention of the Duke of Talwyn.
Of Pyramus.
Of the man who had read her a most scandalous passage and asked how she had felt hearing it.
Conceal yourself.
Phoebe darted a quick look around the crowd. Instantly, her eyes fell on her mother, father, and Lord Birchwood who were standing near the refreshment table.
She winced.
The choices are limited. I can either go back there and rejoin that hateful party or conceal my reaction.
She ventured to dart a quick look at the duke and was relieved to see that he had turned toward Genevieve.
He does not recognize me and now I must pretend as though I do not know that I have found him.
She swallowed back her building gasp and forced a laugh that sounded too fake. She despised the sound; it resembled the brittle laugh her mother often employed when she meant to seem charming.
Her chest felt awfully tight all of a sudden, and Phoebe fought the urge to press a hand to it to release the tension. Her fingers crept up to her neck, seeking her pendant, only to remember its absence once again.
The Duke’s eyes drifted back toward her, and he gazed for a second at her throat, which prompted her to immediately drop her hand and muster a smile.
“Yes, Whitestone,” the Duke of Talwyn scoffed, but didn’t take his eyes off Phoebe for a long while. Finally, he turned to his friend, and Phoebe could breathe easier again, released from those shocking, green eyes. “I do know how to host a soiree. I am a duke. It is in my blood.”
“And yet you have never thrown a ball, peculiarly enough,” the Duke of Whitestone mused. “So how are we to know?”
Under his breath, the Duke of Ravenwood snorted, a strange sound that piqued Phoebe’s attention. She had spent years working out how to read people, and she now wondered: what do you know differently, for that was a sound of secret knowledge?
“Well, a Duchess usually hosts those sorts of things,” the Duke of Talwyn answered dismissively.
“Seeing as I have no wife to plan such events, there has been no need to invite guests into my home. But…I do not miss a trick. If I set my mind to doing it right, I imagine I could host a soiree that would excite even the most discerning and demure of guests.”
“Indeed,” Vincent laughed, and Phoebe didn’t miss the sharp look that the Duke of Talwyn shot him.
Pointedly ignoring her friend, the Duke turned back to Phoebe, clearing his throat. “Forgive my friend, Lady Phoebe. He seems bent on ridiculing me this evening.”
Before she could say something foolish like confessing her identity as the fox-masked lady, or even dare to call herself his Thisbe, he had swept up her hand with his own and pressed a kiss on her knuckles.
Those same fingers that curled around hers, had clutched a sensual book. They had been parted from her by a latticed screen, and Phoebe could not chase the thoughts away as she blinked down at him.
Genevieve nudged her. She frowned deeply while her eyes shot an alarmed look as if to say: collect yourself!
Phoebe did, and she finally spoke up. “Y-Your manners…and those of your friend are… well-intentioned, Your Grace, I’m sure.”
As she spoke, the Duke stilled. Phoebe was certain this stiffness indicated that he recognized her voice, but he held back his reaction far better than she had. With an endearing smile, he straightened back up and released her hand.
“I appreciate the praise, my lady, as does Ravenwood…the cheeky scoundrel.” He chuckled under his breath before he turned to Genevieve. “Lady Genevieve.”
He bent over her hand and kissed it, too, and although it was merely a polite, ton-appropriate greeting, Phoebe felt a strange pang of envy that was quick enough to shake off.
The Duke of Talwyn dropped Genevieve’s hand and stood straight once more.
He pivoted slowly as he cast an appreciative glance over the trio of ladies.
“May I say that you look positively ravishing tonight? My friends here can confirm that I am an expert judge in beauty. I am particularly skilled at noticing the most ravishing beauties.”
Genevieve giggled, not entirely the blushing debutante, but more so as if he amused her. She liked attention, and if it were delivered on a silver platter, she would be happy.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she preened. “I bought this gown especially for tonight.”
“And it is stunning,” he told her. “It suits your eye color, my lady.”
“And what of my cousin’s gown?” Genevieve encouraged, gesturing to Phoebe.
For a second, Phoebe cringed at the way her cousin was fishing for a direct compliment, but she quickly realized this was Genevieve’s way of bringing her into the spotlight when she could not do it for herself.
“Oh, your cousin’s gown…” The Duke of Talwyn slowly dragged his gaze back to Phoebe.
He gave her a once-over that seared almost as much as his voice had the night of Lord Spencer’s ball. She fought a blush, but she knew it appeared, nonetheless.
“It is exquisite,” he continued. “The way the bodice cups her figure, the way the skirts fall just below the ankle, hiding her skin in a most tantalizing way… and, well, the color. How it brings out the soft shades of her sun-colored hair…”
He lifted a hand and laid it over his heart as if her beauty had pierced his soul.
Phoebe could only gaze back at him, speechless, for she had not expected it.
Was he overperforming? Was he lying for her pleasure and need? Did he sense some sort of desperation in her, a need for validation? If so, it was most humiliating.
“She is a lady I would be honored to dance with tonight, if I am given the chance,” the Duke finished while dropping his hand and inclining his head pointedly toward her.
Phoebe’s breath caught, and she found herself shaking her head. “I… I cannot, Your Grace. I apologize.”
He cocked his head further in her direction, smirking lightly, as if he had questions to ask but held them back while they were in the company of others.
“By Jove, Talwyn, give your flirtatious behavior a rest,” the Duke of Whitestone—Percy, Phoebe reminded herself—chuckled. “You are startling these poor ladies. Lady Phoebe looks ready to faint.”
Do I?
Phoebe cleared her throat, lifted her chin, and smiled broadly. “I-I am barely ruffled.”
“Is that true?” The Duke of Talwyn asked in a low, sultry voice that reminded her of how he had spoken on the other side of the privacy booth that night.
“It is,” she managed to say in a tight voice. “It is indeed.”
“Then I must try harder,” he smirked, and her heart skipped a beat.
“Perhaps you ought to just try authenticity, Your Grace.”
Phoebe did not know where the bold rebuke came from, but she relaxed at the choked laugh both Percy and Vincent emitted. But they did not know that she felt as though she had seen a more authentic version of this man, the Duke of Talwyn.
Just a few nights ago, while pretending to be Pyramus and hiding behind the mask, she had encountered a man beyond the screen… A man who read dark, salacious romance books like her and challenged her to speak openly about the feelings they aroused.
That man was nothing like this Duke who was clearly trying so hard to flatter strangers and conceal his true nature from even his friends.
“I believe you have been told, Talwyn.” Vincent snorted again and clapped his hand on the Duke of Talwyn’s shoulder, tugging him a step away from Genevieve and Phoebe. “Do leave them be. Sometimes, your charms do not work, and that is quite fine.”
The Duke of Talwyn muttered something that Phoebe swore sounded like a complaint, but she tried to ignore his grumbling.
“Fine,” he eventually said louder, “but I am intrigued, Lady Phoebe. I have attended plenty of balls, and Lady Genevieve looks familiar, though I have not had the pleasure of an introduction. Yet you… you, I have not seen before.”
Phoebe startled at that blatant acknowledgement of her absence. She had always assumed she had not been missed, her lack of presence in the ton going unnoticed, but here he was, reminding one and all that she had not been at many balls recently.
“I have… I have been out of London for some years,” she answered lightly. “Family matters kept me in the country.”
At that, there was some sort of understanding in the Duke’s eyes as he nodded, and she could not look away from his deep, emerald gaze.
Her breath caught, and she wished she could feel the brush of his lips against her hand again.
Through that wall at Lord Spencer’s Masquerade, she had wanted nothing but to see him and hear those scandalous, tempting words drip from his lips.
Now that she could see him clearly and drink in all his fine words, she wanted nothing more than to feel his touch.
Phoebe tucked her hands behind her back, fighting the urge to offer the Duke her hand once more. It would only be seen as her accepting his dance invitation belatedly, no doubt, but she could not afford to dance with another man in the face of her engagement.
“How was your time away, Lady Phoebe?” he asked, casually, pulling himself out of the Duke of Ravenwood’s grasp so he might linger at her side.
“I imagine London can be overwhelming at times. We all crave some time away, hence why we often retire to country estates. I hope it was a most restful period for you.”
Phoebe went to answer, even as she struggled with what to reveal. She wished to be honest and admit that, no, it had not been restful.
Rather, she had felt quite the opposite.