Chapter 6 #2
Although being away from London had indeed spared her the relentless crowds of balls and fortune-seeking suitors after her father’s wealth, the circumstances that forced her absence from society were far from favorable.
Before she could answer properly, by telling not quite the truth, but something close enough to it, she saw movement in the corner of her eye.
Her mother, prideful and poised, as always, approached them flanked by Phoebe’s father.
“Phoebe!” her mother barked. “I thought I asked for you to not stray from sight, but there was a moment not long ago when I could not see you properly.”
“Mother—” Phoebe began to say but was abruptly cut off by her mother’s sharp shake of her head.
“By my side, Phoebe,” she hissed, “as I instructed.”
And then her arm was grasped, even as her mother curtsied to the three dukes and duchess, not even bothering to introduce herself. Phoebe turned to see Genevieve’s helpless, pinched expression, and a frown forming on the otherwise genial features of the Duke of Talwyn.
Phoebe opened her mouth to bid them all adieu and hastily apologize for her mother’s brusque manners, but she did not say anything of those things because the Countess clamped hold of Phoebe’s arm and stayed rooted to her side.
“I…I…” Phoebe stammered.
“Your Graces,” her mother announced loudly, speaking over Phoebe as she addressed the gentlemen, “this is Lord Birchwood, the Marquess of Birchwood. Surely, you know his name, for he is most prestigious among the ton.”
Phoebe felt the painful sting of embarrassment swell within her bosom at the effort her mother was giving to be noticed, but she forced herself to smile that tight, polite smile she had practiced enough times in the mirror.
And just like that, the three other Dukes cleared their throats, shifting, as if they knew Lord Birchwood’s character. Or perhaps recognized a mama who was pushing her daughter headfirst into the marriage mart.
Phoebe did not know what to do or say next, so she stood there, looking at the others, wishing she could escape.
“Good evening, Your Graces,” Lord Birchwood greeted with a smarmy grin. “I see you have already met my betrothed, Lady Phoebe.”
Phoebe startled in alarm, lifting her gaze instinctively to the Duke of Talwyn. Even if he did not initially recognize her from Lord Spencer’s Masquerade and the time they spent together in the room at the end of the hall, he surely knew her now.
Moreover, he knew, because Birchwood had just pompously declared as much, that when Phoebe had been engaged to another man, she had spoken of private matters with the Duke.
Phoebe blushed profusely and made an attempt to wriggle free from Lord Birchwood’s grasp, but her efforts were futile. He held her tightly to his side.
The Duke’s gaze was fixed on the Marquess. His emerald eyes narrowed, as if he knew, as if he understood something the others did not.
At least he comprehends my situation. The Duke can see that I am being forced to interact with the loathsome Birchwood against my will.
“What do you think of my prize?” Lord Birchwood laughed as he leaned closer to Phoebe. “Is she not a worthy catch?”
She made a small, discreet noise of protest as she stumbled against his side.
“How exactly did you manage to ensnare your bride-to-be?” the Duke of Talwyn asked in a voice that indicated he disapproved of the way His Lordship spoke about his future wife.
“I…well…” Lord Birchwood stammered in a bemused manner.
While he might have joined this crowd in a bombastic way and had even surged forth to claim Phoebe as his betrothed, he did not have enough bluster to answer questions about how their union came to be arranged.
“I just…”
“Clearly, you possess few oratory skills,” the Duke of Talwyn mused when Birchwood failed to produce a proper response. “So, I gather that you did not encourage this lady to fall in love with you by reciting an original poem.”
Percy, the Duke of Whitestone, emitted a snort of laughter. His wife, Verity, placed a gloved hand over her mouth and giggled loudly at the clear cut.
“I…I am not a poet.” Lord Birchwood stumbled over his words yet again. “I…Lady Phoebe and I…the agreement between me and her father is…”
“Oh, I see,” the Duke interrupted. He gave Birchwood a glare that would have silenced even the most arrogant and eloquent speakers.
“You and the Earl here…” He paused and nodded toward Phoebe’s father.
“…have made a bargain of sorts. You have agreed to take lovely Lady Phoebe from her family’s home in exchange for…
what exactly? What do you bring to the table, Birchwood? ”
If Phoebe could have the use of both her hands, she would have properly applauded the Duke.
Using just a few jibes he had managed to strike at the heart of her conundrum and put on display, for any nosy onlookers to see, how her parents had offered her to Lord Birchwood for reasons no one could possibly be expected to comprehend.
“Yes,” Genevieve cooed as she sent a frosty stare of her own in Lord Birchwood’s direction.
“I have often wondered how you managed to convince my aunt and uncle to give you my fair cousin’s hand.
Tell us all…tell us now…” Genevieve’s voice grew louder as she made her ultimate demand.
“How did you manage to secure Lady Phoebe as your bride-to-be?”
“I…well…I…” Lord Birchwood let go of Phoebe’s waist just long enough so that he could fuss with his cravat.
No! Don’t make a comment about being a fashionable man. This lot will only laugh in your face.
Phoebe was not exactly rooting for Lord Birchwood, but she did not wish to see anyone embarrass himself in the way he was doing. The humiliation he was suffering was palpable. Shame lingered tangibly in the air, and Phoebe hoped this unique form of torture would end soon.
Just keep your mouth closed. Do not provoke the Duke further.
But His Lordship could not pick up on Phoebe’s silent entreaties.
And, instead of exercising common sense, he said, “I am an excellent dancer, Your Grace.”
Phoebe groaned as the Duke’s eyes lit up brilliantly. His friend, the Duke of Ravenwood chuckled, while the Duke of Whitestone said enthusiastically, “Indeed?”
Lord Birchwood bobbed his head in agreement. Having found his footing, he even lifted his chin slightly and dared to meet the Duke of Talwyn’s eyes. “I have been known to trip the light fantastic, Your Grace.”
“Splendid!” Verity clapped her hands as if she were delighted by this pronouncement. “I was hoping we would all dance a reel this evening.”
While both the Duke and Duchess of Whitestone were enthused by the prospect of standing up together and having their new friends join them, the Duke of Talwyn seemed unconvinced by Lord Birchwood’s bravado.
He lifted a hand and tapped a finger slowly to his lower lip. When he spoke, the Duke used the same tone he had when he had questioned her at Lord Spencer’s Masquerade. It was evident he wanted answers to his questions, but he wasn’t quite pressing the issue.
“Lord Birchwood,” he murmured, “I am confounded. You say you are light of foot, yet you do not allow us to judge the matter for ourselves.”
Lord Birchwood shared a dumbfounded look with Lord and Lady Tripleton. Phoebe’s mother gave him an encouraging smile, so he turned back to the Duke.
“Your Grace?” he replied, showing plainly that he was incapable of understanding what was to be done or said next.
“Well…” the Duke mused as he continued tapping his lower lip in a pensive manner, “Considering how your betrothed is the most striking woman in the room and you profess for all to hear that you are an accomplished dancer, it is a wonder that, nobody has seen you dancing with Lady Phoebe as of yet, Lord Birchwood.”
Next to her, Phoebe felt the Marquess freeze. He held that statue-like pose until he let out a bellow that sounded almost like a laugh.
“I am certain you were late, then. We danced earlier, at the start of the ball.”
“We were here from the start,” the Duke of Talwyn countered. “We merely stepped out for a private card game.”
“Then surely … surely you missed the time we spent dancing together then.”
The Duke’s gaze fell to Phoebe. “Is this true, Lady Phoebe?”
Beneath the attention, she felt both grateful and emboldened. This was the first time that somebody other than Genevieve had publicly challenged Phoebe’s father, mother, and would-be husband.
The Duke was the first gentleman to step between Phoebe and her keepers and ask the truth of the matter.
“No,” she dared to say. “No, it was not then. It was not at all, in fact. Lord Birchwood, you have not asked me for a dance once tonight. Until now, I did not even know that you enjoyed dancing.”
“I—” Lord Birchwood stammered, his eyes widening as he looked between her and the group of dukes. “I—I will be glad to show my skills…some other time.”
He tilted his chin upward, making it seem as if he was glancing overtop the heads of those gathered nearest.
“But now…ah yes…now I see that a few of my associates are beckoning for me.” He raised a hand as if to greet someone who might be calling for him to join their party. “I must… must take my leave for the moment and…and meet with another marquess regarding business dealings.”
With that, he scooted away from Phoebe’s side, dodged around the Earl and Countess, and stalked toward the refreshment table.
Phoebe turned back to Genevieve before she could see her parents’ disappointment, finding her cousin looking in amused disbelief, her laughter building. Even Verity looked quite impressed. But it was the Duke of Talwyn that Phoebe found her gaze straying towards, wanting his validation.
“Lady Phoebe,” the Duke whistled. “I hope the threat of standing up to partner with your betrothed later has not deterred you from dancing for the rest of the evening.”
“Heavens, Talwyn,” Vincent muttered while sniggering under his breath. “Do leave the young lady alone. You have done her enough service for the evening.”