Chapter 9 #2
I wish I was seated next to him. I want to be next to a man who appreciates what we are watching.
Meanwhile, Lord Birchwood’s attention was scarcely on the stage at all. Instead, he looked around as if wanting to know who noticed him. Nobody did; they were all there for the performance now.
The time for gossiping had come and gone. Later, during the interval, he would receive the attention he wanted, but for now, there was none to be found, and Phoebe felt a little smug at the disappointment in his scowl.
“You brought me to the opera,” Phoebe whispered at one point, “so you must watch the stage, my lord.”
“I am watching it,” he answered tightly. “What do you think I am doing?”
“Looking around the auditorium,” Phoebe muttered under her breath.
Earlier, Phoebe’s sharp tongue and the watchful eyes of the ton had granted her a reprieve from the Marquess’ steely grip, but now that the lights were low and no one was paying them any attention, he did not allow her comments to stand.
Lord Birchwood’s right hand shot forward. He snatched Phoebe’s left arm and his fingers tightened around her wrist. She bit back a noise of pain as he pulled her arm close to his side so that she had to rest her hand on his knee.
“Hold your tongue around me, Lady Phoebe. You do know I will be informing your parents about everything you have done and said tonight, do you not? Good behavior, unruly behavior, any distractions… all shall be reported.”
Her spine went rigid, her shoulders tightening, as she immediately composed herself at the threat of her parents’ wrath.
They had sent her away just for declining proposals in the past; they had pawned her off into her grandfather’s care when she was merely ten years old, claiming Phoebe was not the daughter they had wanted, and perhaps he could teach some sense to the ungrateful girl.
She had never been ungrateful. Phoebe had only ever been a girl, trying her best, whose love of arts had sung far louder than any musical number she could be taught how to play.
Unbeknownst to them, her grandfather had only ever heightened that love, and she had found endless comfort in her days out in his countryside estate.
He had nurtured her love of literature and been the first to encourage her to write in her journal daily. He wanted her to experience the wide world but also taught her that it was important to reflect on matters thoroughly.
When she lived with her dear grandfather, Phoebe had spent hours filling the pages of one diary after another and often, at the end of the night, the old man had helped her scrub away stubborn ink spots that lingered on her fingertips and palms.
“I understand,” she murmured. “I apologize for my insolence.”
“As you should. I am certain you do not want your parents to handle it, so allow me to do the honors.”
He gripped her so hard she was certain she would have to wear long sleeves to hide any bruises, but Phoebe kept that aching smile on her face despite the pain that continued as the first half of the opera concluded.
But as soon as it stopped, she rose to her feet. “I… I wish to get some lemonade.”
“I can get that for you,” Lord Birchwood said, standing up, but Phoebe was already up and moving.
She jerked her arm forcefully so that he either had to drop his grip or risk causing a scene.
“Do not concern yourself.” She thought quickly. “You should stay and take the chance to speak with other influential lords such as yourself. What better place than here? We are among the most respected after all.”
Lord Birchwood considered that for a minute, and Phoebe’s heart raced. She knew that he was already on the edge. He might reject her offer to stay, and insist upon escorting her to the lobby, but after a moment, he nodded.
“You are right, of course, my sweet.” He raised his voice slightly, and Phoebe knew that he must have suspected others of listening in on their conversation. “You should go to fetch your own lemonade while I stay here and converse with these fine fellows.”
Before Phoebe had even managed to dart from the box, Lord Birchwood was already leaning over the railing and speaking to Lord Bixby.
Phoebe would be forever indebted to Lord Bixby for providing this much-needed distraction. She ducked out quickly right as the gentlemen began muttering about the nuisance of going to the opera and listening to beautiful sopranos wail about their trials and travails.
As soon as she escaped the auditorium, Phoebe made a dash for the nearest terrace, gripping the balcony railing and gasping. Her upper body curled over it for a second, her ribs screaming from the pressure of her corset.
When she righted herself, she was aware of somebody standing near the open doors.
“For someone who is engaged to be married, you certainly were in a hurry to flee the box you shared with your betrothed.”
Phoebe whirled at the sound of the Duke’s voice, her mouth parting. She had been remembering it so much lately, calling it to mind when she met his gaze, thinking of it before she went to bed every night, that she was partially surprised to see him standing there before her.
With one swift, casual movement, the Duke drew the doors closed behind himself and motioned for Phoebe to step into the shadows of the curtains with him.
This is inappropriate. I should…
Her mind did not have time to finish that thought because the Duke of Talwyn started speaking, and she did not wish to miss one word that poured from his red lips.
He leaned against the wall and fixed his curious eyes on her. “Then again,” he continued, “we both know you are not happy, so why are you agreeing to such an arrangement?”
“You of all people, as a duke, should know that some ladies have little choice. If a young woman is lucky, and her parents are kindhearted, they might take her opinion into consideration but—”
“But when her parents are not benevolent, she must go along with whatever they say,” he finished.
“It is a difficulty that most women, like me, must bear, Your Grace.” Phoebe breathed deeply, forcing herself to continue speaking honestly. “There have been precious few people in my life who care what I think or feel and…” Her hand crept up her throat, reaching for the pendant that—
That was not there, once again.
Sebastian’s eyes dropped to her reaching fingers, cocking his head. “Missing anything?”
“Nothing of your concern,” she answered quickly.
“But you seem genuinely distraught,” he whispered. “So, I feel as though I should be concerned.”
“That is not your place.”
“Why do you say that?” The Duke gave her another quizzical look.
“In one breath, you claim that no one cares for you, but when I show real concern for your welfare, you tell me to mind my own business.” He made a tutting sound as he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
“You cannot have it both ways, Lady Phoebe.”
Her hands scrambled to clutch her necklace once more and when she realized that she had made another mistake, Phoebe felt flustered and mortified.
She looked up into the Duke’s laughing eyes and whispered, “Do you always feel so entitled to know everything?”
Sebastian laughed roughly. “Only when I am curious.”
“So, I assume you are not used to be told no, then?”
“No.”
Phoebe scoffed, shaking her head, but Sebastian’s expression sobered a little.
“Why are you out here instead of enjoying a lovely discussion about a brilliant opera with your—”
“Do not call him my betrothed again,” she begged.
Phoebe did not love the way her voice sounded while making this plea but spoke earnestly and hoped that the Duke would be merciful.
“It is bad enough that I must endure his company. I cannot stand to think of the future that lays ahead.”
“All right.” The Duke nodded slowly, as if conceding properly. “I shall not tease you again, either.”
“I appreciate the kindness.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. She nodded at the closed door. “We should get going now. I only slipped away for a moment so I could catch my breath and you… well, you needn’t concern yourself with my affairs.”
Her eyelashes fluttered as she lifted her eyes and met his gaze. Heat radiated from him and even though Phoebe had been the one to suggest it was time they departed, she wanted to say something so that she could hear him speak again.
She cleared her throat. “I am certain your companion must be missing your company. I saw the way the ladies swooned over you after your performance at the musicale the other night, Your Grace. By hiding away like this, you are sure to break more than one heart.”
Sebastian’s responding laughter was rolling, deep, and beautiful, and Phoebe inched closer to him so that she could revel in his radiance.
“What do you know of heartbreak, Lady Phoebe?”
“Enough,” she muttered.
Again, her hands flew to her throat, and she heaved a chagrined sigh when she realized that she was without the necklace, the talisman that reminded her of how someone had loved her unconditionally once.
His eyes followed her movements. “Truly, or are you like other young ladies who break their hearts over the simplest matters?”
Phoebe did not answer. She could not. It was difficult to dredge up memories of her dearly departed grandfather. When she thought of the time she spent living on his estate, under his terms, her heart felt as if it were torn to bits.
“Ah…” the Duke said after a significant pause elapsed between them. “I already knew that you were not like other young ladies. Forgive me for my forgetful nature.”
She lifted her chin and stared at him. “I do not imagine that you forget much, Your Grace. Something tells me that you have a long memory.”
“Indeed.” A small smile quirked the corners of his lips. “I am usually able to recollect most events with terrific clarity. Sights, sounds, smells…” He paused and tapped a long fingertip to his forehead. “I remember it all.”
“Perhaps I can understand why you made such an error in judgement, Your Grace. After all, you spent all evening sitting next to a lovely young lady. Your brain is likely full of stuff and nonsense related to your encounters with her.”
The Duke blinked rapidly. He momentarily seemed taken aback by Phoebe’s words. “Why, Lady Phoebe, that is the second time you have mentioned my companion for the evening. Does it bother you that I brought a guest to the opera tonight?”
Phoebe lifted and lowered one shoulder in a nonchalant gesture. She aimed to make the movement seem indifferent but feared the Duke could see right through her.
“You are free to do as you wish, Your Grace.” She sighed before adding, “If only all of us were afforded the same luxury.”
The Duke leaned closer to her. “What would you do if you were free to make your own choices, my lady?”
Suddenly, Phoebe’s mouth was dry as toast. She licked her lips and waited for words to rise in her throat, but even swallowing became difficult.
“I…” she began, but that was as far as she got.
He stepped closer to her, his face lowering to the side of hers.
Even though the door was closed firmly behind the Duke, Phoebe stiffened. She was terrified of somebody passing them by or eavesdropping on their conversation.
As Phoebe’s knees wobbled, she felt the Duke’s breath ghost over the lobe of her ear.
“Answer me truthfully,” he whispered. “Tell me what you would do if you could do anything… have anything.”
Phoebe’s breath left her shakily as she shivered.
Only, you already do torture my thoughts and my writings and my every moment, she thought, but held her tongue.
He reached out slowly and wound a lock of her hair around the length of his pinky. He twirled the tendril languidly while holding eye contact with her.
“What do you want, Lady Phoebe? What small victories do you crave?”
“I…I…”
He continued to coil the lock of hair gently around his finger. Each time it unwound itself, the Duke stepped closer to Phoebe and tried again.
“I have been wanting to touch your hair,” he breathed when her thoughts would not coalesce. “When I saw you the other night at dinner, and when I caught a glimpse of you across the balcony an hour ago, I thought how nice it would be to wind my fingers through your long locks and now…”
“Now?” Phoebe prompted. She was hanging on his every word and could not manage to produce any further sounds.
“You…your hair…the feel of it…” He rubbed the tresses between his little finger and the pad of his thumb. “They are just as soft as I imagined.”
He sighed softly, then gently tucked the errant strand behind her ear.
Without stepping back, he whispered directly into her ear. “I have thought about doing that so often, some might think I was obsessed with the notion.”
“Were you…” she replied, eager to hear him say more, “obsessed?”
The Duke tipped his chin so that his lips grazed Phoebe’s cheek. “I simply cannot get enough. I crave your touch, my lady.”
“I… but you touched me, Your Grace,” she murmured. “I did not reach for you.”
“You want to, though.” This was not a question.
The Duke ran his hand down the length of Phoebe’s arm. His soft touch started at the tip of her shoulder, which was covered by her evening gown.
When his fingers reached the puckered bits of her high, elbow length, opera gloves, he removed all but the index finger. Using one, long, unbroken stroke, the Duke sent a thrill of desire racing through Phoebe’s whole body.
When his hand finally slid away from hers, Phoebe looked up at him and searched the depths of his eyes. Her lips parted and trembled as she spoke.
“What happens next, Your Grace?”
The Duke’s laugh was scarcely even an exhale. “I will let you ponder on that when you return to your seat.”
“Your Grace—”
She meant to ask for an explanation. She wanted him to guide her and tell her what might unfold between them next. But before Phoebe could get the answers she needed, the Duke stepped away, pushed open the doors, and disappeared.
Panicked, Phoebe bolted toward the door. She frantically jerked her head from left to right, hoping to spot the Duke, but somehow, he had already vanished.
Where did he go? And why did he leave so quickly?
Feeling flustered and dissatisfied, Phoebe knew there was no other course of action but to begrudgingly return to the box she was sharing with Lord Birchwood.
When she sat back down, she barely heard Lord Birchwood asking where her lemonade was and why she had stayed gone so long.
Her thoughts were far too preoccupied.