Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
“Phoebe, are you all right? You have been nibbling on the same macaron for the past five minutes.”
Genevieve’s voice snapped her into focus, and Phoebe looked around the tearoom they were in, reminding herself of where she was since her thoughts had wandered.
“It is… tasty?” she tried to pass off, cringing.
“Then eat it,” Genevieve laughed, picking up her own dessert of lemon cake.
Phoebe’s dessert plate was crowded with different-colored macarons. She had barely eaten three, her appetite coming second to her rumination. She turned the lavender flavored one over between her fingertips then dropped it back onto the plate.
“Perhaps you should not have ordered those confections.” Genevieve took a slow bite of her cake, closed her eyes, and moaned quietly, as though she could not help but savor the flavor. “I told you that you might not like the earthiness of the lavender and rosewater.”
She waved a hand absentmindedly at the floral print on her day dress.
Today, Genevieve’s frock was a bright, frothy pink color.
Enormous clouds of peonies and hyacinths covered the fabric, making Genevieve herself look like a lovely little flower garden.
Her hair was styled so that corkscrew shaped ringlets curled at her temples and when she donned her bonnet, a large bouquet of pink, purple, and violet posies sat atop the brim.
“It is as I always say, Cousin. Floral arrangements are meant to be decorative only. One should not try to eat rose petals and dandelion weeds.”
Phoebe made a face showcasing her disgust at the thought of plucking a dandelion from the ground and chewing on the stem. “There is nothing wrong with my plate, Gen. I only…”
“Mmm…” Genevieve moaned again, this time with more fervor, as she took another small bite of her lemon cake.
After enjoying the morsel, she stabbed another piece with the tines of her fork and offered the nibble to Phoebe.
“Try a bite of this, dearest. I know it might not be exactly what you are craving, but it certainly is better than that whole tray of macarons.”
Phoebe inhaled sharply. “Craving?”
“Yes, of course,” Genevieve replied without hesitation. The fork still hovered in the air between them.
What do you crave?
Throughout the entirety of Phoebe’s twenty-three years on this earth, she had rarely heard the term “crave” uttered.
Certainly, she knew what it meant, but this particular word was not in her regular vocabulary.
Now, when she heard Genevieve invoke it, scenes from her tete-a-tete with the Duke of Talwyn flood her mind.
He wanted to know what I craved…
At that moment, closeted in the balcony room with him, she had been unable to summon the words to reply. He stood so closely that his hot breath had warmed her cheek. When he leaned nearer, she been able to inhale the scent of apples.
It was odd because now, when she tried to recall that smell, all she could picture was an orchard, teeming with apples that were ripening on the branches. The laden boughs were full to bursting, and the fruit shone brightly, ruby red even, in the baking autumn sunshine.
“Phoebe.” The sharpness in Genevieve’s voice drew Phoebe out of her reverie.
She shook her head briskly hoping to eliminate visions of sunbaked apples and the Duke of Talwyn beckoning for her to join him so they might romp through the orchard.
“Hmm…?” Phoebe hummed.
“Are you listening to me?” Genevieve said as she lowered her fork and placed it on the edge of her plate. The crumb of cake she had offered Phoebe a moment ago still clung to the tines. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“I’m feeling perfectly fine,” Phoebe answered in a mechanical, flat tone. “You were asking if I’d like to sample your cake and I was trying to remember if I liked lemons.”
Genevieve guffawed loudly. “Of course, you like lemons. Everybody does. They’re sweet, a little sour, and oh-so delicious.” She giggled as she lifted her finger and pointed at the cups on the table. “Besides, you are drinking a glass of lemonade, so I know…”
“Forgive me,” Phoebe cut in. She rested one elbow on the table, then rubbed a hand across her hairline. “I think… I think I have a bit of a headache.”
“That could be,” Genevieve mused. “I did notice that your hairstyle was coiled and stretched remarkably tight today.”
Phoebe was surprised. She looked up quickly and shot her cousin an alarmed look. “Do I look dreadful?”
“No.” Genevieve picked a white cloth napkin and used it to pat the corners of her mouth. “You look… perplexed.”
Phoebe frowned. “I am,” she admitted.
“Very well.” Genevieve set aside her napkin and pushed her plate to the side so that she could lean across the table a little and not run the risk of getting any crumbs or other stray debris on her day dress. “Tell me what consumes you.”
“I…” Phoebe hesitated.
She wanted to tell her friend that she had not stopped thinking about the Duke of Talwyn since encountering him at the opera the other night.
Really, she longed to confess that they had first met at Lord Spencer’s Masquerade, and that he had haunted her every thought ever since, but she could not summon the courage to be so forthright.
They were in a tea shop, after all, that was full of young ladies, their mamas, and others who might not think anything was wrong with innocently eavesdropping on a salacious conversation.
Rather than finish her thought, Phoebe adjusted her posture and forced herself to sit up straighter in her seat.
“You know…” Genevieve mused, “you have been doing that quite a bit lately.”
“What?”
“Avoiding my questions.” Genevieve’s brow wrinkled in consternation.
She narrowed her eyes and pierced Phoebe with a speculative stare.
“Fidgeting, too. Looking away when you clearly feel uncomfortable. Slipping away and indulging in some sort of fantasies while the rest of us wait for you to return.”
“I do not mean to be impolite,” Phoebe said softly.
“I expect not,” Genevieve replied. “But it is rather difficult to carry on a conversation with you when you take eons to answer questions or simply forget to respond at all.”
Phoebe opened her mouth to reply, to make some sort of apology for her behavior, but she didn’t know precisely what to say. She sincerely had not meant to drift off or drop out of discussions, but when her mind wandered, she tended to follow it from one point to the next.
“See…” Genevieve hissed as she leaned even further across the table. “What are you doing right now? What are you thinking?”
“I cannot say,” Phoebe muttered hurriedly, not wanting to leave her cousin hanging in suspense.
“Ha!” Genevieve laughed brightly. “You cannot say or you will not?” She tapped the tip of her gloved finger on the table between them just inches from Phoebe’s plate of macarons.
“I think the cause of your headaches is clear, my friend. Instead of sharing what’s on your mind and unburdening yourself, you are battling to keep your wits about you. ”
Genevieve smiled prettily. “Why don’t you tell me what you are thinking, Phoebe? Perhaps, if you share a bit of what troubles you, I might be able to help.”
“I… I have no troubles,” Phoebe said softly.
Genevieve guffawed so loudly that Phoebe watched the ladies at the next table turn to give her a long, judgmental stare.
“Gen…” Phoebe hissed.
“Phoebe…” Genevieve replied in a far more playful manner.
“You are drawing attention,” Phoebe said quietly. Her jaw clenched tightly as she tried to give the other ladies in the room a polite, yet tense, smile.
“I cannot help myself.” Genevieve sat up straighter and reached for her cup of lemonade.
She took a sip then whispered over the rim of the glass, “You are endlessly fascinating to me, dear cousin. Since your return to town, you have been plagued by indecision, poor self-esteem, and those dreadful upcoming nuptials to the odious Lord Birchwood.” She shuddered as if just uttering his name gave her the chills.
Genevieve replaced her cup on the table and leaned forward once more.
“Of all the people I know, you Phoebe have the most cause to complain. You have troubles aplenty and it is no wonder that your head aches with the effort of keeping your dismay confined.”
Once again, Phoebe could not disagree with a word her cousin said, but she could reveal the truth.
Slowly, she circled the tip of her finger around the edge of an almond and elderflower flavored macaron, so that she could make her confession without looking Genevieve directly in the eye.
“You are right,” she whispered. “My mind is full of weighty concerns but now, right now, I must tell you that I was focusing on more… pleasant associations.”
“Really?” The tone of Genevieve’s voice indicated that she was intrigued.
“Yes,” Phoebe confirmed. She lifted her gaze and saw that her cousin was leaning forward eagerly, waiting for her to expound.
“What is on your mind, dear cousin of mine?” Genevieve’s eyes sparkled. “Wait! Before you answer, I am going to make an assumption. Have you been thinking of a certain Duke we both know? While he’s been pining away for you, could it be that you have always been dreaming of him?”
Phoebe felt a blush of heat crawl up her neck and cover her face. She was certain that her cheeks blazed crimson. She fought the urge to duck her chin and bury her head in her hands because Genevieve beamed at her encouragingly. “Whatever do you mean?”
Genevieve giggled. “The Duke thinks of you often. He asks about you constantly.”
“Have you…” Phoebe paused and considered how best to frame her question. “Have you been talking to the Duke of Talwyn about me?”
Genevieve gave a gentle shake of her head.
“No. He has not approached me directly, and I have only seen him when we are together, but I have heard that he has expressed a particular interest in you. He wants to know where you spend your time, what you do during the long afternoon hours, and where you will be in the evenings.”