Chapter 11 #2
“Really?” Phoebe was flabbergasted and flattered. She laid both hands on her chest to better settle her heart rate, which had accelerated to a galloping pace. “But if you have not interacted with the Duke yourself, how do you know he is so keen to learn about my affairs?”
Genevieve resumed eating her cake once more and popped a forkful of the fluffy goodness into her mouth.
“Verity and I speak a lot more lately, and she has mentioned how much the Duke of Talwyn has enquired about you. Apparently, he is extremely interested in your social calendar, and one cannot help but wonder if that is because he wishes to align his with it.”
“Nonsense,” Phoebe laughed, waving off the notion. “I have barely been in London; I am unknowable, a nobody, only interesting for being my father’s daughter.”
She brushed an imaginary crumb off her sky-blue, silk sleeves that flowed around her upper arm, needing something to do with her hands because she could no longer pretend to enjoy her dessert or feign having a headache.
“Or mayhap, he is intrigued to learn more about me because I was away from London for so long. I have rejected enough suitors in the past that he must have heard about what drove me to leave.”
“And yet he is interested,” Genevieve insisted. “You should not wave aside your storied past, Phoebe. Men like a mysterious woman. And you, Phoebe, well, you are an enigma.”
Phoebe stared at her cousin in disbelief.
“In the best possible way.” Genevieve dropped her fork once more and reached out to grasp Phoebe’s hand.
The bracelet Genevieve had received from her father upon her debut glimmered in the light, reminding Phoebe that, for once, she had been able to wear her pendant.
Her free hand clasped it, running her thumb over the chain links, feeling every ridge and line.
“Listen to me,” Genevieve continued. “You are more than worthy of the Duke of Talwyn’s attention. It makes no difference whether he sees you as a puzzle to solve or as beautiful as you should believe; either way, it does not matter.
“It matters to me,” Phoebe insisted. “We both love romance, Genevieve. I do not want someone like the Duke to be interested in me for…clinical reasons. I am not some…”
She could not come up with a proper description immediately until she looked at the barely nibbled plate of macarons.
“…garden that needs tending. I want a gentleman to be intrigued by me for all the right reasons. I want someone to love me simply… purely… not because of obligation of benefit but because they cannot live without me.” She squeezed Genevieve’s hand.
“You of all people know how much I want love, attraction, and passion.”
Her face warmed at that last admittance, but this was her cousin, her best friend, and they each knew the others’ scandalous preferences even if it were only Genevieve who could usually admit such things boldly.
“Yes,” Genevieve encouraged. “That’s the spirit, dearest. You deserve to be loved and adored. If you have garnered the interest of the Duke of Talwyn, who is to say that he does not feel…”
“And besides,” Phoebe interrupted as a stream of terrible thoughts flooded her consciousness, “whether the Duke is interested in me or not, I am betrothed to Lord Birchwood, and I must do the dutiful thing by honoring my parents’ wishes.”
“They have never once honored yours.”
“And you know I cannot take that into consideration. I have no choice.”
“What if one could be created?” Genevieve mused. “The Duke of Talwyn outranks both your parents and Lord Birchwood. If his interest is true, and he has good intentions, he can ask for your hand instead.”
Phoebe could not help the way her lips trembled at the thought. Had she not been clinging tightly to Genevieve’s hand, her fingers might have trembled as well.
“Oh, and I would simply become a duchess? I would live with the Duke… love the Duke… find all my happiness in his touch?”
She had meant to speak those words lightly, as a way to cast off the tempting notion of being the Duke’s love interest. However the very thought of standing close to him and inhaling his intoxicating scent made her feel entirely unsettled.
She swallowed hard and let go of Genevive’s hand. Hastily, Phoebe shoved a macaron into her mouth in the most unladylike way that was sure to draw attention and whispers, but she cared not. She chewed the confection thoroughly, working her jaw madly, but did not taste the flavor.
She could not think of anything but the way the Duke had trailed his finger down her arm and sent shivers dancing up her spine.
“The fate you describe does not sound so atrocious to me. A life with the Duke of Talwyn is certainly preferable to the future hat awaits you with Lord Birchwood.” Genevieve paused and seemed to consider the situation for a moment before adding, “It is rumored that the Duke of Talwyn is a rake, and he likely is just that, but what of it? His past…your past…both would mean nothing if you truly cared for each other.”
“Mmm…umm…hmm…” Phoebe munched noisily on jasmine flavored macaron.
She nearly gagged because the taste was so overpowering but forced herself to continue chomping so that she did not have to participate in this suddenly highly complex conversation.
“Do you fancy him?” Genevieve asked. “The Duke, that is,” she clarified. “I know that no one, present company included, could nurture a tendre for your betrothed, but the Duke of Talwyn… There are possibilities there.”
The strong taste of jasmine made Phoebe stop stuffing her mouth. She simply could not eat another bite and so she had to lift her eyes and look at her cousin who continued to stare at her imploringly.
“Phoebe,” Genevieve said softly. “There is no shame in being attracted to the Duke. He is a remarkably handsome gentleman—everyone says so.”
“But that is the problem,” she finally whispered.
“There is shame. I am betrothed. I should be devoted to Lord Birchwood. I know this. But the attraction I feel toward the Duke of Talwyn grows each time I see him. I was delighted just now in hearing that he asked Verity about me. I cannot stop thinking of him or wondering if he will be at an event I attend.”
Genevieve’s smile broadened. “You have never felt attraction for a man before His Grace. Why not just let yourself enjoy it?”
“Oh,” Phoebe groaned. “I am so ashamed.”
“You should not feel anything other than joy.”
“How can I be joyful?” Phoebe replied with a touch of anguish coloring her tone. “Every time I look at the Duke… every time I think of him, I am reminded of how I am betraying the Marquess of Birchwood and my parents.”
“Hmm…” Genevieve mused. “This is a conundrum.” She tapped the tip of her glove on her small, pert nose, then suddenly, her eyes lit with inspiration.
“If you cannot express your feelings for the Duke, write about them. If you think it is pointless to be attracted to him, then pour your heart into your journal. You are so talented, Phoebe, and you must let yourself realize that. If you cannot act on these feelings, then at least write about them and let yourself indulge in the experience.”
At that suggestion, Phoebe’s dismayed grimace turned into a sheepish smile. “Ah… that is what I have not yet told you or shared. I already have written about the Duke… several times.”
Genevieve’s gasp of excitement barely held back the squeal she gave that attracted the attention of others around them. Once more the frumpy women at the nearest table turned to give the girls a censorious glare. Phoebe giggled, trying her best to shush her friend’s excitement.
“You must show me!” Genevieve insisted. “Come. We are leaving immediately. I must see these writings.”
“Gen, you cannot really read my journal. I only write in there for my own amusement and—”
“Come, come.” Her friend was already standing in a flurry, both of their desserts all but forgotten.
Phoebe let herself be swept up in Genevieve’s whirlwind of giddiness.
The cousins often swapped books and shared their reactions to certain stories with one another.
Since they both enjoyed reading novels, it made sense to have these experiences together.
But now, Phoebe felt anxious about sharing a story involving herself and the Duke.
She was not accustomed to showing others her own works, and she had never dreamed of letting someone else see her private thoughts about the Duke of Talwyn.
But Genevieve was right when she said I needed to unburden myself.
A lightness like she hadn’t felt in days swelled in Phoebe’s breast as she stood quickly and followed her cousin out of the tea shop.
Phoebe clambered into the carriage Genevieve had picked her up earlier in the day, and they returned to Tripleton House. Genevieve peeked through doorways, checking Phoebe’s parents were still out at the business lunch they had left for a while after breakfast.
When discovered her parents were absent, the two hurried down the hallway. Despite the stress of everything, Phoebe felt like a young girl again, as though she could peek into the life she should have had.
She had often visited Genevieve when she was in Nantwich with her grandfather. Genevieve’s father had owned an estate in the country as well, and the girls regularly united so that they might play and chat.
The visits had been scarce, but enough that they had formed a bond strong enough that as soon as Phoebe returned to London upon the news of her betrothal, Genevieve had immediately tugged her into the ton’s social scene, acting as though they had spent every day together.
Phoebe was glad that she and Genevieve had a friendship which had endured trials and tribulations.
And as they dashed down the hall, sneaking peeks over their shoulders to be certain that none of the household staff members were trailing them, Phoebe was delighted to know that Genevieve was by her side.
Bursting into her chambers, Phoebe immediately went to where she hid her writing journal in a secret desk drawer compartment. Usually, she kept it beneath her pillow, but when she left the house, weary of her parents ever invading her space, she put it in the hidden compartment.
Genevieve sighed happily, collapsing onto her back on Phoebe’s bed. When Phoebe joined her, Genevieve rolled onto her front. If Phoebe’s mother could see them like that, lounging so casually in their fine gowns…
Well, it was not really worth thinking about.
Either way, Phoebe was letting herself be impulsive and excited as she flipped to her most recent writings.
“And who is… the merchant’s daughter, Penelope?” Genevieve asked, leaning closer to begin eagerly reading. “Is she based on you? Oh, do say so.”
“She might be,” Phoebe giggled girlishly. With Genevieve, she could let herself be a little younger, be a little more carefree, and she always missed those moments when they ended. “And Prince Samuel is—”
“The Duke of Talwyn?” Genevieve’s brows lifted suggestively. Phoebe blushed, nodding.
“The premise is that Penelope sneaks out of her terrible father’s home after he tries to marry her off to one of his business associates.
However, she has always longed to travel and visit other continents, so she seizes a chance during the middle of the night.
She sneaks down into her father’s warehouse, slipping herself into a merchant crate she knew was due to be loaded on a ship the following morning. ”
“Only, when she gets put on the ship, she finds that she was put on the wrong one. Rather than a merchant ship destined to take her to another continent, she ends up on a royal, naval vessel, manned by none other than—”
“Oh, Prince Samuel?” Genevieve cut in animatedly. “I rather like this! What happens next?”
Phoebe laughed to herself, toying with the corner of the page Genevieve read. “I have not gotten to that part yet, but he will find her himself. Perhaps he will see her as a stowaway, which is not so false, and threaten to toss her overboard.
“Perhaps he will be a little cruel at first, but that will be the delightful part: watching them both fall in love. Or perhaps he will be softer and offer her sympathy upon hearing her story. He could give her refuge in his palace, letting her pose as a foreign princess. His faux betrothed, maybe.”
“And the other idea I can see glittering behind those eyes of yours?”
Phoebe blushed, thinking of the version of the Duke she had met at the masquerade. “I was thinking about, what if he pretends not to be a prince? I could have him dressed in more casual attire with little to say he is the royalty on board.”
“Or maybe he could even wear the uniform of a naval officer?” Phoebe tossed out the idea enthusiastically, then heaved a swoony sigh. “Oh, there is nothing quite like seeing a gentlemen dressed in a fine blue coat.”
“Yes,” Phoebe agreed. “That could work, too.”
“Well…” Genevieve prompted. “Then what might happen?”
“The Duke… I mean… the Prince could take the chance of meeting a new person. After being cooped up in the palace with the same daily routine, he would probably enjoy pretending that he is somebody else.”
Softer now, Phoebe added, “Maybe he craves some sort of anonymity because his world is too clustered and trite. Perhaps he yearns for something new, something different.”
“Oh, I like that idea!” Genevieve said. “And then they both have secrets to keep from one another, and the revelation of Penelope finding out will have a good shock factor.”
Phoebe grinned, but her thoughts wandered elsewhere.
She envisioned the Duke, dressed in the blue uniform that was worn by members of the British Royal Navy. He looked striking, even in her mind’s eye. The jacket he wore was pressed and neat, and the gold buttons on the front gleamed in the bright sunshine.
No… he must meet the heroine at night. The light of the moon must reflect off the buttons of the uniform, and they should speak to each other in quiet, whispered words through a hole in the crate.
She hopped from her bed and grabbed her quill from its ink pot.
“What are you doing?” Genevieve asked as Phoebe plopped down at her desk.
“I’ve got a story to write,” Phoebe replied as she pressed her pen to the journal and poured out the tale that was forming in her head.
“Will the D—Prince fall in love with the stowaway at first sight?” Genevieve bounced on the balls of her feet, then she moved closer. Phoebe knew that her cousin was already reading over her shoulder. “Or… will he treat her with disdain and vow to send her back to her awful father?”
“I do not know,” Phoebe answered honestly. “That part of the story has yet to be written.”