Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“Penelope accepted the Prince’s proffered hand. Her fingers shook violently as he laced their fingers together and led her down the pathway. The pair strolled through the garden wordlessly, occasionally sneaking careful glances at one another, until the Prince pulled Penelope to a stop.”
“She gazed into his eyes, marveling anew at the depths of color she could discern there. They were not just emerald green, as she had imagined the first time they met. Those glowing orbs housed the mysteries of the world. A riot of colors in varying shades of brown, gold, and luxuriant green sparkled and as the Prince drew Penelope closer, she lost all concept of time and space completely.”
“Oh!” Genevieve moaned. “Do go on. Don’t stop there.” She laid a hand on her forehead and heaved a dreamy sigh. “Does the Prince kiss Penelope? Does he tell her he loves her?”
Phoebe lowered her journal and peered at her friend overtop the riffled pages. “I do not know.”
“What do you mean?” The incredulous words burst from Genevieve’s lips. “You are the author of this tale. Surely, you know what unfolds between the Prince and Penelope next.”
Placing the diary on her lap, Phoebe gave another gentle shrug. “I have not written the rest of the garden scene.”
“Why not?” Genevieve pouted. “You knew I was coming to see you this afternoon and you promised the last time I was in your company that you should have this chapter concluded by now.”
“I have been otherwise…engaged.” A sick sense of loathing flooded Phoebe’s insides when she recalled exactly why she had been kept from working on her little writing project.
“My mother and father insisted that I promenade through the park with Lord Birchwood on Sunday afternoon and last night, just when I thought I might be granted a few moments of solitude, His Lordship showed up, without warning to take me for a carriage ride.”
“That sounds hideous,” Genevieve replied. “I do not how you did not feign illness and beg off altogether.”
“I cannot always disappear any time Lord Birchwood comes calling.” Phoebe tried to see her responsibilities through a reasonable lens.
“You can and you should.” Genevieve, as always, gave her opinion in the bluntest manner possible. “I found a book on medicine the other day in Papa’s library, and do you know what I thought?”
Phoebe shook her head but said nothing because she knew that her cousin would likely answer her own question.
“I thought that it might help you if I brought the book to Tripleton House.”
“How?” Phoebe looked skeptically at her friend. “What would I do with a book about medicine?”
“You could discover a new ailment every day.” Phoebe had been lounging on the lawn, sprawling on her stomach across a plaid blue and white blanket, but now she sat up and propped her chin in her hands.
“Think of it, Phoebe. Every time that awful Marquess comes to the door wearing a new suit you could tell your maid that you have a fever, or ruminella, or are suffering from contusticions.”
Phoebe’s brow wrinkled. “I have heard of fevers before but the others…”
“Oh…” Genevieve giggled as she swatted her hand through the air dismissively. “I just made up those sicknesses, but don’t you see? That’s why you need to read the book. Shall I bring it to you next time I come?”
Phoebe sighed. “I shall consider it.”
“Really?” Genevieve perked up even further.
Slowly, Phoebe slid a pressed flower between the pages of her journal and closed the pages. “Unfortunately, I think you may be onto something. Every time I see Lord Birchwood, I am sure he will have come to tell me that he has set a wedding date and Gen… I just do not know if I can bear it all.”
“Very well.” Genevieve climbed to her feet, dusted off her day dress, and nodded firmly. “I shall bring the book with me the next time I visit and you…” She jerked her chin toward Phoebe’s diary. “You have some writing to do before we see each other again.”
“I shall try.”
Genevieve offered Phoebe a helping hand. Phoebe accepted it and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. Once they were both standing, the ladies set to work collecting the items they’d carried outside earlier in the afternoon.
Phoebe grabbed the handles on the woven basket. Genevieve picked up a pair of glass tumblers. Then, just as Phoebe was bending over to snatch the corners of the blanket, she heard footsteps on the path behind them.
“H-hmm…” A man cleared his voice, and Phoebe immediately dropped her hold on the blanket.
She spun around to find the Duke of Talwyn standing there.
He looked even more handsome than she remembered. It had been an entire week since she last encountered the Duke at the opera house. Since that time, she had been feeding her soul by re-living those moments they shared.
Every time Lord Birchwood appeared and demanded that she spend time with him, Phoebe wished it was the Duke of Talwyn knocking at her door.
And now, here he was.
He stood tall, in an olive green waistcoat and pale beige breeches.
Both hands were folded behind his back, causing the fabric on his coat to strain as it fought to contain his broad shoulders.
A black top hat was pulled low on his forehead, and there was once more a sprig of daisies situated cheerily near the brim.
“Your Grace!” The words popped out of Phoebe’s mouth, and she immediately blushed at the squeaky sound of her voice.
“It is you,” Genevieve cried as she dropped the glasses she’d been holding and hurried forward.
When Genevieve dropped into a quick curtsey, Phoebe hastily followed suit and swiftly tried to collect her thoughts.
He’s here! He’s here! I wished to see him and then he materialized.
Phoebe could not understand this sudden stroke of good fortune. Never in her life had she hoped something would happen and then saw her wishes granted.
“It is I,” the Duke murmured as he took off his hat and ran a hand through his long, luscious locks of hair.
Genevieve emitted a very unladylike moan, then covered the sound quickly by saying, “We were just speaking of you, Your Grace.”
“Were you?” Without his top hat shading them, Phoebe got a clear glimpse of the Duke’s dazzling eyes. She had recorded their luminosity correctly in her writing. The Duke of Talwyn, just like the fictional Prince Samuel, had mesmerizing eyes. “And what were you saying?”
“Nothing of consequence,” Phoebe supplied before Genevieve could interject with her own version of the story.
“That is mildly disappointing,” the Duke said as he tucked his hat under his arm and strode further down the path. “I am always game for hearing a bit of good gossip.”
“No gossip today,” Genevieve said as she bounced good naturedly on her toes. “Just two ladies, reading novels, and talking of friends.”
“Are we friends, then?” The Duke gave them both a smile that was so roguish, Phoebe heard Genevieve gasp while she had to suck in a gigantic gulp of air.
“Yes?” Phoebe knew that this time when she spoke not only did her statement sound more like a question, but she also sounded a tad squeaky again.
She wanted to kick herself for behaving so foolishly in front of the Duke.
I haven’t seen him in days. Why can I not just act naturally in his presence?
There was no reason to entertain that thought further. Phoebe knew exactly why she could not be calm or self-possessed when the Duke walked into the garden and joined them.
There is a reason he is the inspiration for my novel’s hero.
“We are friends, indeed,” the Duke rejoined in a most agreeable manner, as if he had not heard Phoebe’s mouselike squeaking at all.
“Is that why you have come calling this afternoon?” Phoebe asked. “You wanted to go for a friendly stroll through Phoebe’s gardens?”
Phoebe gasped so violently that she choked on the sound.
The Duke arched an eyebrow at her, then turned his focus back to Genevieve, graciously giving Phoebe a moment to recover her composure.
“I was hoping to offer Lady Phoebe my hand.” As he said the words, the Duke held his hand out to her with the palm facing upward.
“Eh!” Genevieve trilled under her breath. “This is just like the book…just like you wrote it.”
Phoebe darted a quick sidelong glance at her cousin, then whispered through her pinched lips, “This is nothing like the book. This is really happening.”
Without warning, Genevieve gave Phoebe a nudge forward, lightly pushing her toward the Duke and his still outstretched hand.
“Lady Phoebe, would you do me the honor of showing me around Tripleton Gardens? I hear that the lilacs are blooming most beautifully this time of year.”
“I… I…Yes.” Phoebe nearly placed her bare hand in the Duke’s but then paused.
“Here.”
She whipped around to see Genevieve tossing her a set of mismatched gloves.
One had a fashionable blue stamped pattern on it.
That glove belonged to Genevieve. It had been purchased last week in one of the shops that claimed to import items directly from Paris.
The other glove was Phoebe’s plain, white one.
Normally, she would have cringed at slipping her fingers into a set of uncoordinated gloves, but she did not want to keep the Duke waiting even a second longer.
“I appreciate your conscientiousness, ladies,” the Duke said as Phoebe shoved her hands into the gloves hurriedly. “Had you not thought so quickly, I would have made the dreaded mistake of touching your exposed fingertips.”
“Whatever would we have done with you then?” Phoebe teased.
Yes! I did it!
It was nonsensical, to be sure, but Phoebe inwardly cheered herself for finally saying what she meant to say, when she meant to say it while standing so closely to this man she admired deeply.
“Come,” the Duke replied as Phoebe grasped his hand, then repositioned herself so she might hold onto his elbow while they walked instead. “You can tell me more about this book you were reading while we proceed.”