Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
“Dance with me, Lady Phoebe,” Lord Birchwood demanded, already taking her hand and leading her to the dance floor.
“But I—”
“Do not refuse me,” he snarled. “You will dance with me, as my fianceé. You will dance with me.”
They were at a ball hosted by Lord and Lady Langerton, and Phoebe felt too out of her depth. Only two days ago, she had been in a sweet tent, being asked by Sebastian to break off her engagement, and yet now she was still at the side of her betrothed and hating every moment of it.
He shoved her onto the dance floor. There was no flourish, no moment of adoration. Just merely a command: we will dance whether you like it or not.
She stared back at Lord Birchwood, trying not to let her hatred show in her eyes as she curtsied to him then listened for the musicians to begin the song.
Before the music could pick up, a cry of dismay went through the crowd.
“Make room. Now!” A booming male voice echoed through the room.
Phoebe broke away quickly. She backpedaled away from the other people, taking this chance to put some distance between herself and Lord Birchwood. Her wide-eyed stare fixedly on the swarm of constables who flooded into the ballroom.
“What is happening?” she asked.
“Do not pay them any mind,” Lord Birchwood told her as he stepped forward and closed the distance she had left between them. “We shall dance either way. I must show the ton that the daughter of the Earl of Tripleton is mine.”
But I am not, she thought. I have never been yours. I will never be yours. You cannot make me love you!
Phoebe’s head spun. She felt like she was screaming all her inner thoughts aloud.
“I am certain they are here for some unruly lord,” the Marquess chuckled. He snaked his hand around her wrist and pulled her in line so that there was no mistaking the matter, they would partner together for the next dance.
Her stomach curled at the closeness. She itched to back away from him, to put any amount of space between the two of them, but the ballroom was crowded and most people were stupefied. Almost all the members of the ton, outside of Lord Birchwood, stood transfixed and staring at the constables.
At the authorities’ entry, the minstrels had ceased to play, yet Lord Birchwood seemed adamant to start their dance.
“I hate to ruin your evening, Lord Birchwood…” The voice of the Duke of Talwyn cut through the silence and drew Phoebe’s attention. “But these men are here for you.”
Before Lord Birchwood could protest, the band of officers surrounded him, snapping iron cuffs on his wrists, despite his shouts.
Phoebe stiffened. She was overwhelmed, and panicky, sick feeling paralyzed her to the spot. Although she could not get her body to move, her eyes flicked to her parents.
Phoebe couldn’t tell if their horror came from the shame of being linked to this man publicly, or from the awful things he had done that would soon be revealed.
Phoebe stared, aghast, at the officers who wrenched Lord Birchwood away from the dance floor. Three of them led him towards the stairs, to escort him out of the Langertons’ estate.
“Tripleton!” Lord Birchwood bellowed. “Tripleton, assist me, now!”
But Phoebe’s father only stared coolly at the Marquess before turning away casually. Phoebe rushed to her parents, her face blazing with humiliation, but her heart settled with relief. Lord Birchwood was gone.
Gone.
She would not dance with him this evening.
Or ever again for that matter.
The exquisite relief that flooded her soul seemed too good to be true. Her mind was filled with the truth Sebastian had given her two days prior.
Was he right? How did he know?
“Mama!” she said desperately. “Papa.”
“Phoebe, do not cause a scene.”
“I do not understand what is going on.”
Her parents turned to one another, then pivoted so they both might face her. “What is going on, Daughter, is that we are no longer beholden to that wretched, greedy lord. We are free of him.”
Her father’s smile grew wide.
“Yes, but the scandal, dearest,” her mother said. Tonight, she had carried a periwinkle blue fan and now she used it to stir the air around them which felt stagnant. “What will people say when they learn of this.”
“Mama,” Phoebe croaked out.
She was done with being ignored. She wanted to know the truth, from her parents’ lips, and she did not wish to feel like an outsider in her own family.
“There will be a scandal, yes,” her father agreed, “but now that Briarwood is out of our hair, we can easily sell Phoebe to another suitor. A respectable one. With Birchwood locked behind the walls of Newgate, my debts will be erased, and we will start afresh with our daughter.”
“Papa!” Phoebe cried. “Papa, please.”
“Hush,” he snapped. He focused an intense stare on her then, and she could see how his eyes glittered triumphantly.
“We should not discuss these private matters in such a public venue.” He held out his hand to his wife, then he offered his other arm to Phoebe.
“Come with us, if you insist on making a scene.”
“I do not mean—”
Before she could finish her sentence, Phoebe’s wrist was ensnared in her father’s vice-like grip, and she was pulled from the ballroom.
She caught the viciously angry glare of Sebastian’s right before her parents yanked her into the corridor and shoved her into an off-room, private, and concealed from anybody else. It looked like some sort of guest parlor.
The door slammed closed, and her parents rounded on her, fury blazing in both of their eyes. Phoebe cowered against the door, wrapping her arms around herself, crushing the bodice of her pale pink gown to her chest.
“What were you thinking?” her mother spat. “How could you cause such a scene?”
“Me?” Phoebe cried. “I did nothing! If Lord Birchwood was taken by the authorities, that has nothing to do with—”
A hand cracked against her cheek, and Phoebe staggered back against the door. Her knees threatened to buckle more from surprise than pain. She stared in shock at her father, whose hand was still mid-air.
“You,” her father hissed, “will be wed soon enough, Daughter, and when you are, your mother and I will finally be freed from your sharp tongue.”
When Phoebe wished to protest, her father jerked his hand back in another threat.
“Remember your place,” he snarled.
Phoebe rubbed her cheek with the flat of her hand, then squared her shoulders and pierced her father with a livid stare.
“I will not be passed from suitor to suitor of your choice. What about my choice?”
She was always so quiet, so docile and good, but her frustration and confusion had long boiled over, and she could not hold her tongue any longer.
“And yet you will do as we command,” her mother retorted.
“We will offer you to one suitor after another for as long as it takes until we find one who can endure your… ways, Daughter. Make no mistake, you have shamed us, and we refuse to declare you a spinster. You will wed before the Season ends, and I promise you that. I do not care if he is old, if he is cruel, or if he hates the very blood in your veins. You will be married to an eligible gentleman before you know it. We will not endure the shame you bring upon us, you ungrateful wretch.”
Phoebe flinched, falling hard against the closed door. Her hand groped behind her until she found the doorknob. With shaking hands and tears in her eyes, she wrenched it open and burst through the opening.
She pushed her way out of the stifling room, fleeing down the corridor with a tight chest. She gasped for breath. Her knees buckled so badly that she had to grasp the wall as she stumbled away from the horrific words her mother and father had just uttered.
“Pick yourself up,” she whispered to herself fiercely. “Pick yourself up now.”
Somehow, she made it, step by step, to the garden, running through blurred vision and weak limbs. Soon, she was out of the glass doors, beyond the ballroom, , and she did not stop until the soft slippers on her feet met grass.
Once she did, she staggered across the lawn. She stumbled through a cluster of Black-Eyed Susans, tripped over a smattering of tulips and finally stopped when she spotted a thicket of white daisies.
Daisies.
She saw a stone archway looming nearby and allowed herself to sink to the ground.
For a long moment, she heaved tortured sobs, then, she hoisted herself back into a standing position. Her fingers scraped over the stone pillar, grounding her, and she struggled to find her footing.
She let loose a series of ragged breaths. Her head spun as she sought to work through everything her parents had said.
One suitor to another, until they were rid of the shame that she had brought upon them. That was all they ever wanted: to be rid of her.
Phoebe was the daughter they needed, but not the sort they wanted.
She was the daughter who hated embroidery and could not play a pianoforte piece to save her life, even though she loved listening to music.
In fact, she could not play any instrument, nor could she speak eloquently in another language, yet she adored hearing all of those performances.
They were just not skills she could achieve herself, even though she appreciated them in others.
“Compose yourself,” she breathed. “Phoebe, please. Compose yourself. This is not the place to fall apart.”
“Why not?”
A voice that came through the darkness had her whirling around. Her hands scrambled as she reached behind her back to brace herself on the pillar.
Her eyes sought the figure that stepped out of the shadows.
Sebastian.
Her mind was fractured. She had seen him inside and heard his voice. She was sure of it. But she could not recall what happened after he had spoken to her and Lord Birchwood.
One second Sebastian was there and in another he was gone again.
She blinked at Sebastian, not wanting to lose sight of him again.