Chapter 15
“Oh,” Phoebe said. “Wow.”
Beside her, Aaron grimaced.
“Yes, it’s ostentatious, isn’t it?” He didn’t even bother to hide his disdain for the opulent décor and countless dripping candles, which made all the jewels around the necks of Society’s who’s who glitter and gleam.
One such bejeweled lady sniffed in affront at Aaron’s words.
He ignored her.
“I just thought this was for charity,” Phoebe said. “But it seems just like any other Society ball.”
They’d come this evening to support a charity for soldiers wounded in the course of their service.
Not officers nor men with something to fall back on like Aaron’s cheerful friend from their wedding breakfast—a friendship that still fascinated her and about which she hoped to learn more at the first chance.
These were men who had joined the military because it was the only viable career path available to support their families. Several of them were in attendance, most missing limbs and looking far less comfortable than any of the members of the ton.
Any of them except, perhaps, for Phoebe’s husband, who was still looking around with poorly disguised distaste, though this sour expression faded into something stonier when he looked at the soldiers.
It wasn’t anger. It was… Phoebe thought it might be suppressed grief.
She only recognized it because she knew it well.
“Hm,” Aaron said.
Phoebe didn’t roll her eyes only because she had promised to do her best not to embarrass him. But goodness, could he be any more unhelpful?
But still, she’d made a promise, so she entertained herself by thinking of the stunned expression on her husband’s face when she’d left him alone in bed the night before.
That made it easy for her to smile pleasantly. It was so nice to win.
For a while, she hung around at Aaron’s side, playing dutiful wife, but she was inevitably swept up in the tide of curiosity around the woman who had mysteriously ensnared the dangerous duke.
Phoebe kept her responses vague—her family had a country estate that wasn’t far from where the Duke’s family historically resided, but she and Aaron hadn’t met until recently.
This was all true, and the use of her husband’s given name had the added benefit of distracting the questioners with giddy giggling.
She’d underestimated the power of her husband’s legend, apparently.
Phoebe wasn’t particularly keen on Society events—she much preferred the scandalous side of London, where the laughter was less polite but more heartfelt, where the jewels were all paste but the very atmosphere seemed richer with joie de vivre if nothing else—but she wasn’t having a terrible time.
At least, not until she heard a gaggle of gossipers spouting poison.
“I suppose the décor is pleasant enough, but it is so very dreary that they insist on reminding us of all those sad men,” one woman lamented loudly.
“Are they men any longer?” one gentleman said with a malicious laugh. “I would rather be dead than be so useless.”
Phoebe was trying to be good. She’d told herself that she would come to this event, not draw any attention to herself, and then go home. It was a promise she’d made to herself more than to her husband, and those were the promises she intended to keep the most.
But listening to that man, who wore finery that had no doubt been bought by money that he’d gotten from nothing more than being born to the right family, she snapped.
“And yet,” she told him, raising her voice enough that he could not pretend not to hear—and enough that everyone in their immediate vicinity turned to look at her, too—“here you are.”
He turned, blinked, and sneered.
“Excuse me?” he asked. The words were a threat. She was meant to cower, to say she hadn’t meant anything, to turn and flee like a startled fawn.
Unfortunately, Phoebe never had been all that good at doing what she was meant to do.
She smiled broadly at him.
“You said,” she told him pertly, “that you would rather be dead than useless. But you’re still here. So, do you have a profession, sir?”
“It’s My Lord,” the man snapped at her. “And of course, I don’t work for a living. What do you take me for?”
The great thing about gentlemen—perhaps the only great thing about gentlemen by Phoebe’s estimation—was that she could count on them to be reliably prideful. Usually, to the point of absurdity.
Thus, she was ready.
“I thought it was clear,” she said with that same saccharine smile. “I said you were useless.” She paused. “I guess that also means I’m calling you a liar since you said you would rather be dead, and here you are, still taking up air but mostly useless.”
And then she smiled again, this time even brighter.
There was a gasp from one of the women as the man’s face went very, very red.
“How—how dare you?” he blustered.
Phoebe crossed her arms.
“Who do you think you are?” he demanded. “What gives you the right to say such things?”
He was really starting to get a head of steam now. Phoebe wasn’t impressed.
“You think you can come in here and spout accusations? Wait.” A flicker of recognition crossed his features.
“You’re the Turner girl. The one who goes about unchaperoned.
I’ve heard rumors about you.” His scoff was dismissive and bitter.
“Did you sneak in here tonight, then? Finally got bored of the slums? Or perhaps you learned that you’re no more than the filth with which you associate, just a mere slattern who is no better than she should be. ”
“I beg your pardon.”
Phoebe’s eyes fluttered shut at the sound of the voice behind her. This was… not likely to go well.
Aaron’s words had been polite, but his expression was as ice-cold as his voice had been.
The lord, whose face was still a bright, steaming red, looked between Aaron’s frigid immovability and Phoebe’s blasé lack of concern.
“I—I don’t understand,” he said after a moment.
“Clearly not,” Aaron said acidly. “So, allow me to lay it out for you very clearly.” He stepped forward, blocking Phoebe’s vision of the rude gentleman, which was a damned shame because she would have guessed that his expression was a work of art.
“If you were on a deck of one of my ships,” he said, his tone dangerously matter-of-fact, “you would be flogged for speaking thusly to a lady—let alone another man’s wife.”
At the word wife, the lord went from red to very, very pale.
“I didn’t know—” he stammered.
Aaron spoke over him.
“You should consider yourself fortunate that we are in a ballroom, not on my deck,” he said. “But if you ever think to speak to my wife that way again, I might find my way to forgetting that I resigned my commission.”
There was an echoing, cavernous silence. Apparently, more of the room had been listening than Phoebe had realized. Then, one of the soldiers—a man leaning on a crutch to help make up for his missing left leg—let out a whoop of approval.
Aaron didn’t answer, but Phoebe thought she saw a hint of pleasure in the straight line of his spine.
He reached behind him for Phoebe’s hand. She didn’t even hesitate before slipping her fingers into his, and she didn’t resist as he pulled her from the room.
She did, however, look back to shoot a wink over her shoulder at the lord, who was gaping after them.
In fact, everyone was gaping after them—except for the soldiers, who finally looked as though they were enjoying themselves—as Aaron all but dragged her out of the room.
As soon as the door to the ballroom closed behind them, Phoebe started to laugh.
And laugh and laugh and laugh.
Aaron shot her a look that was exasperated but cheerfully so, and Phoebe kept laughing as he pulled her into a nearby study, shut the wooden door behind them, and pressed her against it.
“Stop laughing,” he demanded.
This, naturally, only made her laugh harder.
“Phoebe,” he growled, “this is not funny.”
Giddiness made her reckless. She reached up a hand and pressed it to his cheek. He had shaved before the event, but there was already a telltale prickle of stubble against her palm.
Good. She liked the rasp of it.
“It’s extraordinarily funny,” she said. “You were very gallant, though. Thank you for defending me—even if I did not need it.”
“Defending?” he asked, pressing a hand against the door just next to her head. At this close distance, he didn’t look cold at all. His eyes sparked with heat. “I was rescuing you.”
She snickered just to see him grind his jaw about it. Gosh, he was so easy to wind up. She probably shouldn’t do it just because she could, but…
Well, again, she’d never been terribly well behaved.
“Rescuing me?” she asked tartly. “From what? A grouchy gentleman with a sharp tongue? If you think I need protection from that, I think you are going to be quite alarmed when I tell you about my husband…”
The part that she didn’t say was that she actually had been rather grateful for his timely arrival—though the rush of relief she’d felt at his approach had surprised her.
But when had she last had someone come to her rescue?
When was the last time someone had helped her?
When was the last time she hadn’t had to handle everything herself?
This question turned out to be far less interesting than watching the muscles in her husband’s arm ripple as he clenched his fist.
“Don’t toy with me, Phoebe,” he warned.
He pinned her to the door by pressing a knee between her legs, using her skirts as an anchor to hold her against the hardwood.
Phoebe took it back. She absolutely should wind him up at every possible opportunity.
Her hands rose to his shoulders, pulling him closer rather than pushing him away.
“But it’s fun,” she protested, unable to resist. Also, because she wanted to see what he would do.
She was not disappointed.
“Phoebe,” he growled at her.
“Aaron,” she said back, mimicking his tone. Really, if he thought getting all stern and rumbly with her was going to encourage her to behave, he had another thing coming.