Chapter 4
Phoebe loved a party. Phoebe loved to dance. And Phoebe loved Christmas at her childhood home, the Westleigh estate.
Well, one of her childhood homes, to be fair. Her father, the Earl of Hythe, did have his own estate, but like so many people who married into the Briarwoods, her father chose to spend most of his time with the Briarwood family, which meant spending most seasons at the Duke of Westleigh’s estate.
And there was no better time than in December!
For the Briarwoods did not believe in waiting for Christmas Day to start the festivities. Life was too short. There was too much to make merry over, and so they often started giving parties quite early.
Now, the real celebrations would begin on Christmas Day, but why not go ahead and brighten the darkest month with fun?
As all Briarwoods knew, life was for the living, after all, and one never quite knew when life might be taken from one’s grip. And so, one should get on with it and have a good time.
Really, more people, in Phoebe’s opinion, needed to be like the Briarwoods and have a better acceptance of the fact that the Grim Reaper really was always waiting to make his entrance.
If people truly acknowledged this, she had a feeling they would make much better decisions!
What she had realized in her rather short life was that people were always waiting.
Waiting for the right time, the right circumstances, the right people.
There was no right anything. There was just now.
The ball this evening was a perfect example of the Briarwoods committing to having a good time and dragging as many people as they could into it. The house was packed to the seams with family and guests. This year, it seemed as if her grandmother and her aunt, Duchess Mercy, had outdone themselves.
Every single bedchamber had at least one person in it. Sometimes a whole family had been packed into a room, depending on its size. They had even started putting people into the cottages and stables upon the estate, making certain they were quite luxurious, of course.
It was thrilling.
There were years when they had quieter Christmases, but not this year. There was far too much to be merry over!
After all, Napoleon had been defeated. There was no more war.
At long last, there was peace. Celebration and frolic should be embraced.
No one had to worry about their brother, their son, their nephew, their father, their uncle, or their cousin putting on their beautiful uniform and heading off to an ugly, ugly war.
No, they were all free from it, and Phoebe felt joy.
As did just about everyone in the ballroom, as far as she could tell.
It was a positive crush. Everyone was dressed in the most beautiful silks, jewels sparkling, and the room was decorated in such a way that some might sneer, but the Briarwoods did not care, for they had had the children at work for weeks making cut-out snowflakes to dangle from the ceiling.
There were boughs of evergreen and holly and ivy everywhere. The family, with the servants, had been collecting them for days, and they had all decorated the ballroom together.
Now, it was only the beginning.
The rest of the house had not been decorated, but this was the first celebration and a hint of what was to come. And Phoebe could not wait to dance every single dance.
Emily and Anne, her adopted cousins, as well as Tabitha, their younger adopted sister, who would join them for the London Season this year, stood beside her, completely oblivious to the ball.
They were dressed in beautiful pale silks, but the three of them, as of late, were always in a corner with little sheets of paper, dashing things off with their pencils.
She adored them and their devotion to their work, but at present, she longed for a good gossip about the forthcoming excitement of the night.
Unlike herself, they were not as eager to dance, even though they were quite good at it.
She knew that they were planning something for this Christmastide, and it did not have to do with doing a perfect polonaise.
And frankly, she couldn’t wait until they announced it to all of the Briarwood family.
It would be the central part of the fun over the next weeks. And she could not wait to take part in it. For she was certain it was a Christmas play! And she adored a Christmas play.
Emily, Anne, and Tabitha were writers, and the family needed writers. They had actors, they had dancers, they had merrymakers of all sorts. Even a publisher and pamphleteer! But now there would finally, at long last, be playwrights in the family.
And Phoebe knew her grandmama and her Aunt Estella would be thrilled to bits and pieces.
She turned to Anne. “I know you dearly love to scribble about everything, but dare I ask you to put that piece of paper away and bestow your attention for just one moment? I promise I won’t bother you long.”
“I can’t,” Anne protested, her brow furrowed. “Emily and I are trying to fix a small problem in the plot. If we don’t have it sorted, then we won’t be able to give people their parts tomorrow night.”
She grinned at them. How could she not? “Fine, fine. But who should I dance with first? At least tell me this! Who should I go pursue? I need your advice. You know everyone so much better than I do.”
And it was true. Emily and Anne had had several Seasons already, and Tabitha would have her first come January, but they were not particularly interested in getting married right away.
They all already had suitors. The three of them had fallen in love with Scots, but they were keeping those Scottish fellows doing a dance of a different sort, while they sorted out exactly what they were going to do with their plays.
Some might think this was cruel.
Phoebe did not. She thought it was rather wise because the Scots seemed to love a good game. And if one loved a good game, why would one stop playing?
“Him,” Emily piped up, her eyes widening.
And without any attempt at discretion, Emily lifted her hand and pointed at the entry of the ballroom, where a man had just entered.
Man seemed really like the wrong word. A god. God seemed like a much better word. Like one of those Greek gods descending from Olympus, ready to cause mayhem, pleasure, delight, and possibly destruction.
Phoebe’s jaw dropped. It was the most terrible of cliches!
Anne poked her. “Close your mouth. You mustn’t look like a ridiculous, silly girl. You must not be a sheep,” said Anne.
“I am not a sheep,” Phoebe retorted.
“You are,” Emily tsked. “Everyone’s jaw has dropped. That makes you a sheep, so you must choose a different reaction.”
Phoebe gave her cousin a dagger-like glare. “Well, he is jaw-dropping.”
“It’s true,” Tabitha said, her ruby lips curving into an amused grin. “If my heart wasn’t already given to someone else, my jaw would also be on the floor.”
The he in question was well over six feet tall, towering over the company in immaculate back and white tailoring.
Her family had a host of tall men, so that should not have impressed her.
They also dressed very well, so that should not have swayed her either.
His dark hair was as rich as a raven’s wing.
Another thing that should not have impressed her.
After all, she was accustomed to dark-haired, beautiful men.
His jaw was chiseled. This also was not singular. His shoulders were broad. Nothing unusual there amongst Briarwood men.
But there was something about the way the stunning fellow moved that told her he was different than the rest. He cut through the room like none of it really existed, as if he was a singular person that no one could touch, as if he was a distant figure who no one could ever connect with.
And much to her frustration, it made her wish to connect with him. Was she absurd? Her family had never taught her to be attracted to such a thing. And yet, here she was being pulled in towards him as if he was the Earth, she was the apple, and gravity was laughing its head off.
Mr. Newton’s theory was becoming all too clear to her. It was thrilling, and she loved every bit of it! For she? She was falling hard.
And as he wound his way through the crowd, his broad shoulders straining the elegant cut of his coat, his dark brows ever so slightly raised in perpetual superiority, she found herself eager to spar with him with words.
And then he looked over the crowd and their eyes…met. The floor opened up beneath her and nearly swallowed her. She felt like she was floating. That look of his zinged through her, promising an eternity, promising pleasure, promising amusement.
And his lips turned up ever so slightly, worthy of the most self-satisfied cat, and an ache rolled through her. An ache for that smile to be hers for all time.
In that moment, she knew that her prayers had been answered, or at least she hoped they had, because she had been longing for the fellow who would come to claim her heart. And she’d always known it would be at Christmas. And here he was, a gorgeous gentleman at Christmas.
The electricity shimmying through her as their gazes held told her that this was her game and she should play.
And then, much to her dismay, he looked away.
And did not come over.
What the blazes?
In fact, he was now rather pointedly ignoring her, speaking to people, going about the room as if the floor had not nearly opened up beneath them! It was most annoying. Unless only she had felt it…
That thought was vastly dismaying. No, she had not been mistaken. Surely.
“How do I get him to ask me to dance?” she blurted.
Emily blinked. “I’ve no idea.”
“Anne?” Phoebe prompted.
“I don’t know,” Anne confessed, her lips pursing. “I never tried to get anyone to dance with me.”
Phoebe let out a groan. “I should go ask Aunt Juliet. She would know.”
Tabitha laughed. “Aunt Juliet would tell you to go over to him, bat your lashes, and ask him to dance with you.”