Chapter 7
Oliver had never been ambushed so entirely before by a group of people at a house party or any ball. He usually was the one who had the power. Now he felt like most people must, and he really wasn’t certain what to do.
As he stumbled into the breakfast room, there was a part of his heart that leapt because, quite frankly, he was looking for Phoebe.
He knew that he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help it.
She was a balm to his soul. She was so bright, so unfettered, so completely accepting of herself. It was more appealing than he could ever say. She was actually exactly the opposite of himself, and for some reason, instead of being appalled by her, he found himself drawn to her.
It was extremely upsetting and also rather exciting at the same time. And as he came into the breakfast room, filled to the brim with people eating toast, drinking tea, and standing about with plates in hand, chatting in corners, he wondered at the madness of it all.
Mad was a word that was overused for this particular family, but all of this was so completely out of the ordinary that mad seemed to be the best word.
Order usually was the case in a breakfast room.
People sat at the table and served themselves, but not here.
A gaggle of young ladies, Phoebe among them in an apricot-colored morning gown, were standing together, drinking hot chocolate with three towering, very handsome men standing at their shoulders.
In the center was a quite eccentrically dressed man.
“Monsieur,” one of the young ladies said, glaring into her hot chocolate as if the world might end. “You absolutely must find him!”
“We need him!” another of the young ladies said, her yellow frock as beautiful as summer sun. “It is imperative that an exceptionally handsome, exceptionally tall man plays—”
“Oh!” the man standing in the center said, twirling his hand, the lace at his wrist flicking. “There he is.”
Who? Oliver thought to himself. Who were they talking about? Oliver glanced about, trying to spot the handsome, exceptionally tall man.
Every single person swung their attention in his direction. Their eyes locked upon him.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
The many eyes locked upon him looked far too hopeful.
He felt the immediate urge to turn and run, like a fox sighted by the hounds.
Phoebe’s eyes rounded with pleasure, and she started to applaud against her hot chocolate cup, the spoon clinking in the saucer ever so slightly. “Yes, Monsieur Georges! Well spotted. The duke is perfect.”
“Perfect for what?” he found himself blurting, ready to bolt, but Phoebe plunked her hot chocolate down on the nearest table and all but bounded to him.
She was a glorious sight. Dark hair spilling about her elfin face, her freckles dancing over her nose. She was beautiful. Intoxicating. And her excitement was palpable.
How could he run from that? Much to his growing dismay, he realized he could not.
So, much to his mounting horror, without any sort of thought for propriety, she grabbed his hand and started to haul him across the room.
“This is Miss Emily, Miss Anne, and Miss Tabitha. They are my cousins, all children of my Uncle Achilles.” She shot him a rather intense look. “You shall be kind to them. They have written a play, and we are putting it on. You are being given a part.”
“I don’t want a part,” he replied quickly.
The nausea that shot through him was so painful that he wanted to run from the room and cast up his accounts. He didn’t do plays. He barely went to see them. He only attended them if he had to. He certainly had no intention of being in one and definitely not a Christmas one.
But Phoebe looked up at him and blinked, batted her beautiful, coal-dark lashes, and tilted her head to the side. “Why ever not?” she asked.
“Because,” he growled.
But then Monsieur George stepped forward. “Ah, Your Grace, you are the Duke of Crestfield, non? Your father, he was one of the most supportive people of the theater and dance communities. He celebrated us so profoundly. Surely you are the same.”
“I am not,” he countered with more coldness than he had intended. “My father was a singular man, it’s true, and I have a certain admiration for the arts, but I do not dance and I do not act.”
The dancing master stepped back, looked him up and down, and said, “Don’t be absurd. Your legs are perfect for dancing. With your power and natural elegance, I wager your battu could conquer London!”
He swallowed, feeling quite shoved off-center. “My legs are perfect for—”
“They are. They’re long. They’re lean. Your calves are perfection,” Monsieur Georges declared happily. “You should have been born to be a ballet dancer.”
His throat tightened. Once, just for those few hours, he’d dreamed… He shoved the thought aside. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“What?” the dancing master retorted. “Do you not know about Louis XIV and how he loved the ballet, the most powerful man in the world? The Sun King? Master of Versailles? You’re not about to say something silly about ballet and men are you?”
He let out a low growl. “I don’t generally say silly things, monsieur,” he replied.
“Bon,” the dancing master said. “Then the matter is settled. You will be the Pirate King.”
“The pirate what?” he echoed, his voice pitching up to the tune of a castrati rather than a tenor.
“Pirate King,” affirmed Emily with delight. “This is a Christmas pantomime, and we’re going to have a marvelous time.” She paused, pursed her lips, looked to Phoebe, and then back to him. “And you wouldn’t let us down, would you?”
Pheobe bit her lower lip, then rushed, “This is the very first time that Emily, Anne, and Tabitha are putting on a play for the family. It is essential their debut goes off without a hitch. They’ve been working for ages at their plays.”
“And we need someone perfect,” rushed Anne. “We basically wrote the part for you, and we didn’t know it.”
He glanced from Emily to Anne to Tabitha, to the dancing master, and then he looked at the three tall gentleman who had not yet been introduced to him, then back to Phoebe.
He pointed to the three tall men. “They tower. Choose one of them.”
“Och,” one of the tall men began, “Your Grace, we may be tall, but you? You are taller and you have the look of a scoundrel king about you. Besides, the three of us do not have legs perfect for ballet.”
“Tree trunks,” one of the other men said. “Isn’t that what you declared, Monsieur Georges?”
Monsieur Georges sniffed. “Alas. I adore all three of you, but your dancing is far too vigorous. I need grace. I need power. I need Monsieur le Duc!”
He did not. But it looked like he was trapped.
They were all staring at him, and he suddenly understood how the Christmas goose must have felt when December came about.
He didn’t like it, and yet he knew there was no escape. He looked ever so slightly towards the breakfast table, laden with all sorts of delectable foods, and caught Laertes’s gaze.
The man was sitting, watching it all, clearly triumphant.
Laertes lifted his teacup and gave Oliver a jaunty salute as he smiled. Remember to pretend, his friend mouthed.
I’ll kill you later, he mouthed back. Then he turned to Phoebe and said, “How could I deny the pleasure of so many ladies and certainly this artistic gentleman?”
“This artistic gentleman,” Phoebe replied, folding her hands before her and looking at Monsieur Georges with great admiration, “was one of the greatest dancing masters in all of Paris before the fall. If he says you are a good dancer, then you must be, despite what you showed me last night.”
“And what did the gentleman show you last night?” Monsieur Georges asked.
“She said I was like a Latin teacher.”
Monsieur Georges shuddered, but then he drew in a breath, emphasizing his beautiful posture and flamboyantly tied cravat. “Your Grace,” the dancing master said, “when I am done with you, you will be the most perfect dancer in all of England.”
“I doubt that very much,” he replied.
Then the dancing master gave him a wild smile and said, “That is because your imagination has not been developed, Your Grace. A few days here, and you will be a new man entirely.”
“And if I like who I am?” the duke replied.
Monsieur Georges cocked his head to the side, looked him up and down, arched a brow, then had the audacity to ask, “Do you?”
It was possibly the boldest thing that anyone had ever asked him, save Phoebe the night before, but he said it in such a tone that Oliver could not take offense at it. “I suppose we shall find out,” he replied.
“Bravo, Your Grace. Bravo,” the dancing master said with a clap of his hands. “We shall begin rehearsal in thirty minutes. And no one is late to my rehearsals. Not princes or dukes or prima ballerinas.”
Monsieur Georges tsked and gestured to his clothes. “Though you have excellent taste, Your Grace, I suggest that you wear something very comfortable. Lady Phoebe has also been instructed to wear something very comfortable because she, of course, is the maiden who is kidnapped by the Pirate King.”
He blinked, certain he had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, yes,” Phoebe gushed, clearly excited. “I’m so glad you said yes to the role. You get to kidnap me.”
“I get to what you?”
“You get to kidnap me,” she repeated.
Emily bounced on her slippered feet. “Yes, it’s a delicious sort of drama.
You see, Anne, Tabitha, and I believe that the sort of reality of plays or absurd comedies of the last century are dying.
A certain sort of new drama is taking place where everything is larger and louder and grander, and there will be much more sentiment.
We’re experimenting with style, so we deeply appreciate you assisting us with this. ”
He gazed at her as if she had just spoken in Ancient Egyptian, a language that no longer could be deciphered, so he replied instead, “I am happy to be of help. Whatever makes Lady Phoebe pleased.”
He stopped.