The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (32 page)

“Where is Miss Dumbarton?” Caroline asked Duckworth. “Perhaps we might introduce them straightaway.”

“In the green salon,” Duckworth said.

Phoebe’s eyes went wide. “My lord, I should not—”

“Nonsense,” Will said, and gestured toward the door. “Duckworth is quite right. Miss Dumbarton will enjoy your company, as shall we all,” he said briskly, and dropped his arm from beneath Caroline’s hand. “Duckworth, you’ll look after Miss Fitzherbert, won’t you, while I make the introductions?”

“I’d be delighted,” Duckworth said, but Will could see from Caroline’s expression that she was less than pleased to have been put in his charge.

He would smooth it over later. At the moment, he cupped Phoebe’s elbow firmly and led her inside.

They moved into an empty corridor. “Have a care you don’t slip and turn your ankle in your haste to return to your rooms,” Will said low.

“What do you think you are doing, may I ask?” Phoebe whispered hotly. “I cannot join you!”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” she repeated, stopping midstride to face him and almost levitating with ire. “Why not? It is highly improper! There will be more than one who speculates as to why I am included, and given the events of this day, I think they will draw the most wretched conclusions if they haven’t already!”

“Why should anyone imagine this is anything other than it is? It is not as if you will join me at the dining table—you will join Miss Dumbarton. Asking you to keep a governess company hardly seems sinister to me,” he said, just as hotly. “Are you so jaded?” he asked, and grabbed her by the elbow again, steering her forward.

“Yes! Yes! I am so jaded! Recent events at Wentworth Hall have made me so!” she cried, and looked at him as if she didn’t know him. “Frieda is gone, sir! She has run away because of her shame and everyone is speaking of it! What do you suppose all your guests might think if your seamstress is suddenly granted a position in your salon—”

“They will think you are gentry, Phoebe,” he said as he opened a door onto a small secretarial office. “They will think you are being a companion to a young woman in a similar position. They will think nothing ill, I assure you.” He quickly ushered her inside, leaving the door open a crack for the little bit of light the wall sconces in the corridor afforded.

“What will Farley say? Or Mrs. Turner?” she continued, and began to pace as much as the tiny office would allow her. “They will suspect something, and they will compare me to Frieda—”

“I scarcely think anyone would ever compare you to Frieda.”

“Oh, but they will,” she said. “And I am hardly dressed for the evening,” she said, looking down at her gown before taking two steps to her right, then two to her left. “I have nothing in common with these people, I don’t care for society, and I…I…”

Will silenced her nerves by catching her and kissing her, hot, hard, and with all the longing he’d felt since he’d last held her.

At first, Phoebe pushed against him, but Will would not let go of her—he could not let go of her. The moment his lips touched hers, he was lost. A moment after that, Phoebe sagged against him, giving in. He pushed her against the wall, ran his hands down her body. “I have missed you,” he whispered. “I have thought of little else but you.”

“I don’t know what has happened to me,” she said weakly. “When we are apart, I think I never have you enough, but the moment we are together, I think I can scarcely bear it—”

He kissed her passionately again, his feelings for her as raw as they had ever been. “Join us tonight,” he said low, and pressed his forehead to hers. “Give me that one small pleasure.”

She sighed longingly as he moved down to kiss the swell of her breasts; she put her hands on his head and groaned with indecision. “All right,” she whispered at last. “All right.”

Will kissed her breast once more, rose up, and kissed her mouth. He caressed her cheek with his hand, then stepped outside to ensure there was no one about. When he was certain there was not, he gestured for Phoebe to join him. Together they walked into the green salon, Phoebe’s head down, Will’s heart pounding.

Miss Dumbarton, who was as dark as Phoebe was fair, was very happy to make Phoebe’s acquaintance. She was very personable, and when Will left them alone, she fairly collapsed on the settee. “You cannot imagine how unruly the Duckworth children are!” she said cheerfully.

Phoebe learned she had two small children in her charge, who were, at last, in bed. Miss Dumbarton—or Susan, as she insisted Phoebe call her—was in the salon, reading and waiting until the formal supper had been served before joining the other guests. She drew Phoebe into a gay conversation, and Phoebe quickly realized she liked Susan Dumbarton from Manchester very much—she was the youngest daughter of a solicitor who yearned to live in London.

When Farley came for them later and asked them to join the others, Susan linked her arm in Phoebe’s, and together they faced the crowd of Quality.

Yet surprisingly, Phoebe did not see the looks of disdain she expected, the envious looks from women and the leering looks from men. With the exception of Duckworth and Miss Fitzherbert, the people she met that evening were delightful.

The evening was very gay. There was none of the artifice one would find at a similar gathering in Mayfair, no maneuvering to see and be seen by the most important peers in the room. There were no whispered asides, no smirks over the tops of wineglasses. These people genuinely seemed to enjoy one another’s company—and they didn’t seem to care a whit about who was who in the pecking order.

Even the younger Darbys seemed quite at ease. Alice—in spite of her assignation—was charmingly polite, even when she discovered Phoebe’s presence. Jane was her usual giddy self, but with a degree of restraint, which Phoebe believed was due to two handsome young gentlemen seated on either side of her. Joshua had engaged Miss Fitzherbert in conversation at the end of the room, and Roger led a boisterous round of whist.

Susan was quite funny, Phoebe discovered. She remarked that Lord Duckworth was aptly named, given his mouth’s unfortunate resemblance to a duck’s bill. And she complained that she was a wretched dancer, with the feet of a bovine. Phoebe laughed openly. Had she been in London, she would have been quite reserved, taking care not to speak to any one gentleman overlong, taking even more care to speak to their female companions.

She also noticed that Will’s attention was in great demand. But he looked quite at ease and was solicitous of his family. Just looking at them here, one would never suspect the troubles that plagued the Darby family. Will was, Phoebe understood, a revered member of the community. He had established himself as a lord in this county, and in spite of the problems his family had suffered, he was respected.

More than one young lady who hoped to someday inhabit Wentworth Hall as its mistress looked at Will with bright eyes, blushing when he smiled at them, tittering when he spoke. And Will…Will beamed at them all.

But his gaze would inevitably fall on Phoebe, and a look would pass between them, and Phoebe’s heart soared. More than once she joined the ranks of the hopeful young misses in this room and imagined herself on his arm, imagined the two of them hosting this lovely summer evening.

“What on earth are you thinking?” Susan asked, nudging her.

Phoebe smiled. “How good my bed shall feel this night. The hour is late and I have much work to do. I’d best retire.”

Susan’s chagrin was obvious. “You will come tomorrow, won’t you?” she insisted, and leaned in to whisper, “I must have someone to whisper to as we watch the parade of eligible debutantes march past Lord Summerfield.”

Phoebe laughed.

“You think I am jesting,” she said, nudging Phoebe again. “I assure you that I am not. Summerfield told Lady Duckworth that he will make his offer before the fortnight is through—although one cannot imagine how he might choose. There are so many of them, are there not?”

Phoebe’s smile faded. “Surely he cannot determine who he might spend the rest of his life with in one fortnight,” she said, forcing a small laugh.

“Oh, but surely he can,” Susan said with a snort. “It hardly takes a fortnight to add one fortune to the other and derive the sum.” She laughed at her own jest. “You will come again tomorrow, won’t you?”

“If I am permitted.”

“Of course!” Susan exclaimed happily. “I will see to it!” Phoebe could not possibly imagine how she might, but Susan winked at her nonetheless.

Phoebe laughed. “On the morrow, then, if you are so bold.”

“I certainly am,” Susan said. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Phoebe said, and walked from the room, catching Will’s eye as she went. Something flowed between them, something feverish.

Caroline watched Madame Dupree glide out of the room, watched her turn and catch Summerfield’s eye. She did not miss how they looked at each other. She did not misunderstand it.

A million thoughts began to swim in her mind. She told herself she should not be alarmed—she should not infer more from that look than there could possibly be. He was lord of this estate, if not in name, in deed. He was well respected in the county, something that seemed rather miraculous given the reputation his awful siblings had managed to create for themselves in his absence.

He was determined to marry. Everyone knew it. Everyone was talking about it.

And Madame Dupree, like every other woman presently at Wentworth Hall, had fallen in love with the dashing Lord Summerfield. But what disturbed Caroline was that Summerfield had returned that look—or had she imagined it?

She turned away from the door, deep in thought. But when she lifted her eyes, they landed squarely on Mr. Joshua Darby. He arched a brow and smiled knowingly.

Caroline instantly turned away, but it was too late. The smile had given her a shiver.

W hen the first week of the fortnight-long house party drew to a close, Will told his father it had been a grand success. “My brothers and sisters have been on their best behavior,” he said as he stood at the window of his father’s suite, looking out over the green where a game of lawn bowling was in progress. “I’ve been amazed, frankly.”

He cast a smile over his shoulder at his father. “Joshua has been attentive to the females, of course. Alice is shier than I expected and often does not join us in the evenings. Roger and Jane,” he said, watching Jane bowl on the lawn, “have been full of vigor and, I am pleased to report, surprisingly good manners.” He laughed.

His father’s eyes crinkled slightly in what Will knew was a smile. His father turned his head a bit and focused his eyes on Will.

“Aha,” Will said with a nod. “You would know about your eldest son.” He glanced at the group on the lawn again and sighed. “I have spent almost an entire week riding with all the eligible young women of Bedfordshire, I have escorted every one of them on a private walk in the parterres, I have even deigned to play croquet,” he said with a wink. “I have dined, I have chatted, I have smiled and listened and…” And he was exhausted. He’d been inundated with the attentions of eight young women. It was all a bit too much for a man who, just a year ago, had been living in a Bedouin tent in the Egyptian desert.

He’d tried—he’d tried very hard to find the distinctive virtues in each of the young women. But all he could think of was Phoebe. He had watched her in this past week, had admired her grace and beauty, her ability to fit in so well among her superiors. He loved the sound of her laugh when she was in the cheerful company of Miss Dumbarton, the brightness of her smile, and the way she blushed when a gentleman would pay her a compliment.

“I have given them all my due consideration,” he continued thoughtfully. He recalled the one night his guests had retired early; he’d hied himself up to Phoebe’s rooms in the middle of the night. In a room full of gowns and fabrics and dress forms, he’d touched her shoulder. She had awakened and squealed with delight, pulling him down onto her bed, and pouncing on him. He had shushed her—the windows were open—but he had quickly succumbed to her fervent greeting, the warmth of her body, the sweet smell of her skin.

The next morning, when he had crept into his suite of rooms, Addison had been within, laying out his clothing for the day. The tips of his ears had burned red. The awkwardness was nothing new for them, but that morning, Will had felt a wave of disapproval from his steadfast companion. He had felt reproof from a man who had never shown him anything but a happy, agreeable face. He knew why—Addison esteemed Phoebe. She was different from the others.

Will swallowed and glanced at his father. “It would seem,” he said reluctantly, the words forming in his mind but his tongue loath to say them, “that Miss Caroline Fitzherbert is the most suited to me in personality and situation.”

The skin around his father’s eyes crinkled slightly. He lifted his index finger, indicating his pleasure with that choice.

“I suppose I shall offer at the end of the fortnight,” Will said. But as the words he believed were expected of him fell from his lips, he felt a painful clench in his gut. He could not imagine how he might possibly offer for Caroline Fitzherbert’s hand—not while his heart and mind were fixated on Phoebe.

After Will left his father to return to his guests, he walked the long corridor, debating his intentions, debating whether or not he should follow his true desire for Phoebe. He could not imagine how he might. There were certain expectations placed on his shoulders as the heir. He had a responsibility to the family’s name and the continuing legacy.

But what of his happiness? Was he expected to subjugate it completely to the family’s honor? Was that the price he must pay to keep his family’s reputation impeccable and their situation in Bedfordshire and London immutable? He didn’t know the answer to those questions, but he had realized something: He loved Phoebe. He loved her as he’d never loved before. He could not believe he would give that up so easily, not even for duty or family honor.

He had to think of something.

But for the moment, he had guests to attend to, and as he walked into the grand salon where they gathered every evening before supper, and made his way around the room, asking after their day, his eyes found Phoebe’s, who, from across the room where she stood with Miss Dumbarton, smiled at him in that way she had of making his heart take wing.