Almost a Gentleman (4 page)

"Shall I send Billy to your bedchamber, sir?" Simms asked.

"In twenty minutes, Simms. I'll ring when I'm ready."

"And you'll want a well-iced bottle of champagne as usual, sir?"

Marston almost nodded. But he stopped suddenly. "No, Simms, not tonight. A nice pot of tea is what I think I'll be wanting tonight, if it's not too much trouble at this hour."

Simms hid his astonishment smoothly.

But he's been well trained for this job
, Marston thought.
All those years of reining in that wild hoyden, Phoebe Vaughan. All his loving patience with her when she
—when I—
insisted upon learning Latin alongside my brother
. Marston grinned, thinking of the minor deceits, the narrow escapes, when dear, trusted Mr. Simms, the very soul of honesty, hid the Latin lessons from Phoebe's mother. For Mrs. Vaughan had been certain that girls would lose what she called their "feminine essence" if they were given anything moderately challenging to think about.

Marston sighed.
Poor Mother. I suppose she was right after all
.

The transformation from Phizz to Phoebe proceeded in well-ordered, practiced phases. First a rose-scented cleansing cream dissolved the dye that darkened the fuzz at her upper lip. Next, the eyebrows: soap and water worked best here. When left unplucked, her brows were quite thick for a lady in any case, but every morning Phoebe made them heavier with pencil.

She began to look quite feminine as she brushed the dyed black hair out of the studied Byronic disarray she produced every morning by dint of repeated struggles with comb, brush, and curling iron. How maddening it was to force every wave and spit curl to appear an act of spontaneous nature. Women's poufs and chignons were far easier to do well, she thought idly; after a day as Marston it was a relief simply to tuck her hair back, behind her ears and be done with it.

She'd taken especial pains, when dressing for Almack's this evening, to conceal her small, pretty, shell-pink ears among those poetic torrents of short curls; it seemed to her that she looked a great deal more like a woman with her ears visible. They were startlingly bare and vulnerable now, a fitting complement to the lines her face had begun to relax into, a set of expressions that belonged to Phoebe and not to Phizz.

She'd already draped her black jacket—padded just a bit in the shoulders and around the waist—carefully over a chair back. Mr. Simms (in her mind she still called him
Mr
. Simms) would brush and hang it tomorrow. She peeled her breeches and stockings down her long legs, after stepping out of her pumps regretfully. How wonderfully comfortable men's footwear was: she never tired of the embrace of strong leather about one's feet and legs—so much more civilized than flimsy women's half boots that could cause one to slip and perhaps sprain an ankle on uneven cobblestones.

The waistcoat had a bit of padding too: she was fortunate that Mr. Simms's brother-in-law, Mr. Andrewes, was such a gifted tailor. Mr. Andrewes had prospered under Phizz Marston's patronage—half the dandies in London took their custom to him now.

The cravat and shirt were still a dazzling white, but they bore the faint odor of an evening's exertions and would be sent to the country for laundering tomorrow. As would the muslin bands she now unwound from her small breasts and the slyly designed bit of cushioning she unstrapped from her crotch.

A strikingly beautiful woman, broad shouldered and narrow hipped, stared out at her from the pier glass, naked except for black velvet slippers on long, white, high-arched feet. She'd be thirty on her next birthday—the age when a merely pretty girl begins to fade but real beauty begins to find itself. Many attractive women spend anxious hours in front of the mirror at thirty, but Phoebe barely glanced at her reflection most nights. It took too much effort to create Marston every day: life was too short to spend every minute preoccupied with one's face and body.

And anyway, what good had her graceful woman's body and extravagantly molded features ever done her?

For much of her youth, she hadn't been in the least bit pretty. Until her teens, she'd been gawky, coltish, and far too tall: funny-looking, really, with her heavy eyebrows, square jaw, and too-thick hair that wouldn't be bound by pins or ribbons. Her brother Jonathan had been the handsome one in the family, which was quite all right with Phoebe. It meant that no one expected much from her; she was free to read or ride or climb trees as she chose.

And when, at sixteen, it became time to attend the modest parties that constituted the social season in their remote corner of Devonshire, she'd been sure that no one would want to dance with her. She'd counted that as a blessing, for she and Kate would be left alone to whisper and giggle on the sidelines, blissfully unencumbered by the attentions of clumsy local swains.

It hadn't worked out that way. Astonishingly, the young men had flocked to dance with her, and Phoebe could only glance helplessly at Kate, sitting alone against the wall with a brave, wan smile on her pockmarked face.

She did love to dance, though. And she was good at the reels, quadrilles, and schottisches the little orchestra played. In those years no one had waltzed in their quiet, provincial part of England. Phoebe had heard of the shocking new dance, but she had to wait to try it until she'd arrived in London at twenty-two. For her mother, having belatedly realized that her hoyden daughter had mysteriously become a beauty, had somehow wangled a Season subscription to the Almack Assemblies.

She'd learned the new dance quickly enough; handsome Lord Claringworth had waltzed divinely. Far richer and more worldly than any man she'd known at home, he'd courted her aggressively, deciding that he must have this most exotically beautiful girl of the Season despite the modest dowry she brought with her. Of course, it hadn't hurt that her looks had set off his own so perfectly.

He'd taken her riding in
Hyde Park
, brought her magnificent bouquets from his family's hothouse, overwhelmed her with compliments and with his knowledge of Town and
ton
. She'd never met anyone like him: surely, she thought, there must be a very grand and substantial person beneath the glamorous exterior. Quietly, she smiled at his jokes and gossip;
London
was
his
world, after all, and she would have thought it presumptuous to speak out until she'd learned a little more about the Byzantine rules that governed life in exclusive society. Sadly (as it turned out), Henry mistook her prudence for admiration. Misinterpreting her quiet curiosity as humble complaisance, he congratulated himself that she was not only beautiful but awed by his social superiority and quite properly overwhelmed by his attentions.

They were married in a ceremony that the gossip sheets seemed incapable of describing without reference to the tale of Cinderella. The Prince Regent gave the bride away, with all the
ton
crowded respectfully into the grand, marble-pillared atrium of Henry's mother's house in
Grosvenor Square
. It was the Season's dream wedding, and in just a few short months it transmuted into a nightmare marriage.

Which is quite enough to remember for one evening, thank you
, Phoebe cautioned herself as she wrapped her dressing gown about herself. The heavy, unlined silk was cut very simply. Its style and color were ambiguous: the pale pink might be too delicate even for the exquisite Marston, but there was nothing feminine in its austere detailing, gray satin piping outlining graceful lapels that met in a deep V at the apex of her breasts. The dressing gown didn't need to signal femininity: the body and face of its wearer were clearly those of a woman, even if her cropped hair created a provocative, slightly ambiguous effect.

But why am I gawking at myself in the mirror, Phoebe wondered, like a silly young girl in her first ball gown?

She knew the answer all too well. It was simply a matter of admitting it to herself. She gazed ruefully at her dressing gown, at the hard, erect nipples grazing their sensitive points against the silk's underside. Absently, she ran her hands over the smooth fabric while her mind struggled to understand what her body had grasped with infuriating readiness.

That gentleman tonight. The one with the dark blue eyes and lovely shoulders. The first man since Henry… no, not Henry
—
I was too young and foolish truly to feel anything when I met Henry. No, better to be completely

honest and then to forget this nonsense. Tonight I met the first gentleman ever… to make me feel, to make me
want
to feel like a woman
.

Abruptly, she dropped her hands from her bosom, clenching them until her fingernails bit into her palms. She welcomed the pain, grateful to be distracted from the waves of erotic sensation that had threatened to overpower her.

There will be no more of
that
, she cautioned herself. Because in
that
direction lay disaster. The success of this past three years' masquerade lay precisely in the fact that she
didn't
feel like a woman. She didn't stand or sit or act like a woman because she didn't
want to
feel like a woman. Not ever again.

Oh, her disguise was clever enough; she'd done a good job of turning her unusual looks into those of an exquisitely well-realized dandy. But the icy heart of Phizz Marston pumped champagne instead of blood because its possessor refused to feel what was buried deep within it—the humiliation of having submitted to a spoiled, stupid husband, the agony of losing a beloved child.

She was so convincing as a man because she didn't ever want to be a woman again. And no handsome sunburned earl just up from the country would stop her from living the daring, eccentric life she'd chosen.

She rang the bell. Poor Billy, I've kept him waiting too long already.

Lord Linseley had left the ball early. The waltz lesson had gone rather better than he'd feared; he supposed that he could negotiate his way about the floor if ever called to do so at a cousin's wedding or some similar festivity.

He didn't know if he'd be returning to Almack's, though. Lonely as he was, and in need of female companionship, David doubted that the London marriage mart was the way to find it.

He'd had a drink with Wolfe at their club, fixing himself another, back at his town house.

And another. The hours had ticked by, the fire had almost burned itself out, but David made no move to rouse himself from his armchair and take himself to bed.

The trouble, he told himself, was that life with Margery had been all too comfortable. It had been the perfect life, perhaps, for a man who wanted sex, companionship, and understanding—but who had been oddly wary of love.

She'd been an innkeeper, a pretty young widow when they'd first met. There'd been a storm, he hadn't been able to get home to Linseley Manor that night. He'd never stayed at the Red Boar Inn before, but he was impressed by its cleanliness and by the quality of the kidney pie she served him on short notice; all the other diners had been abed when he'd arrived.

Her cook had gone to bed as well; she'd been too kind and fair an employer to wake him. She'd heated up the kidney pie herself, serving it up with some good ale. She'd been blond and buxom and freckled, pretty in a country way, still ripe and desirable at twenty-five. And as lonely as he was, for all her energy and good cheer. Her husband had died the year before, she told him when he'd invited her to join him in a second mug of ale. She'd been running the inn by herself. It was a good business and kept her too occupied to feel sorry for herself. Except sometimes, late at night.

Yes, I know what you mean, David had responded. He'd been busy too, fairly overwhelmed by work and responsibility since he'd come into his property. He liked farming—he was lucky to have wonderful lands, a good steward and excellent tenants. But sometimes he wondered if he were up to it. He was only twenty-one, after all. Sometimes, during the lonely late nights, wrestling with the accounts and wondering whether to plant or leave a certain field fallow, he feared that he'd make terrible mistakes, go into debt or disgrace his family in some horrible way.

Well, you'll marry soon, she'd told him. No problem there anyway, a rich, handsome boy like you. All the local gentry must be after you for a son-in-law.

He'd shrugged and sighed. He'd had a shattering youthful romance a few months before and was still cherishing his early heartbreak and passionate vow never to marry. He didn't say any of that, though—perhaps, he thought now, because she would have laughed at his childishness.

What he did do was make love to her until dawn, in her own large warm feather bed. He'd returned a few days later. And a few days after that. She had to caution him not to make so much noise in bed—she ran a decent inn, after all, and not a bawdy house. So sometimes in warm weather they went out into the fields; she'd pack a magnificent basket of food, they'd spread a blanket, he'd make all the noise he wanted and so would she.

It was on one of those summer excursions, David was sure, that Alec had been conceived.

He'd proposed marriage when she told him she was carrying his child, but she refused him gently. Thank you dear, she said, but I'm happy with my own business, you know, and I wasn't really raised to be a countess after all. And as for the child, well, I know you'll help if we ever need anything, not that I'm worried about providing.