The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (13 page)

“She’d sit just so,” he said, “so that the fabric would gape here.” With his gaze fixed on hers, he drew a long, slow line down the center of her abdomen to the top of her pubis. “And here,” he muttered, touching her breast again.

Phoebe’s lips parted; she drew an unsteady breath. “And how,” she managed to say, “could that possibly remind you of me?”

Will looked at her mouth, the little slope of her nose, the smooth column of her neck. He put his palm to her neck; her skin was warm to the touch, and he instinctively knew that he’d aroused her. “I suppose only in that I have imagined that sari on you.”

Phoebe suddenly moved to the side, away from his hand. “Did you also learn in India to take delight in your attempts to seduce your staff?” she snapped as she moved behind a chair, putting it between them.

“No. But my delight would be greater if the desire for seduction was mutual.”

Her cheeks reddened; her fingers fluttered along the back of the chair. “It is not a mutual desire. If you would like my opinion of this room, I am happy to give it. But I will remind you that I’ve quite a lot of work to do,” she said pertly, as she studied the upholstery of the chair rather intently.

“Of course. Thank you for your help, Madame Dupree.”

At last she risked a look at him. “If there is nothing else?” Her focus was on his mouth, and her hand, he noticed, had now curled tightly over the back of the chair.

He smiled a little and clasped his hands behind his back. “For the time being.”

She said nothing else, but fairly flew from the salon. Will watched her go, and as he heard her move quickly down the corridor, he realized the only thing he’d accomplished was to increase his longing for her.

A lice tried very hard to appear nonchalant about the supper party, but it was quite evident to Phoebe she was as excited as Jane, who Phoebe feared might burst out of the gown she had fitted so perfectly to her.

Phoebe was proud of her creations. She hadn’t had time to adorn them properly—particularly not with all the nonsense in the salon that had resulted in her complete inability to do anything but stare out the window for another wasted hour—but the crowning glory of Jane’s pale green gown was a silky rose sash.

Handmade rosettes adorned Alice’s lavender satin gown. Alice looked attractive and softly feminine in it, which Phoebe would have thought impossible on their first meeting.

Jane looked rather sweet and twirled about during her last fitting, watching the train move behind her as she chattered incessantly about the Remington family. She knew precious little about them, really—if one took the time to actually listen to what Jane was nattering on about—other than what was said about them in Greenhill, and what the local gentry were certain to think if the Remingtons were to dine at Wentworth Hall. The last bit sparked an argument with Alice, who insisted no one would care a whit if they dined at Wentworth Hall or at a pig’s trough, and even if they did, Jane should be the last in all of Bedfordshire to know it.

“You are mistaken,” Jane said haughtily. “I’ve heard it mentioned that it is quite an important event for the Remingtons.”

“Where have you heard it mentioned?” Alice asked, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Jane turned away from her and pretended to study the gown in the mirror. “I don’t have to tell you where.”

Alice snorted.

If Alice was pleased with her gown, Phoebe would be the last to hear it, but she rather suspected she was, given how she turned left and then right, admiring herself in it. For a young woman who could not feign interest in the supper party, Alice was awfully keen to ensure her gown fit perfectly and was worried that they would not find ribbons for her hair in Greenhill to match the fabric’s hue.

Phoebe assured her they would. As they were departing for Greenhill that afternoon, Addison gave Phoebe a small purse. “His lordship sends this with you to purchase whatever his sisters may need,” he said. He paused and glanced at the two young women in the drive. “And he asks that you keep a watchful eye on them.”

“Me? I am not a nursemaid, sir!” she said, disgruntled, as she pocketed the purse.

Addison smiled thinly. “It shall be over and done before you know it.”

She didn’t believe that for a moment and rather imagined Addison didn’t, either.

The first shop they visited in Greenhill sold undergarments. Alice and Jane tittered like girls as they held up delicate chemises and corsets, admiring the embroidery and fine cotton fabric. When they’d made their purchases, they moved on to a dress shop, where they bought several hair ribbons in various colors while Frieda stood outside, yawning and scraping the bottom of her boots against the edge of the walkway.

The last shop was the cobbler, where elegant slippers and sturdy boots were displayed in the window. With a squeal of delight, Jane went in, pulling Frieda along with her.

“I’ll wait here,” Alice said to Phoebe.

Phoebe looked at her with surprise. “Wouldn’t you like to look at shoes?”

Alice looked longingly at a pair of blue silk slippers in the window—the same blue slippers Phoebe had admired—and shook her head. “I’ve plenty of shoes.”

Frankly, Phoebe had only ever seen her wear one pair of boots and thought Alice was daft to turn down the opportunity. Certainly she had no intention of standing outside when a room full of shoes beckoned, so she smiled cheerfully, said, “All right,” and went in after Jane to have a look. But a few moments later, as she perused the slippers in the shop window while Jane examined several pairs with the cobbler with Frieda’s enthusiastic help, Phoebe noticed that Alice was no longer standing just outside. An alarm sounded within her—she was supposed to keep her eye on them.

As Jane was suitably occupied, Phoebe stepped outside. She looked up and down the street, but Alice was nowhere to be seen. Now her heart skipped a beat. She feared what Alice might do—she had hardly presented herself as a young lady of good breeding thus far. Phoebe looked anxiously about and noticed the smithy just down the road. “Oh no,” she groaned. How had she missed the smithy? Surely Alice hadn’t been so bold as to go there!

Of course she had. And had Phoebe been in Alice’s position, she probably would have done the same thing. She instantly started striding in that direction.

Except for the covering of a thatched roof, the smithy’s work area stood open to the elements. A fire was burning, but there was no one about. The open area was attached to a wooden barn, where Phoebe assumed the blacksmith’s implements and horses awaiting new shoes were kept. She walked around the structure, and as she turned the corner, she spied a narrow space between the barn and the building behind it.

She did not want to look in that opening, but her feet were already moving. As she stepped in front of the narrow alley, she managed to refrain from gasping in shock. Just as she suspected, Alice was there, locked in an embrace with a man Phoebe presumed was Mr. Hughes. They were kissing with great passion; his hands were on her breasts, and her hands were in his hair.

In a moment of panic—and, all right, titillation—Phoebe called out, “Lady Alice!”

Her voice startled Alice almost as badly as it startled Mr. Hughes, who half jumped, half fell a good foot away from her. Alice jerked her head toward Phoebe. She didn’t speak, didn’t seem to even breathe—for a moment.

But when she realized who had discovered her, Alice’s face mottled with her anger. “How dare you!” she cried. “You will be dealt with for spying, Madame Dupree, and the penalty will be quite harsh!”

“Perhaps you should go,” Mr. Hughes said hastily, and pushed Alice toward Phoebe as he eyed her warily.

“Don’t mind her, Roland!” Alice said, her voice soft and pleading now. “She’s just a servant. I will deal with her—”

“I think it best you go,” he said again, and backed away from her.

Alice realized he meant to abandon her there and she seemed frantic. “Roland! Please don’t be angry! I had no idea the chit would follow me. She’s a stupid seamstress, and I swear to you, I will beat her if she so much as whispers this to another living soul!”

“Go, Alice,” he said, his expression dark. “Don’t you see that you make it worse by lingering?” He abruptly turned and disappeared deeper into the narrow alley.

“Roland!” Alice called after him. “Roland!”

But he’d gone. When it dawned on Alice that he had left her there, she whirled around with such venom in her eyes that Phoebe actually feared her. And well she should have, for Alice was suddenly marching toward her. Phoebe didn’t know what Alice meant to do, but she never expected the girl would raise her hand and slap her across the face.

Phoebe cried out with the blow and staggered backward, instantly putting her gloved hand to her face. Never in her life had she been struck. Never! She was shocked into speechlessness, stunned to paralysis. Had it not been for Frieda happening upon them at that precise moment, Phoebe was certain Alice would have struck her again.

“Lady Alice!” Frieda cried as she rushed to Phoebe’s side.

For a brief moment, Alice looked confused. But the anger suddenly swept over her again, and she sailed past them both. “We are leaving!” she announced, and marched toward the carriage.

“God blind me!” Frieda whispered frantically as Alice put more distance between them. She pulled Phoebe’s hand away from her cheek and winced. “Oh heavens—what will ye do?”

“Did she leave a mark?” Phoebe asked numbly.

Frowning, Frieda nodded. “You’ll tell his lordship, aye? She ought not to get away with it,” she said angrily, glancing over her shoulder as if she suspected Alice to come running back to attack them. “I can’t abide those that hits,” she said. “That’s why I’ll always be thankful to Mrs. Turner for giving me a place, I will. My last mistress hit us every time we came ’round.”

Phoebe glanced at Frieda. “A lady hit you?”

“Aye, whenever she was of a mind,” Frieda said as she linked her arm through Phoebe’s. “Once she beat Nanny Bentley so badly that Nanny couldn’t work for two days.”

Good God—what more were servants forced to endure at the hands of their employers? Most immediately, Phoebe would be forced to endure a carriage ride with Alice.

“Come on, then,” Frieda said soothingly. “Mrs. Turner will know what’s to be done.”

Phoebe had a very good idea what needed to be done, all right—Alice was in desperate need of discipline, and she was in desperate need of passage home.

As the two of them walked out from behind the smithy, Phoebe saw Jane standing outside the cobbler, a package under her arm, her bonnet hanging carelessly from her hand.

“There you are!” she shouted irritably, drawing the notice of more than one person on the street. “I have looked all over for you!” she called as she strode toward them. “What are you doing there? Why did you leave me?”

“Just taking a bit of air,” Frieda said with false cheer.

“What were you doing by the smithy?” Jane demanded, eyeing Phoebe suspiciously. Her gaze flicked to the blacksmith’s shop and her eyes lit with delight. “Is Alice there as well?”

“No,” Phoebe said. “She is in the carriage. If you have made your purchases, Lady Jane, we really should—”

“What’s this?” Jane interrupted, peering at Phoebe closely now. “It looks as if someone hit you.” When neither Frieda nor Phoebe spoke, Jane gasped. “Dear God. Alice hit you, didn’t she?” she exclaimed, seeming almost excited by the prospect. “Oh, my Lord! That horrible girl! She can’t go around hitting people!”

The girl had no concept of discretion. “Come along, Lady Jane, please,” Phoebe said, putting her hand on her elbow, trying to force her along before the entire village of Greenhill knew Alice had struck her.

“She’s awful, and I don’t care if she is my sister!” Jane declared loudly, but at least she was moving. “She’ll never receive an offer, for she has such a wretched disposition!”

Phoebe fairly shoved Jane toward the carriage. The waiting footman, Billy, quickly opened the door; when he did, Phoebe could hear Alice’s sobbing.

Jane gleefully went in first with a cheery “Serves you right, you awful brat!” Behind Jane, Frieda rolled her eyes before climbing in.

But Billy put his hand on Phoebe’s arm, slowing her. When she glanced up at him his gaze fell to the mark on her face, and he angrily shook his head. “Bloody awful,” he whispered. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She smiled reassuringly and allowed him to help her into the carriage. But she wasn’t fine at all. She was shocked and confused and felt as if her little make-believe world was crumbling. The blow had put her on unfamiliar ground, and she felt incapable of living a moment longer in Madame Dupree’s imaginary shoes.

In the carriage, Phoebe took a seat directly across from Alice, who refused to look at her. That infused Phoebe with indignation—the woman had struck her like an animal, and now she would cower? Phoebe kept her eyes steady on Alice on the long ride back to the hall while Jane chattered on about how she felt certain her brother would lock Alice away in a madhouse, and Frieda looked anxiously from one to the other, worrying the frayed edge of her sleeve.

And Alice—Alice never lifted her eyes, but sat slumped against the squabs, her bottom lip trembling. It wasn’t until they had pulled into the drive at the hall that she looked tearfully at Jane. “Jane…give me your word you won’t tell him,” she begged meekly.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Jane asked haughtily. “You’re hopelessly awful, Alice. You deserve to be put on the shelf.”

“Please don’t tell him!” Alice whimpered.

“I don’t know if I shall or not,” Jane responded imperiously, and crawled over Alice to get out, leaving her threat hanging in the confines of the coach.

Alice glanced at Phoebe from the corner of her eye. “You won’t tell him.” It was more of a question than a statement, a child’s attempt at concealing her actions.

“Won’t I?” Phoebe softly demanded.

Alice suddenly sat up and said beseechingly, “I am so very sorry, Madame Dupree! I don’t know what possessed me! I was so angry and…and I did not mean to strike you, I swear I did not! Will you forgive me? Please say you forgive me!”