Chapter One
March 1814
“‘Women have no ideas, except personal ones,’” Lady Phoebe Winters recited, leaning forward in indignant earnestness. “And then, oh then, the article continues. I will not force you to sit through the entirety of it, but will summarize to tell you that it does admit that, in fact, women do have more tenderness than men—oh yes.”
She snorted and continued as her friends looked on, allowing her tirade to continue. “But then—and I have committed this to memory, so impactful the words were—‘Women admire in men those qualities which are necessary to their own deficiencies—courage, the power of taking the lead, activity, strength, everything in short which may be called the sexual distinction of man’s mind, and which flatters the tenderness and wraps a guiding arm around the weakness of his associate.’”
“Can you believe such drivel? Oh, if only I could respond with the truth. The truth that women are stronger than men could ever be. Of what we must endure while always maintaining the facade that everything is perfect, that there is nothing of which we are concerned. And all of this while looking immaculate, maintaining perfect manners, and hiding all of our true feelings. I wish I could show him a true demonstration of strength and courage, that is for certain.”
Phoebe finished her recounting and sat back against the soft green silk cushions of the sofa, her chest heaving as anger flowed through her veins anew. After retelling what she had read that morning with her breakfast, incredulity seeped out of every pore as she seethed and her ire began festering anew.
When she had first read the words, while she was certainly not completely surprised, she had nearly spit her coffee all over the paper. She had wanted to stop reading but found she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
Now she looked around at the faces of her friends, women she had been so sure would wholeheartedly agree with her, and they stared back at her with sympathy more than anything. Her stomach began to sink as disappointment crept in.
“You agree with me—do you not?” she demanded, raising an eyebrow as she looked at them all, challenging them to refute her.
“We do agree with you, Phoebe,” Elizabeth reassured her, leaning forward from her place next to her on the corner of the sofa, placing a hand on her knee. “Of course we do, you know that. It is only that such articles as that which you quote are not particularly unbelievable. In fact, I would be surprised were anything written to the contrary.”
Phoebe loved Elizabeth, truly she did, but damn her endless practicality.
“How can you say that?” she demanded, as a log in the fire next to her cracked, accentuating her words.
“How can I not?” Elizabeth replied, waving an elegant hand in the air. Elizabeth’s strength was her steadiness, and she always held an air of refinement that was unmatched by nearly any other woman Phoebe had ever met. “It is the way of the world, Phoebe. It is set in place by men. It is how they see women, and they write their own viewpoints without fear of retribution.”
Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest and looked at the rest of them. Julia, sitting in the chair across from her, sent a sweet smile her way, while Sarah leaned forward in the seat beside Julia.
“It is galling, Phoebe, truly it is,” Sarah said, a long tendril of her soft, cinnamon brown hair brushing the side of her temple as she did so. “The ways of the nobility … well, they have certainly been a surprise to me since I arrived in London, to say the least. But these are the rules of society, are they not? You have to play amongst them, or you risk getting hurt.”
Phoebe worried her bottom lip, a habit that was becoming all too familiar as at times it left her lips painfully dry.
“But who made the rules?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” responded Elizabeth.
“These rules you speak of, that we must conform to—how did they come about? They are not rules, so much as conventions that have become part of our lives because we all agree to follow them, because no one speaks otherwise. And why do we not? Because we are afraid.”
Phoebe pushed away from the mahogany sofa and started pacing the Aubusson carpet lining the floor of their current meeting place, one of the Earl of Torrington’s drawing rooms. Phoebe and the three women who convened together had found themselves seated amongst the wallflowers one time too many. But unlike the other woman who bordered the dance floors with them, they were not cast aside due to their unattractiveness, nor their shyness or unsuitability.
No, it was rather that none of them had much interest in the games of the ton, the whispers, the flirtations, the giggles behind the fans. One night over a glass or two of sherry, they found that their very disdain for what was considered to be attractive and desirable by most was, in fact, what drew them together.
They far preferred their lively conversations and debates to watching others make fools of themselves, and so at events such as these, balls and parties and the like, they would often ensconce themselves in a nearby room where they could speak without fear of social disdain.
Tonight, however, went far beyond simple conversation for Phoebe. If these three women, who she now counted as the closest people in the entire world to her, did not understand, then who would?
“It was not always this way, was it?” she ventured to her friends. “Men have always been the leaders, the warriors, it is true, but there have been times when women held much more power than we do now. In the Roman era, women possessed great influence over the decisions of men. But only three hundred years ago, there were women who held fortresses, who fought on battlefields alongside their husbands and brothers.”
Phoebe was now waving her hands emphatically, needing them to understand the importance of what she spoke. “Half the world is composed of women. However, men seem to be able to say whatever they want, whenever they want, in whatever form they choose. Men—of the nobility, at least—receive education, the power of a title, the financial independence to do whatever they seek. And yet women are bred only to please men. We sit and listen to the drivel such as that in the article, and we are expected to not only believe it but to follow it. Why?”
Julia looked up at her, chin in hand, a riot of blonde curls cascading from the top of her head about her pixie face. She was tiny, almost childlike and angelic, yet she held an inner strength that Phoebe knew few could rival.
“I suppose,” Julia began slowly, “we follow it because it is what we know. Because no one is doing any different. Because no other woman is challenging it.”
Looking at the nods of the other two, Phoebe stopped her pacing and simply stared at them, something niggling at the corner of her brain. What Julia said was true. No one questioned such opinions. No one presented any other way of thinking. The newspapers may employ writers of a wide variety of opinions, true, but besides a different political stance, what else truly separated one writer from the other? They all held the same ignorant opinions—at least when it came to women, at any rate. The wife of a Whig was held to the very same expectations as the wife of a Tory.
“Exactly,” Sarah agreed with Julia, a grin covering her freckled face. “No one has ever spoken out otherwise. So why would any hold an opinion to the contrary? Your thoughts are very opposed to most others, Phoebe, truly, you must know that. I know your parents raised you to be a woman who creates her own opinions, but you are an exception, as you well know.”
Phoebe nodded slowly, the words of her friends causing an idea to form in her mind. Another public voice was required to provide a different way of thinking, to give women the opportunity to receive knowledge outside of what had been instilled in them since childhood.
“You are right,” she said, pointing a finger in their general direction with some flourish. “A new viewpoint needs to be shared. It is time.”
She strode back to the sofa, taking a seat with a flounce of her skirts. She picked up the glass in front of her, containing some type of punch that was altogether too sweet. She reached into the folds of her skirt to find the flask within a deeply hidden pocket, adding the rum to her drink before offering it to her friends.
“A toast,” she said, holding up her glass. “To the future.”
Confusion reigned on their faces at her words, but they raised their glasses anyway.
“To the future,” they chorused, and Phoebe shared a grin of triumph with them.
“Now,” Elizabeth said, rising gracefully. “We must return to the party, or my mother will never allow me to hear the end of it upon our return.”
“I suppose we must,” said Phoebe, standing herself, and, being in closest proximity to the door, she began to lead them out. She brought her hand to the doorknob, but gasped when it turned of its own accord, and, off balance, she fell forward through what was now open space, until she collided into something very hard, very immobile, and very unforgiving.
She looked up. And up further. First to come into her view was a very strong jaw, which currently seemed to be clenched quite tightly. Phoebe took a step back, tilting her head so she could better see the face of the statue in front of her—for it seemed the man was incapable of moving.
His cheekbones were harsh, his nose pronounced. The only soft thing about him was the lock of sandy blond hair swooping down low over his forehead. His eyes were a deep chocolate brown. And they were currently looking down at her with an icy hard frigidness that nearly made her shiver. Not that she would. She refused to show him any indication of weakness, nor any sign of backing down. For she knew very well who this man was.
“Lord Berkley,” she finally greeted him. “May I be of assistance?”
If it were possible, he looked even further down his nose at her.
“Excuse me?” His voice was low and gravely, sending a wave of shivers down her spine. Not of fear, no—it was something else, something peculiar that she couldn’t quite place.
“I asked you,” she drawled slowly, as if he couldn’t understand the words coming out of her mouth, “If you required assistance. For I can think of no other reason that you would be standing so immobile in the path of a lady when she is trying to exit a room.”
She heard one of her friends gasp behind her, and she started a bit, having completely forgotten they were still there for a moment.
“Lady Phoebe, isn’t it?” the man asked, not moving an inch—and neither did she, as they seemed to be locked in a battle of wills, neither prepared to provide the other any glimpse of weakness or retreat.
“It is,” she said, holding her head high. She was of average height, but still this man towered above her. It annoyed her, but it wasn’t as though there were anything she could do to change that.
Finally his lips turned, in what might be considered a smile on another man, but on him it simply made him look as though he were mocking her. He inclined his head slightly, and took a step backward, waving his hand in front of him, as though he were permitting them to leave.
“Ladies,” he said, his facade softening slightly as he looked past Phoebe to the three women standing behind her. “Forgive me. If you please.”
Phoebe made to walk around him, but he held up a finger.
“Lady Phoebe, would you be inclined to stay a moment? I am actually interested in speaking with you.”
Phoebe narrowed her eyes as she tilted her head back to look at him, wondering what he was about. She had met him a time or two, as she was slightly acquainted with his sister. The marquess being a favorite among polite society, however, meant he had likely hardly ever looked at her, and she had certainly never sought him out. He seemed a serious sort, the type of man typical to the ton, with outdated opinions and interests only for those who were like himself. He often had one young lady or another on his arm, the simpering type with their coquettish grins and flirtatious giggles. Phoebe avoided men who seemed to prefer that mold of woman, as to them, she would certainly prove to be a disappointment.
She looked past him at her friends. Elizabeth was shaking her head in warning, Julia shrugging her shoulders, and Sarah attempting to smother a grin.
“Very well, Lord Berkley,” she said, her curiosity overcoming her disdain for the man. “A moment.”