Chapter Sixteen
“You wouldn’t be trying to play matchmaker, now would you, Mother?” Jeffrey asked, leaning back into the squabs of his carriage as he eyed his mother with raised eyebrows and the slightest curve to his lips.
“I would never dream of such a thing,” she responded, looking away from him out the window, though he didn’t miss the rapid blinking of her eyes, a sure tell. “You are a marquess, after all. Surely you can handle something as simple as finding an appropriate wife. Though…”
“Yes?”
“I cannot say you have been doing a particularly admirable job of it so far.”
“Mother!” he exclaimed as Viola stifled a choked laugh, while Rebecca did not even attempt to hide her chortle of glee from the corner of the carriage. Thankfully it would just be the four of them this evening. He could do without his entire family in the theatre box with him. It would be difficult enough to control Rebecca’s tongue with Phoebe around; he didn’t want to have to worry about his other two sisters.
Unfortunately, Ambrose had also promised to meet them there. Where he was at the moment, Jeffrey had no idea and no wish to know, but he secretly hoped that his brother would forget to attend. Ambrose had never been particularly fond of the theatre, after all, and Jeffrey knew he would only be in attendance to witness his brother attempt to woo Lady Phoebe Winters.
Which he seemed to be doing, although whether or not he was proving successful was yet to be seen. Phoebe was open with her thoughts, that was true, but as of yet, she had said nothing regarding their relationship, though her actions proved she was, at the very least, certainly attracted to him.
“Do you truly believe Lady Phoebe would make for an appropriate marchioness?” he asked Lady Clarissa, and his mother seemed somewhat startled when she realized that he was interested in her honest opinion of the woman. It humbled him to ask her, but this was an altogether important decision, and his mother was an intelligent woman who was much more knowledgeable on the subject of a suitable marchioness than most others.
“I believe,” she said slowly, “that the proper wife is one who makes you happy. Who you would feel grateful to wake up with every morning. Who you can laugh with, and will allow you to be yourself. From my short acquaintance with her, it seems that Lady Phoebe may not be the most reserved, demure woman, it is true. But she has a zest for life that, I think, would be most fitting for you, Jeffrey. Do you admire her, respect her?”
“I do.”
“What do you feel when you look at her?”
He simply smiled and shook his head. That was not a discussion he would have with his mother.
“Your silence speaks for you, and tells me all that I need to know,” she said with a satisfied grin. “And does she feel the same toward you?”
Jeffrey frowned, rubbing his forehead to hide any emotion that might show on his face. The truth of the matter was that he had no idea. Phoebe returned his caresses, true, and she had accepted his invitations—or those of his family—but she had never actually said anything regarding her feelings toward him.
“I do not know,” he said honestly, and his mother gave him a look of consternation, though her attention wavered as the carriage slowed, and she leaned forward to peer out the window as they trundled down Bow Street and pulled up to the front of the Theatre Royal at Covent Garden.
“It matters not the number of times I have seen it, this new building remains as dramatic as the plays themselves,” Rebecca sighed as she looked out at the four fluted columns upon which the portico sat.
“It is rather ostentatious, isn’t it?” Viola remarked practically as they exited the carriage.
Jeffrey had no thought for the white marble building at the moment, but rather the night that lay ahead of them.
His mother had invited Phoebe and her aunt to join them in their private box, and Jeffrey found himself eagerly looking one way and the next for Phoebe as they ascended the grand staircase. When they rounded the top of the steps to the anteroom, he was arrested for a moment by the sight before him.
For there, standing next to the statue of Shakespeare, was a vision more animated, more alive, than any other carving or actress on stage could ever do justice. She wore a long red gown that perfectly set off her midnight tresses, some of which were pulled back away from her face, but most were left to cascade down her shoulders in artful, loose curls. It was a scandalous look, and altogether not the style of the day, and yet he knew that she would not care, that she had simply styled it how she pleased. The color of her dress brought out the bright green of her eyes with their striking brows overtop and complemented the lush redness of her lips.
She was a siren. She was drama and mystery and comedy all rolled into one. He hadn’t even realized he had stopped moving until he felt a bony finger poke into his spine.
“Stop staring,” Viola whispered in his ear. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”
Phoebe’s eyes were locked on his, and he allowed them to pull him forward toward her. By the time he reached her side, his family alongside him, he had at least found the words to greet her, as well as her aunt, who he finally noticed. She looked at him now with a smug grin, as though she knew the effect her niece had upon him.
“Lady Aurelia, Lady Phoebe, we are very pleased you could join us this evening,” he said with a smart bow, as the women made their pleasantries.
“We are in for a treat tonight,” his mother said with a smile. “Both J.P. and Charles Kemble are performing, as is Mrs. Siddons. It should be fantastic.”
“Yet dreary,” Rebecca added with a dramatic sigh. “Henry VIII. I should have preferred a comedy.”
“Hush, Rebecca,” Viola said with a glower, and Lady Clarissa chose to subtly march her daughters toward their box rather than admonish them in such a public place.
Jeffrey had not even considered the play. He had been told by his mother when and where he would be in attendance. His refusal had been upon his lips until she told him who would be accompanying them.
Phoebe trailed behind the rest of their party, who left the two of them to bring up the rear. Jeffrey was sure it was not an accident, particularly when he noticed the calculating, self-congratulatory smile between his mother and Lady Aurelia. He wanted to be upset with them and their well-meaning manipulations, but when he looked at Phoebe standing beside him, attempting to hide her uncertainty, he couldn’t help but be pleased to have a moment alone with her.
“You do look lovely tonight,” he said, and when her head turned to his, her profile in the light of the patent lamp, he couldn’t help but add, “though that is not altogether the truth. In actuality, you are beautiful.”
“Thank you, Lord Berkley.”
“Jeffrey.”
“Jeffrey,” she said with a smile. “And thank you for the invitation tonight.”
“For that, you will have to thank my mother,” he returned, “though I was pleased when I heard of your acceptance. Have you been keeping well?”
“Since yesterday?” she asked with a teasing laugh. “Yes, I have, as a matter of fact. And you?”
“I have,” he said with a nod. “Though I have been rather distracted as of late.”
“By your investigation?” she queried, and it took him a moment to discern of what she spoke.
“Oh, into the women’s paper? I can hardly recall its title.”
“The Women’s Weekly,” she supplied. “And yes, that is to what I am referring.”
That, in fact, was one quest he had been quite remiss of lately, which was entirely her fault. He should have been pursuing many more lines of inquiry. It would not be altogether difficult to find the publisher. He simply had to pretend to be an advertiser, perhaps, or come to the paper with a story. But, no, all he had done was ask a few questions of people who may have a connection, and at their refusal to provide further information, he had let it be.
And he knew exactly why he had done so. Because to shut down this paper would displease his sisters, and, most of all, Phoebe Winters. And all he wanted to do at the moment was to make her happy.
His eyes dipped below where was proper, to the lace that teased him as it covered just enough of the top of her creamy breasts to be appropriate. He longed to reach out a finger and trail it along the edge of the lace, to dip it low to feel how soft her skin was underneath it.
“Phoebe,” he said, clearing his throat—and his head. “Follow me.”
He took her hand then, somewhat surprised when she allowed it, as she didn’t seem the type of woman to typically follow the lead of a man anywhere. He ducked around the corner, peering through the doorway of a row of private boxes. Finding one empty, he drew her in quickly enough to elicit a sharp gasp and pressed her back against the wall within the shadows, where he brought his head down to hers and took those plush, enticing lips in his.
He wasted no time in beginning softly or gently, but rather crushed his mouth upon hers, licking the seam of her lips, though she needed hardly any encouragement to open them to him. He tasted the mixture of mint and berries on her tongue, and when her fingers dug into the backs of his shoulders, his desire bloomed within him. He couldn’t get enough of her, and he had no idea what to do about it.
Finally, voices from the corridor beyond brought him back to his senses, and he reluctantly let her go. She looked up at him, her eyes hazy, her cheeks flushed, and her lips thoroughly ravaged.
“I would apologize,” he said, hearing the gruffness of his voice as he fought to regain control, “however that would mean that I regret my actions, and the truth is, Phoebe, I would do that all over again.”
“I had always thought you to be a patient man,” she replied with an arch of her brow, and he wondered how she could keep such control upon her emotions. “It seems I may have been altogether wrong about you.”
He chuckled low at that and would have kissed her again just for her tart reply, but he sensed a presence in the doorway and turned to find the Earl and Countess of Torrington entering with a look of some incredulity on their faces.
“My apologies, Lord Torrington, Lady Torrington,” he said with a nod of his head. “It has been some time since I have attended the theatre, and I seem to have found myself in the wrong box. I hope to speak with you later on this evening.”
And with that, he led Phoebe out the door, fully aware that they would soon be the subject upon the lips of all in attendance.
Now he had to make it through five acts of a Shakespeare tragedy with this siren sitting beside him. If Phoebe wished to witness patience and control, well, she was about to do just that.