Chapter Seventeen
Phoebe nervously twisted her hands in her lap as she attempted to concentrate on the play before her on the large stage, filled with extensive scenery and a continual exhibition of actors. They were extremely talented, that she knew. Her fingers itched to remove her tablet from her reticle and take notes. The Women’s Weekly should certainly have a column on theatre, she decided, and determined that she would write the very first review herself.
But first, she had to make sure she knew of what she was writing.
The Berkley box was on the second level, with an enormous chandelier hanging overtop of them. As Phoebe watched the actors, she found her gaze wandering to the elegant, lofty pilasters supporting the semi-elliptical arch, the royal arms looking down over all of them. She knew the construction of this building had been a triumphant success following the burning of the first theatre a few years prior. Certainly, it contained marvelous ingenuity, the way the slightest sound resounded around the theatre—such as the whispers of the man across from her as he unabashedly stared down into the bosom of the woman sitting next to him. Hopefully she was his wife, though Phoebe somewhat doubted it.
This was certainly a spectacle, and she was not speaking of the play before her, but rather the players that filled the theatre. What would it be like, she wondered, to be sitting down within the pit? How very different life would be. She noted these thoughts as well, determining that they would make an intriguing sidebar to her review of the play. Or perhaps the review should be the sidebar. She chewed her lip as she contemplated the idea.
“Stop it,” Jeffrey whispered in her ear, and she turned sharply toward him, raising an eyebrow in question. “That thing with your lip,” he explained in the slightest whisper directly in her ear. “It’s driving me mad.”
She stopped immediately but then thought only of him and the kiss in the Torringtons’ private box for the rest of the act. Really, what had he been thinking? If she wasn’t careful, Collette would be writing her into the next gossip column. Although perhaps that would sell more papers.
Phoebe was so distracted that she hardly knew to whom King Henry was currently married when intermission came about. They spilled out into the salon beyond the private boxes, which was suddenly filled with a symphony of voices as all of the attendees emerged with the same mission: to determine who was in attendance, and what they could take away as the gossip of the evening.
Phoebe swiveled her head from one side to the other to see if she recognized anyone, but then she felt a slight touch on her arm.
“Lady Phoebe, would you mind if we had a quick word?” Phoebe nodded in surprise at Lady Clarissa’s request, curious at what Jeffrey’s mother would wish to speak with her about in private. By mutual agreement, they wandered over to a corner against the wall. Phoebe jumped when she felt something dig into her back, but turned only to find that she had backed up too far, into the foot of a statue standing atop a pillar.
“It’s quite an intriguing play, is it not?” she asked Lady Clarissa with a smile, to which the marchioness nodded.
“It is. I have seen it many times, but never with such vivid actors onstage, who make it far too real. One forgets that this actually occurred many years ago,” she said, a dreamy look on her face, before she shook her head as though clearing it. She took a deep breath and Phoebe’s heart raced a little faster, though why she should be nervous about speaking with the amiable woman, she had no idea.
“I am being rather forward in speaking to you of this, Lady Phoebe,” she said nervously. “And really, I should not at all. Please do not tell my son of this conversation, for he would be mortified. It is only … Jeffrey has not portrayed much affection for any particular woman since he came of age. His father died fairly young, leaving Jeffrey with a great amount of responsibility, including four sisters who are, as I’m sure you have ascertained for yourself, a rather unruly bunch, for the most part.
“Jeffrey has always been so focused on his work, on caring for the rest of us, you see, that he has not taken much time to look after his own wellbeing, nor his own heart. As of late, he has seemed a bit more distracted than usual, to which I look upon as a good thing. As a mother, I want my children only to be happy, and with you, Lady Phoebe, he does seem so. Happy, I mean. He is taken with you, though he seems unsure of your own feelings toward him. All I ask, Lady Phoebe, is for you to take care of his heart. It takes quite a bit for him to share it and I only wish for it not to be broken.”
Phoebe stared at her wide-eyed as Lady Clarissa finished her speech, and unconsciously bit her teeth into her lower lip hard enough that she caused herself to jump slightly. Guilt began to roll through her. She had knowingly played Jeffrey, never dreaming that he would ever come to feel something for her besides outrage. She had slapped him, for goodness sake!
Their fiery discord from the outset had certainly led to passionate moments in which they showed one another just how much they physically desired one another, but as for what she actually felt for him…. She searched the room now, finding him standing with his sisters and her aunt. His sandy hair atop his tall, wide frame stood out among the crowd. He must have sensed her stare, for he returned her gaze, a slight smile crossing his lips, changing his face from its hard, imposing countenance to one that was warm and inviting.
She sighed as her heart thumped a traitorous beat in her chest. She yearned for him—she could not deny that as much as she wished to. She was also fully aware that her urge for him was running much deeper than a surface attraction. She had to put an end to it.
Or did she?
Of course she did, she thought, reminding herself that the man was out to destroy her publication and all she believed in. He himself believed all sorts of lies about women. It would never do. Besides all that, the moment he found out her secrets, he would lose any sort of attraction he had ever had toward her. For that was all it was. His mother was being hopeful—fanciful even.
She turned back toward Lady Clarissa and the soft smile on her face, as she had clearly been aware of Phoebe’s perusal of her son, likely believing it to be an amorous one.
“I—” Phoebe began, but halted, not knowing what else to say. She didn’t want to lie to the woman, but she also could not very well tell her of the duplicity that began all of this. “I believe that all will work out as it should,” she managed. “You have a wonderful family, Lady Clarissa, and the marquess has proven to be quite a gentleman.”
Lady Clarissa beamed and placed a hand on Phoebe’s arm.
“Thank you, my dear,” she said, then leaned in and said warmly, “You are just what he needs, I believe.”
Just what he needed? She would have thought that she was the last woman on earth a man like Jeffrey would need. What was the marchioness on about?
As they returned to the rest of their party, Phoebe had to blink back tears as Lady Clarissa’s words left her heart and her mind at war with one another. She could very well tell herself all the lies she wished.
But the truth of the matter was, she was falling for Jeffrey Worthington, Marquess of Berkley, and there was nothing rational thought could do to stop it.
*
Jeffrey longed to know what his mother and Phoebe had been speaking of in the corner of the salon. Most men would look upon such a conversation as something to be fearful of, but Jeffrey had a unique advantage over most other men, which was the fact that his mother was actually a rational woman who cared for more than only her children’s marriage prospects and securing the highest social standing possible.
And Phoebe did not look particularly upset about the conversation. If anything, she looked … contemplative. When she and his mother rejoined them, he searched Phoebe’s face, and she responded with a small curve of her lips. Well, that was encouraging, he supposed.
When it was time to return to the theatre, he took her arm and drew her close, dipping his head down toward hers. “Is everything all right?” he questioned.
“Yes, of course,” she responded before turning to look at him with a quirkily raised eyebrow. “And you?”
“I have a beautiful woman on my arm, and the love of my family surrounding me,” he said in all seriousness. “What more could a man ask for?”
His own words resonated around his mind as they re-took their seats. For there was more that a man could ask for. He could ask for a life with this woman. He imagined it, waking up every day with her lying next to him, her midnight tresses spread upon his pillow as the sun peeked through the gap in the curtains, bathing her beautiful curves with its light.
His heart beat quickly as his mind wandered, watching her open her green eyes to smile up at him as she lifted herself from his bed and reached for him. His daydreaming had him leaning over her, kissing those delicious red lips as he could whenever he chose, for she was his wife, and would be with him for the rest of their days.
Jeffrey made love to her, her gasps in his ear more real in this moment than the play which had resumed on the stage below them. As he imagined her writhing beneath him, he reached over in their reality and took her hand in his, tightening his grip as in the dream Jeffrey and Phoebe entered into the throes of ecstasy.
Afterward, they would go down to breakfast, where they would share intimate conversation—this was his dream, so he needn’t be concerned with the fact that they would likely have to share the breakfast table with his five siblings and his mother—and he would laugh at her wit before they both spent the morning together reading the papers of the day.
No, the papers were not something he should think of, as that only led him to consider the fact that there was still much upon which they disagreed. Not the papers, then. They would retire to the library, where they would share their secret affection for the latest Waverly novel.
There was Maxwell now, stretched out upon the rug that had cost a fortune and should not be collecting dog hair and muddy tracks, but of course Jeffrey could not bring himself to force Maxwell away.
Phoebe, sitting next to him on the settee, leaned in, and he was more than ready to bring those lips under his again, though he was content in simply staring at her, in hearing her laugh at something he had said.
The only thing that finally brought him out of his head and back to the theatre was Phoebe’s hand on his arm, shaking him.
“Are you all right?” she whispered softly, her eyes wide and concerned.
He must have looked as though he were in pain, which he was in a sense, but not the type of pain she was imagining. It was pain of another sort—desperation and frustration over the fact that the vivid images in his mind only left him desperately desiring more.
Jeffrey gazed down at her now. His dream may have been just that—a dream, but the face that looked up at him, the woman who sat next to him with her warm hand on his arm, was as real as the woman in his mind. He could hardly believe it himself, but he thought maybe—just maybe—he was falling in love with her.
He leaned down toward her, his lips coming close enough to tickle to the top of her ear. The words were out of his mouth before he even had time to think of what he was saying.
“Marry me.”