Chapter Two
Jeffrey Worthington, Marquess of Berkley, casually strolled into the drawing room, hands behind his back as he made a show of studying the military paintings lining the walls, the intricate carvings in the marble of the hearth, and the time upon the ormolu clock set upon the mantle. The gold walls were bright and cheerful, the carpet a cream that he estimated would likely require much upkeep.
Finally he turned, seeing the woman was still standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips as she tapped her foot on the floor impatiently.
“Ah yes, Lady Phoebe,” he said as though he had forgotten she was there, and he saw the cross look on her face deepen, her vivid green eyes narrow in consternation. He wished she would open them further, as they seemed particularly striking. As a whole, she was actually quite attractive, he considered, as he looked her up and down. Her hair, such a dark brown it was near black, was tied back in a chignon but was held loosely away from her head, with wavy, soft tendrils of hair framing her face.
She wasn’t slim, though she wasn’t overly plump either, he considered. Her curves were … the perfect shape, he realized with a start, an image of his hands upon her hips, caressing her backside overwhelming him.
His face must have belied his thoughts, for suddenly her hands moved from her hips to cross over her body as though she were hiding something from him. So perhaps the woman was a bit shyer than she came across, he thought with a flare of interest.
She bit her lip as she stared at him, and his eyes dipped down from her surprisingly delicate nose to her rosy, plush bottom lip. Which was not a particularly smart idea, for it did nothing to remove his mind from her generous curves or the swell of her bosom.
“Are you done, Lord Berkley?” she finally asked, breaking the silence, and he smiled thinly at her. “Is there anything you would like to actually speak about, or did you simply request that I remain so that you may determine whether any of my attributes are particularly pleasing?”
He raised his eyebrows. Of course, he expected nothing less from a woman such as this one, who seemed to disregard all propriety and determine for herself what was proper and polite.
He chuckled to throw her off balance, but she ignored him as she moved to the door, placing a hand on the knob.
“If that is all, I will be going,” she said, beginning to turn the handle.
“Actually, Lady Phoebe, there is something else,” he said, and she turned, looking at him expectantly, and he continued. “You see, I opened the door of this drawing room some minutes ago to avail myself of its privacy, however within I found the four of you, deep in conversation. I was about to leave when I heard your words. I must tell you, Lady Phoebe, I was appalled.”
“Oh?” she asked, coming toward him now, her eyes now wide, fury lurking within them. “And what aspect of our private conversation did you not approve of, Lord Berkley? For I must tell you that what I do not approve of is gentlemen—or ladies, for that matter—lurking around doorways, listening to matters which do not concern them.”
“On that, I must disagree,” he said, standing tall in front of her, trying to intimidate her. “For when a woman begins to question the order of our society, I find that such views do concern me, as a man with responsibility to uphold our way of life. You disdain the opinions of men toward women, Lady Phoebe, but you must realize that there are reasons our society is shaped as it is. You speak of women warriors, of women who have influenced the decisions of men. But what you declined to note in your tirade was that it is still men who have always made decisions. It is men who have the ability to make change. Women have influenced men, yes, but has that been a good thing? I would argue that when emotion becomes involved, decisions are swayed in a way that removes all practicality, all rational argument. And women, Lady Phoebe, are composed of emotion, so how are they supposed to make any decision logically, the way a man does? Emotion leads only to weakness. To allow a woman such control and responsibility would be a detriment to all society—you must understand this. On that note, I implore you to keep such opinions to yourself, to not affect other young women. In fact, it was why I decided to return and seek you out. For all you will do is keep them from making the matches required of them. For women have a role to play as well. They birth children and raise them, so of course, they are contributing to society in a very important manner. Now, you would not want to harm your closet friends with your foolish notions, would you?”
Pleased with his speech, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall, studying Phoebe to determine her reaction. As he had spoken, she had remained in one place, her expression stoic, her body frozen. Only her fists, which had tightened into balls, belied any sort of emotion. She opened her mouth once, twice, three times. Jeffrey stood, smiling, pleased that he had gotten through to her. He strode forward, nodded, and was about to walk around her.
Until she slapped him in the face.
*
Well, that captured his attention.
It was his turn to stand in shocked silence as he stared at her, and finally Phoebe found her words. Her anger had been so great, her frustration so pronounced, that it had taken her a moment to register what he had said to her. It was not such a shock that he believed what he said, or that he actually thought he was correct in his assumption, but it was that he had no qualms in sharing such opinions and felt completely within his rights to say such things to her.
“You arrogant, impossible man!” she ground out, pointing a finger at him, striding forward until it was buried in his chest. “Do you honestly believe that you are so important, so far above me, that you can come in here and berate me for words that were not even said in your presence, but in a private conversation? You speak of politeness, but you sir, are at the height of rudeness! And let me ask you this. Do you truly believe that most men are incapable of emotion? While you, Lord Berkley, certainly might be, I truly believe that most men feel as much love, as much emotion, as any woman. It is simply that they do not have the strength to control it, as women do, and therefore most choose to hide it instead. I can tell you that I am capable of making decisions much better than a man because I use both my heart and my head. Love is real, Lord Berkley, and so is hatred, which at the moment, I am feeling in spades.”
“You slapped me,” he said in wonderment, and she stomped her foot on the floor, frustration coursing through her, made worse by what she knew was a childish response. After all she had said to him, he didn’t hear a word of it, as he was still caught off guard. She knew, belatedly, she had likely made a mistake in taking such an action, but her hand had moved of its own accord before she even knew what she was doing. She didn’t exactly regret it, though she was unsure what repercussions might come of it.
“I did,” she said, her head held high. “And I am glad of it. You, Lord Berkley, epitomize everything that is wrong with our entire society. Now, if you will excuse me, I have far more important things to do with my time than explain myself to you.”
And with that, she brushed by him with a flounce of her emerald green skirts. As her shoulder knocked into his, a jolt of heat raced through her, and she was disgusted with herself that part of her found this man attractive, that she had actually appreciated his rugged handsomeness when he had first walked into the room. She simply reminded herself of his words, however, and all thoughts of him as anything other than a stubborn, frustrating, idiotic man fled.
She pushed open the door, the din of the great room echoing down the hall, breaking the silent tension that had been present between the two of them in the drawing room. She slammed the door behind her and continued down the corridor toward the noise, for once welcoming it and the people it held.
*
Jeffrey rubbed his cheek where it still slightly stung, and he could imagine a hand imprinted within its folds. A sleek, slender hand, that looked as though it was fair, feminine, and altogether lovely, but in fact held a fierce temper of a different kind. What was wrong with the woman? Who did she think she was, that she could slap him, a marquess, for speaking the truth, one she needed to understand? He was trying to help her. For if she shared her opinion within larger society, it would only be of detriment to herself.
He shook his head as he pushed open the door she had slammed behind her, his face set in a grim line as he followed her likely path to the ballroom. He needed a drink—badly.
He found his way across the wide, cavernous room, filled with color this evening from the multitudes of hues of women’s dresses, to a table on the side, which held an assortment of drinks, pastries, and all sorts of epicurean delights. The only thing he had any interest in, however, was the brandy. He took the glass with relish, letting the amber liquid burn down his throat. Women.
“I say, Berkley, what sort of beast has a hold of you?”
Jeffrey turned, his frustration abating somewhat upon finding his old friend, the Duke of Clarence, at his elbow.
“Nothing that cannot be tamed,” he said with a grin, and the Duke laughed, holding his glass up to his own in a salute.
“Troubles of the female persuasion, then?”
“You could say that,” Jeffrey muttered, his eyes perusing the room for a glimpse of the vixen. When he found no sign of her, he wasn’t sure whether it was relief or dismay churning within his belly. Though why he would want to see a woman such as her, with her viperish tongue and threatening hands again, he had no idea.
“When one disappoints, there is always another,” Clarence said with a shrug, and Jeffrey nodded, though he was sure Lady Phoebe was one of a kind—a kind he should avoid. He looked around the room at the young women and their mothers sending admiring glances and inviting smiles toward the two of them—both extremely eligible, unattached, powerful men of the ton. There were many who would hold no issue with his views nor his presumptions of how a young woman should behave. Yet none of them, despite their attractiveness and their equally lovely shapes, lit a fire in him as did the lady of the drawing room. Lady Phoebe Winters was trouble, and he needed to do all he could to keep from furthering any acquaintance with her.
He shook his head, not realizing that he had spoken her name aloud until Clarence questioned him.
“Lady Phoebe? I know of her. Is it she who is vexing you so?”
Jeffrey came back to the present moment, turning his gaze upon his friend.
“I suppose you could say that. We had an interesting … exchange, but a few moments ago. She has a wicked tongue, but there is something rather intriguing about her.”
“Hers is an interesting story,” the Duke began as he drained his glass. “Her parents died of illnesses within months of one another, though romantics would say her father died of a broken heart. He was a viscount, and his title went to the next in line, of course—some cousin—but he had amassed a plentiful fortune through his lifetime, and ensured his inheritance was bestowed upon his only child—the Lady Phoebe.”
“Indeed?” Jeffrey had heard some of this, of course—of her parents’ untimely passing, but not of the inheritance. He supposed he should pay more attention to the gossips.
“Indeed,” Clarence confirmed. “She has a chaperone—an aunt, I believe—who lives with her, here in London, who attends events such as these so all is proper. As far as I am aware, however, for the most part the Lady Phoebe lives as she pleases, acting upon her own whims.”
“That’s a dangerous thing, a woman on her own in the world,” Jeffrey muttered.
“I suppose,” returned the Duke with a shrug. “Though it has been near a couple of years now, and she seems to do well enough on her own. It’s not my business, I suppose, but that’s the story.”
“Interesting,” Jeffrey said, his eyes scanning the room for her once more. “Very interesting.”