Chapter Twenty
Jeffrey admired Phoebe’s home. She had clearly been meticulous about its upkeep following the passing of her parents, and somehow it suited her with its tidy walk, traditional brick, and untamed ivy strewn over the side wall.
He smiled as he strode up to the front door, wondering what they would do with the house after they were married. Would Aurelia remain, or would she prefer to join his household? He cringed slightly at the thought of adding not only Phoebe, but two more women to his home, but at the very least, he enjoyed the company of Phoebe’s aunt.
The butler allowed him in, and Jeffrey was shown into a different room this time—not the parlor full of her father’s curiosities, but a drawing room that was much softer, more feminine. He assumed it had been used by her mother, and he wondered which room Phoebe preferred.
He asked her as much when she walked into the room, finding her dressed in a plain blue morning dress that somehow favored her exotic looks with its simplicity.
“I couldn’t say,” she responded, her eyes widening in surprise at his question. “I enjoy using both of them, for they are each so unique and remind me of my parents and who they were.”
“And what of a room that suits you?”
“I have my private chambers for that,” she said, pausing for a moment before smiling somewhat shyly and he swallowed hard but recovered quickly.
“Ah yes, the chambers you are currently redecorating?”
“Redecor—” she looked confused for a moment, but then her eyes cleared. “Oh yes! Just a few simple changes, really, it is nothing particularly disruptive.”
Her expression shifted for a moment as she looked down at his hand.
“What have you got there?”
He looked down himself, shocked when he found that the newspaper was still clutched within his fingers.
“I had it with me on the phateon,” he explained. “It was sitting next to me on the seat and I must have picked it up without thinking once I arrived. Just a newspaper.”
“That doesn’t look like just any newspaper,” she said, her eyes narrowing in on it. “That looks to me like The Women’s Weekly. Are you interested in fashion advice, Jeffrey?”
“Oh, The Women’s Weekly, is it?” he asked with a weak laugh. “Ah, I must have picked it up accidentally. Viola’s been reading it, as much as I discourage her not to, of course.”
“Of course?” she said, an eyebrow raised as she crossed her arms over her chest. “And why not? Viola’s her own woman, well of age. She can do as she pleases, or, at the very least, read what she likes, can she not?”
“Oh, come,” he said, his exasperation emerging after they had avoided this subject for so long. “The women in this paper may have ideals, but none of this is going to come to anything. All that will happen is that they will get hurt, and create unsubstantiated ideas in the minds of other women that will not go anywhere.”
“Have you actually read any of it?” she asked, striding toward him, and he was momentarily distracted by the emerald of her eyes. But then they flashed at him with such anger that he was brought back to the present.
“Some of it, yes.”
Well, perhaps three articles of all that had been published, but he was not going to admit as much.
“And what do you disagree with? That women should have minds of their own?”
“No,” he said somewhat uncomfortably. A short time ago, he would have argued with much more vehemence, but he had learned that it brought him much more pleasure to enjoy the side of this woman that was amiable and bright, and he was reluctant to enter into a battle of wills—particularly because now he knew there was a very good chance she would win. “But what would happen if, as this paper suggests, women kept their property in a marriage? Do you know of all the estates that would go to ruin without the promised dowry of a potential wife?”
“And why do such estates fall into ruin?” she challenged. “Because of the lords who far prefer to spend their time gambling and whoring instead of taking proper care of what they are so fortunate to own!”
She was potentially right, but he wasn’t about to admit that.
“Most women enjoy the status they are provided, and the opportunity to spend their lives raising their children and worrying only about what style of gown to wear to the next ball,” he said, pacing the room now. “Why do you not feel the same?”
“You knew from the moment we met that I would never be a woman who felt such a way,” she said, clearly angry and yet retaining an even tone. “Do I seem the type of woman who would ever be satisfied with a life in which my most important decision is choosing whether to wear blue or red?”
She certainly did not.
“If women and men were equal to one another,” he continued, “what would come next? Women in fist-to-cuffs or brawling whenever they disagreed?”
“Of course not,” she said with a sniff. “You are being ridiculous. First of all, men do not do so every time they argue. Secondly, women are much more civilized than that.”
“So you admit that there is a difference between men and women,” he said, stopping and turning to her with a smug grin of satisfaction.
“Absolutely,” she agreed. “But that does not mean they should not be equal and respected in the same right.”
“A true gentleman does nothing but respect women, do you not understand that? And what of this notion that women only marry men of their choosing?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “As it is, women are not forced into marriage. Most of them choose to do as their parents ask of them. If all women chose for themselves, you would find all manner of classes marrying one another, and all of our society would be in disorder!”
“If status is such a concern of yours, then why are you wishing to marry me?” she asked, fire blazing from her as her body all but shook. “I am a lady, true, but the daughter of an eccentric viscount. Surely a powerful lord such as yourself could do much better. But do you know, Lord Berkley, that your mother does not suffer from the same afflictions and ego that you do? It is a pity that you did not inherit her grace.”
He brought a hand to his head, rubbing at his temple where it had started to ache. He sighed and sat down in one of the pink floral settees. “I do not want to argue with you, Phoebe,” he said, defeat filling him. “And I suppose at the end of it all, we do not think as differently as you may believe. I just worry about the repercussions of all women feeling this way.”
He looked up to find her simply staring down at him, her face impassive, and he lifted his hand, palm up, to her in supplication. After hesitating for a moment, she took it and allowed him to pull her down to sit on his lap. He could still feel the tension radiating from her body, but she didn’t push him away, and that, he considered was a win.
“Oh, Phoebe,” he said, bringing a finger to her chin, tilting her face to look at him. Her green eyes swam with passion in front of his own. “Whatever are we going to do?”
*
If only he knew the extent of his question. For to him, it was simply a matter of disagreement in their views of the world. As important as that may be, it was not the end of it all. But for her, so much more was involved. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him, to blurt out the fact that those words he so despaired of were her very own, but he had been angry enough over the fact that a lady in general had written them, and that she believed in them.
She closed her eyes to block the intensity of his gaze, his chiseled cheekbones and jaw so set and tense, and took a couple of deep breaths to control her temper and determine her next words.
“I believe, Jeffrey,” she began, “that you, along with so many other men, are scared. You are scared of the power women can hold and wield. Life may change, yes, but it can only change for the better when all people are equal. I am not saying that women are going to displace you in Parliament or as the owners of your estates, certainly not. But perhaps our opinions might matter a little more, if nothing else.”
She raised her bare hands to cup his face, his skin warming her palms and the rough stubble of his jaw scratching her hands.
“Do not be like the rest of them, Jeffrey,” she said, her voice coming out as an urgent whisper. “Be better. Be brave. You know the power of women better than any. Show others what can happen when a man such as yourself takes that step of which all others are so afraid.”
His eyes were filled with confusion and indecision, but he didn’t refute her words. Instead he brought his large, wide hand to palm the back of her head, placed his forehead against hers, and after a moment of simply holding her with their heads together, he kissed her. She placed his hands on his chest in order to push him away—they were arguing moments ago about everything she believed in, for heaven’s sake—but then his tongue touched hers, and instead of pushing, her fingers clutched the lapels of his jacket and drew him in closer.
He sighed into her mouth and she relaxed into him—oh, why was it so easy to allow all to melt away when this man touched her?—but then a quick knock on the door had her jumping backward.
Phoebe had just sat back in her own space on the settee when her Aunt Aurelia opened the door, a wide smile wreathing her face.
“Oh, Lord Berkley, so wonderful to see you!” she said, entering the room, either oblivious to what had been occurring before she walked in, or choosing to say nothing. Phoebe assumed the latter. Aurelia was certainly not the strictest of chaperones, though she likely timed her visit accordingly, as, she always told Phoebe, she had made a promise to her father to look after her. “We must thank you for the wonderful night at the theatre. Why, I haven’t enjoyed a performance like that in some time.”
Jeffrey nodded at her, and Phoebe was amazed at how quickly he had recovered his wits. Perhaps he was used to doing so with a few unruly sisters, not to mention a dog that often made a literal mess of things.
They made careful conversation, polite of course, but Aurelia brought a sense of lightness out of everyone, Phoebe always found. Whatever tension remained in the room from both their argument and the kiss that had been prematurely halted soon dissipated, though Phoebe’s nerves remained somewhat on edge. She had intended to tell Jeffrey of her role as publisher of The Women’s Weekly, and it certainly wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have with Aunt Aurelia in the room. Oh, perhaps it might be a good idea, for then Jeffrey would be far less likely to become upset, but Phoebe would rather have the opportunity to have an honest, forthright discussion about it—whatever the result of that might be.
“Well,” Jeffrey finally said, rising. “I should be going. I have some business to which I must attend.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Phoebe said, placing a hand on his arm, feeling the warmth that radiated from him.
They were silent until they reached the front foyer.
“I suppose,” Jeffrey said, finally turning and looking at her with a small grin. “If all of our arguments will end in such a kiss, I should not be altogether displeased with the thought of them.”
She laughed. If nothing else, she enjoyed the fact that he could, when he so chose, bring levity to such a situation.
“Jeffrey…” she began, not knowing exactly how to broach the subject, or if this was even the right time and place, but he interrupted her by reaching out and placing his finger on her lips.
“I know,” he said. “I will think on your words, and will take them into consideration.”
She swallowed and nodded. “Do what you need to do, Jeffrey. At the end of it, it is your decision on such matters, despite my feelings regarding them.”
For if he decided to persecute her and The Women’s Weekly, well then, her role and their potential marriage wouldn’t much matter anyway, would it?
“I know,” he nodded, and he opened his mouth as though he were going to ask her something else, and her heart pounded. For if it was about marriage, she had no idea whatsoever how she should answer. He seemed to think better of it, however, as he turned to leave, though he paused in the front foyer, one foot between her entryway and the landing. He turned to her, looking back and forth behind her, though for what, she wasn’t sure—the presence of anyone else, perhaps?
“Phoebe,” he said softly, his eyes down at her feet before flying up to meet hers. “I just want to you to know that I care about you very much.”
And with that declaration, he was out the door and striding toward his phaeton without a backward glance. Phoebe could only stand there staring after him, her mouth open and her mind and heart in turmoil.