Chapter Twenty-Two
By the time Phoebe herself arrived at 53 Fleet Street, she was no closer to retaining a handle on her emotions. She had a tendency to let her thoughts and opinions get away from her, to cause her to say things she shouldn’t, or show too much thought or emotion. What was new to her, however, was this indecision that was plaguing her. Typically it did not take long for her to make up her mind and follow through with the next steps ahead.
She pushed open the door to the offices, rounding the corner to find a few of her writers were in the building, with Rhoda jumping to her feet the moment Phoebe walked into the room.
“Miss Winters!” she said, coming around and Phoebe’s consternation rose.
“What’s happened?” she asked, reading the concern on Rhoda’s face.
“The man—the one that was asking around about you before, who Ned told us about? Well, he was here.”
“The marquess.” It was a statement, not a question, and Phoebe pulled out a chair and took a seat, suddenly noticing that Ned was in the room, sitting by the window, his feet dangling over the floor.
“Ned,” she said, holding a hand out. “How are you?”
“Just fine, Miss Phoebe,” he said. “Thanks very much to you. My mam said to thank you as well.”
“Of course,” Phoebe said, knowing Ned’s circumstances: that it was only his mother at home, with no one else to provide. She was a seamstress, but with another couple of young ones, it was hard for her to keep up. Phoebe knew it wasn’t exactly the best business practice to pay Ned—or the other boys—as much as she did for distributing the paper once a week, but at least it was helping to make a difference in families who needed a hand.
“When Ned stopped in for his pay, I asked him to stay for a moment so that you could determine if it was the same man, but it sounds as though you are already well aware of his identity,” said Rhoda, and Phoebe nodded, leaning back in the chair.
“He asked to speak with you,” Rhonda continued. “Well, not you specifically, but the publisher. He said he was here to meet with you about providing financial support to the newspaper, and he was quite believable, but I wasn’t entirely sure. Told him you’d be back tomorrow if he wanted to speak with you directly. I wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do. I’m sorry if it wasn’t.”
“There is nothing at all to apologize for, Rhoda,” Phoebe said, rising from her chair. “This shouldn’t be your issue to deal with. In fact, he is right to ask for me, for as the publisher, this is my role—to handle these type of situations, while you look after the editorial. I know the man and I shall speak with him.”
“Will he shut us down?” Collette asked from behind Rhoda, her eyes wide. “I need this job, Miss Winters. I have to work for a living, and if I’m not writing, well, my options are rather limited, I’m afraid. I have no training in anything but becoming a wife one day, being part of the gentry and all, but now supporting myself…”
Though she trailed off, Phoebe could practically read her thoughts. Collette had refused to marry her parents’ choice of a husband for her, and so they told her the only other option was to leave. They would no longer support her, not when they had found a husband to do so instead. Collette had left her home in the countryside and made her way to London. She told Phoebe she hadn’t the patience nor the skill to become a governess, she would likely be fired the first day as a servant, her sewing skills were dismal, and becoming a mistress was too frightful to bear.
When Collette had seen the ad for a writer, she had felt as though all her prayers had been answered.
And now Phoebe certainly didn’t want to disappoint her, nor any of the women or young lads who worked here—and especially not the people who read and supported The Women’s Weekly.
“We will not allow him or anyone else to threaten our existence,” she said firmly, though truthfully she wasn’t nearly as confident as she seemed outwardly. Men like the Marquess of Berkley and his peers had power the likes of which she could never imagine. “Leave it to me.”
And, entrusting the preparation of articles for this week’s edition in Rhoda’s capable hands, she left to her office, finding a sheet of paper and pen. She scribbled a note, sealed it, and then penned on the outside of one of the most respected addresses in all of Mayfair. Tonight Jeffrey would know not only of her role, but of her determination not to lose it.
*
Jeffrey wearily sat down in the wide leather chair behind the desk in his study with a sigh. Peace and quiet—finally.
After his visit with Phoebe and then onto the newspaper offices, Jeffrey was filled with indecision. Stepping through the foyer of his home, he hardly had a moment to even take a breath before his sisters descended upon him. As always, they were eager to question him about the latest engagements they had been invited to, their requirement to find a new gown that was both in the latest fashion and yet completely different from what any other woman would be wearing, and to question him about what he himself had done all day.
“It’s not fair,” they would sigh regarding the fact that Jeffrey could do whatever he pleased, while they had to seek permission and a chaperone to accompany them wherever they went.
“I am a marquess,” he would remind them, though they were not nearly as impressed by the fact like most other people, for they would only roll their eyes at him and continue their incessant chatter. After managing to escape them, he made the necessary niceties with his mother and then secluded himself in his office. There, he found correspondence awaiting him—of course. It never ended. His heartbeat quickened, however, when he noticed a note on top with what had become rather familiar handwriting covering its exterior.
“Well, well, what have we here?” he wondered aloud, and Harper, who was bustling around the office to ensure all was in order for his master, though Jeffrey assured him he wouldn’t be long, looked up with question in his eyes.
“My apologies, Harper, I was speaking aloud to myself.”
The butler nodded, but then Jeffrey continued. “When did this last correspondence come?”
“Shortly before you arrived, my lord.”
“Very good,” he nodded, wondering what Phoebe would have to say that was not already stated in their conversation earlier today. He was sure she was waiting to find out what he had chosen to do with his quest in bringing down The Women’s Weekly. He knew she enjoyed reading the blasted paper but did it really mean that much to her? More than a marriage to him? Though deep down, he was well aware that it was more than the paper. It was the difference in beliefs that had been instilled within each of them.
They were at a stalemate, and were this to go any further, one of them had to break, or else.… He didn’t want to think on it. He quit wondering what could be and read her quickly scrawled note. It was no love letter, that was for certain, but rather she was requesting for him to come to see her tonight—long past an acceptable social hour, particularly for a man to be calling on an unattached young woman. Would her aunt be in attendance, or was this a request for the conversation he hoped—that she would accept his marriage proposal despite whatever he chose to do regarding his responsibilities as a peer? For that’s what this was, and nothing more.
*
As requested, Jeffrey found himself on the doorstep of the house bordering Cavendish Square at precisely ten o’clock. Should he knock? He instantly felt like an idiot at even thinking thusly. Of course he should knock. He was not here for some secret assignation. He had been invited here for a polite discussion with the lady of the house. True, it was not exactly conventional, but it was Phoebe who had invited him, and as he had previously ascertained time and again, she was not a particularly conventional woman.
He was slightly surprised when she herself answered the door. He could only stand there for a moment as he took her in. Her green eyes seemed as though they were beckoning to him, the way she looked up at him through the dim light. She wore a gown of midnight blue, which, though modestly cut, without gloves and her dark hair swimming around her shoulders, drew him in like a siren calling sailors into the rocks—full of danger yet completely impossible to resist. At this moment she could ask him anything and he didn’t know how he could possibly refuse.
She stared back at him in equal measure, a lone sconce on the wall behind her outlining her silhouette, until finally she seemed to realize she had yet to say anything.
“Oh, forgive me,” she said, shaking her head as a slightly abashed smile teased her lips and she opened the door wider. “Come in, please.”
He did so, turning to face her once they were within the small, interesting foyer.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, though he was finding it difficult to focus on anything besides the red of her lips as they moved. Then she reached out and undid the ties of his cloak, holding out her hand for him to remove it and pass it to her along with his hat. He was unsure of exactly how to navigate this, having never previously given a woman his outerwear.
“Where is your butler?” he asked instead.
“He has retired,” she said. “He is rather elderly, and becomes exhausted past nine.”
“And you still keep him on?’
“Of course!” she replied, somewhat indignant. “Glover has been with us for ages, and he will remain with us until he determines it is time to depart from his duties. He has been loyal to my family for years, and I certainly will not turn on him.”
“I never meant to suggest—”
“My apologies,” she said, her face losing its edge as she took his cloak from his hand before he could protest. “I am slightly on edge this evening and I am afraid it is getting the better of me.”
“What exactly is it that you have to be nervous about?” he asked, hoping it was that she had an answer for him, but not wanting to become too expectant.
She said nothing, but, having stowed his garments, turned to the stairs and began climbing.
“Come,” she said, beckoning with her hand, and of course he was powerless to resist. “We’ll avoid my father’s parlor for this evening, I think. The other is far more comfortable.”
He actually rather liked her father’s parlor, though it was as eccentric as the man himself. It was interesting—unlike any he had ever seen before in all of England. But he did as she said, following her down the corridor. Wherever she chose to take him, he seemed inclined to follow, was he being honest.
The room they entered was dimly lit, the roaring fire in the hearth casting a glow throughout the room, illuminating the fine furniture, the gold walls, and the face of the woman who sat on the settee before him. As much as he longed to sit next to her, to run his fingers down her face as he watched her changing expressions, he had a feeling that this was more of an occasion for serious conversation, and so instead he took a seat across from her, where he could hopefully better concentrate on whatever it was she had to say.
“Will Lady Aurelia be joining us?” he asked, though he knew the answer before she began to shake her head.
“No, Aunt Aurelia is out at an engagement this evening,” she responded.
“And you chose not to attend with her?”
“No,” she said with another shake. “It is a gathering amongst friends she has been well acquainted with for years. I am afraid if I accompanied her, I would be the youngest by a couple of decades. They have no wish for me to attend!”
“I believe you would always make for a welcome guest at parties,” he murmured, and he squinted in the dim light to better ascertain whether her cheeks had turned pink. Was Phoebe blushing at a simple compliment from him? She really was out of sorts tonight.
“I would not say that is always the case, Lord Berkley.”
“Jeffrey.”
“Yes, Jeffrey, my apologies,” she said, coloring all the more. “But you see, sometimes I can be found arguing with and slapping very polite, well-respected marquesses in the drawing rooms of balls, which does not make me the ideal guest.”
He laughed at that, and the tension in the room eased somewhat. He loved that she could bring this out of him—the carefree side that was so often hidden under the weight of his responsibilities.
She took a breath, stood, and then came to sit beside him on the settee. Oh, he wished she hadn’t done that. Now she was far too close, and her scent of oranges and cinnamon filled his senses, emanating from her unbound hair. His well-ordered, calculated thoughts began to flee, replaced by only thoughts of her, with him, under him—he took a sharp inhale of breath.
“Phoebe,” he murmured, taking her hands in his and pulling them into his lap. “Before you say anything, I feel there are some aspects of our … relationship that I should clarify. When I whispered those words to you at the theatre, I knew they seemed impulsive, and perhaps presumptuous. So I would like to better explain to you my thoughts.”
He looked deep into her eyes, which were as murky as the waters of a country pond. Hidden within them were her thoughts regarding him and his words, but he could no more make them out than he could determine a pattern of the stars in the cloudy sky.
“When we met, it was … passionate, I suppose you could say, though not in the way one might expect. Everything I heard you say went against all of my morals, all of the long-held beliefs with which my father raised me. And yet there was something about you that took hold over me and wouldn’t let go. You refused to leave my mind, and every time I saw you, I actually found more that I liked about you, that attracted me to you all the more. You get along very well with my family, who can be rather difficult. You love my dog, who most find rather trying, and you are kind. You are generous, honest, and good. You stand up for what you believe in. And even if I do not share those same beliefs, well, a husband and wife are bound to disagree time and again, are they not? As long as they care for one another and their families, that is what truly matters. So please, be my wife, Phoebe Winters.”
Her eyes became watery as he spoke, and he smiled gently at her, for he knew that, despite her tough exterior, Phoebe’s heart was true.
“Oh, Jeffrey,” she said with a bit of a moan, and he took that as acceptance, and leaned in, softly brushing his lips over hers. He simply tasted at first, slowly nibbling her bottom lip, softly licking the top. Her hands came to his chest, and for a moment he had a strange worry that she would push him away, but instead her fingers dug into his chest, and his breath hitched.
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, heady with the thought that everything this woman was—trying, but true—would be his, forever.