She’d pretended to Thomas, to Aurelia, to the viscount, to Sophie, to Fred – and worst of all, she’d even pretended to herself. She’d pretended the ticking clock wouldn’t matter if she had but a few heroic tales to take with her. But it had always mattered, as it continued to matter, and worst of all she’d proven to be the poorest heroine in the entire history of heroism: naive, ill-judged, and downright gullible.
She flushed as she recalled the unimpressive highwayman, the parasol duel, the near kiss with the mop-head, the fairy snuff, the disastrous picnic ride, and finally, the moment Sophie’s dress had ripped entirely in two, backstage at Bath’s Theatre Royal. Her sister still hadn’t forgiven her, while the disagreeable viscount thought her a foolish country bumpkin who not only possessed dubious morals, but also endangered the lives of children.
And now there was to be no more pretending, no more fighting, and no more fleeing. She was quite simply the Right Honourable Miss Phoebe Fairfax, awaiting the announcement of her betrothal to the Earl of Cumberland. It was a good match – the match of the season, they said.
Yet she’d never felt more like taking off through the sleeping city, and never looking back.
‘For surely, there is far more risk in marrying someone so violently purple, than there ever can be in riding you,’ Phoebe murmured, leaning forward to pat her dawn partner again.
She was headed to Bath’s Prior Park, long recommended by the captain, and this morning the entire city seemed to be hers. Phoebe exhaled slowly as she rode, savouring the quiet streets, the distinct toll of the hour by the Abbey Bell, the bleary-eyed baker and a barefoot boy pushing a barrel full of oranges. Instinctively, she pushed her hand into her riding skirt, and threw him the remainder of her coin, before encouraging Bluebell into a gentle trot. Soon enough, the air filled with the thud of hooves on dewy earth, a comforting sound that enveloped her thoughts until Prior Park’s entrance rose up to meet them.
She passed through the impressive, gated entrance quietly and took a moment to absorb her new surroundings. Prior Park was twice as beautiful as the captain had promised, and its vast carpet of wild garlic quite breathtaking. Carefully, she followed its undulating dance around a large, silent lake, holding Bluebell in check, before finally letting her have her head. Then, the carpet spun into an ivory blur and all the trying events of the past few weeks receded inside a few short, golden moments – only for her thoughts to return like shadows when they reached the elegant Palladian Bridge.
Phoebe exhaled as she slowed Bluebell to a trot. She still had no real idea why Aurelia had taken against her so vehemently,and now she and the viscount would marry. They deserved one another, as Sophie would say, and yet the thought disturbed her more than she could understand.
Sophie was another matter, altogether. Phoebe had never known her heart quite so openly engaged, yet she was equally certain the captain’s heart was not free.
Then there was the viscount himself. She clenched the reins briefly. How such an arrogant, opinionated gentleman who, despite havingno desire to be either her guardian or brother, had managed to vex and thwart every adventure she’d attempted to have, was a mystery of epic proportions. He claimed she’d stolen his peace and that he was lost, yet he was the one who’d interfered in everything from the moment of their meeting at The Swan Inn. And finally there was the night of Florence’s attack when he couldn’t have been any clearer, so why then was her head determined to replay every look and word exchanged, until she no longer knew what to think?
She gazed thoughtfully at the bridge’s beautiful Venetian roof. It was serene and silent, and she would have been quite content to linger awhile, if it wasn’t for the sound of another rider, approaching from the lakeside. Cursing, she urged Bluebell on, well aware that the last thing she needed was for a report of this morning’s indiscretion to reach the ears of her aunt, or brother.
‘Miss Fairfax!’
She caught her breath as his voice reached through the chill of the morning, certain her mind had to be playing tricks.
No one human being could have as much terrible timing.
‘Or should I address you as Mrs Mary Smith at this hour of the morning?’
Phoebe slowed as the viscount emerged from the lakeside path and trotted up to the bridge. He was astride a spirited chestnut, and his proud demeanour gave no indication as to his thoughts. She exhaled raggedly, conscious of a pained mix of emotions that seemed neither joy nor dread, and yet both simultaneously.
What were the chances of his choosing this place to ride at this hour of the day? She swallowed hard and yet, some tiny unheroic part of her, deep down inside, was unreasonably happy to see him, too.
‘My name is Phoebe Fairfax, sir,’ she returned coldly, gathering her reins. ‘As you well know. Now, if you will excuse me?—’
‘Why do you ride at this hour? Without a chaperone? It is not safe.’
She paused.
Was the infuriating viscount, who made a lover’s proclamation right before threatening to call the constable and becoming engaged to another, really assuming the right to question her decisions, again?
She shifted in her saddle, trying to maintain some semblance of calm.
‘Truly, sir, save your attentions for your fiancée, who I’m sure will welcome them. I am well used to taking care of myself, and my wellbeing has never been your charge…’
‘I beg to differ!’ he returned, unflinchingly. ‘Time after time, I have found myself in a position where ignoring your wellbeing would have put you at risk of considerable peril.’
Phoebe eyed the glowering viscount, certain she was starting to glower herself.
‘On the contrary, sir, I can handle myself and always have done,’ she reiterated stiffly.
The viscount urged his chestnut forward and paused only when they were face to face.
‘Your assertions might bear some credence at Knightswood,’ he challenged, ‘but on the common road, at the Royal Theatre,in a public park, your ability to find yourself in the most ridiculous and reprehensible of situations is beyond?—’
‘Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for reasons known only to myself and my sisters! Private reasons!’ Phoebe interrupted furiously. ‘I never asked for your interference, and I’m absolutely certain these last few weeks have been curtailed further by it, sir! Now if you have quite finished advising me on the improper nature of my behaviour, might I suggest you turn your attentions to your own, which I might hazard to suggest has beenless than virtuousfor a gentleman on the verge of marriage!’
They regarded each other furiously. The viscount’s face was shuttered, the flinching muscle in his cheek his only visible movement, and the air between them so laden with confused thoughts, Phoebe was unsure if they were fighting anymore.
