The Countess of Tripleton was poised, her chin high and her eyes sharply fixed on the guests around them. She was always trying to see who was looking at her, at them, and at her husband, whose title she doted on.
Myrtle Webb, Phoebe’s mother, was a woman of crystalline precision, always evaluating, always wanting to be seen.
Even now, as she dismissed Phoebe, she fixed her already-perfect hair, brushing back a non-existent stray curl. Hertresses, which Phoebe had inherited, were a pretty, ash blonde that turned almost white when they were out walking in the sun or beneath the chandelier which hung heavily above them now.
It is like a halo;one suitor had told Phoebe upon her debut.Your hair, that is, is quite marvelous.
She had grown used to such sentiments. While a few of her features were fine and even considered attractive, Phoebe did not have that particular quality in her countenance that drew men toward her.
More than once she had overheard her mother say she was pretty enough, endurable enough, and even quite tolerable. But none of those remarks were sufficient to arouse the admiration of eligible bachelors.
Just as long as she carried her father’s name, they were interested. Phoebe knew she had never been more than a pawn to them, a way to inherit the vast Tripleton fortune and notoriety.
Her eyes slid to her father, Lewis Webb, the Earl of Tripleton. He had long grayed at the temples, his age spreading through his length of hair that was cut short and proper. He wore a grim smile as he, too, assessed the ballroom.
Phoebe knew exactly who they were hoping to find.
Lord Birchwood, her fiancé.
“I said nothing,” Phoebe muttered, trying to bring her parents’ focus on her.
See me, she wanted to beg.See how I wither in these events you push me into.
Notice how this deplorable engagement is destroying me. See how it is ruining me already, and I have not even faced the long walk to the aisle yet.
But they did not, as they never had. The Earl and Countess of Tripleton pointedly ignored their daughter as they continued to scan the crowded room.
“Phoebe.” Her mother’s voice jumped with excitement as she grasped Phoebe’s elbow. “Look, there he is. Is Lord Birchwood not the handsomest man of your acquaintance? I understand he is an older gentleman, but he has some very fine points, indeed.”
“Quite right,” Phoebe’s father agreed. “He has even better hair than me! Even when I was his age, it was never this lustrous and shiny. Quite admirable, indeed.” He smoothed a shaky hand over his mustache, then cleared his throat. “Look sharp, my dears. The man himself is coming our way.”
“But of course he wishes to greet us,” Phoebe’s mother whispered. “He must long to see his future wife and family members.”
With her mother’s hand wrapped around her elbow, the addition of her father’s hand on her shoulder made Phoebe flinch. Still, she tried to keep up her composed, polite smile, but it felt too tight.
She wished to sink back beneath a mask and become unknowable. She yearned to be nobody other than Vanessa Delamere. Nobody more than a lady at a ball that few people knew about, and even fewer dared to approach.
Except she was not Miss Vanessa Delamere, not right now. At present, because of the firm grip of her parents, she was being forced to stand tall and wait while Lord Birchwood made a beeline toward them.
He hurried around a group of young ladies who were tittering about the latest scandal that had been reported in one of the gossip columns that morning and cut right through a cluster of gentlemen who were discussing the game room that was set up in an adjacent room.
As Lord Birchwood drew closer, Phoebe noticed that her father had been right. His hair was indeed a rich, chestnut hue, but that was the only compliment she could bestow upon him.
His Lordship’s beady eyes were squinting at her, and his color was high in his cheekbones from having exerted himself so greatly by traversing the grounds in such a hasty manner.
“Smile softer,” her father hissed, not even bothering to look at Phoebe while delivering the command. “You are grimacing.”
Phoebe tried her best to soften her smile, but when there was nothing to encourage such a thing, she did not know how to manage it.
As she tried, her mother’s hand moved from her elbow to the middle of her spine, pushing hard. “Stand up straighter, daughter. Heavens, were you not taught better? I know I have told you hundreds of times how men like to see a woman stand up straight.”
Except that is the thing, Phoebe wanted to say,you did not teach me. You only wanted a bauble to decorate our family tree. An ornament, not a daughter.
Still, she had no choice but to smile gentler and compose her posture beneath her parents’ pressure.
By the time Lord Birchwood was in front of her, Phoebe could only hope that she looked pleasing enough. She did not imagine that he would praise her beauty or whisper sweet words of contentment into her ear. But she also did not want him to say something harsh and prompt her mother’s wrath and her father’s disappointment.
Their expectations were chains, wrapping around her, tighter and tighter, and she struggled to breathe easily under their watchful eyes.
