Politely, bobbed her head at the pair of Dukes and allowed herself a scrap of time to truly look at the third man in the trio. She had been initially distracted by the closeness between the Duke and Duchess of Whitestone, then drawn to make a comparison between the Duke of Ravenwood and his sister.
But, once Phoebe turned the full power of her gaze on the Duke of Talwyn, she was enticed to stare a little longer.
She looked at the Duke of Talwyn, noting how a curtain of warm, auburn-brown fell around his face. The sweep and sway of his tresses were handsome without looking unruly. There was a curve to his smile that tugged at Phoebe’s thoughts, desperate to be recognized, but she could not pinpoint why something about the fall of his hair and the shape of his mouth appeared familiar.
Perhaps we met once, briefly, before I was sent to Nantwich, she thought, for she had made her debut in Society several years ago and spent more than one Season mingling with the members of theton.
“Perhaps the reason you despise the ball is because the Newtons’ do not know how to throw a good event.”
Phoebe froze.
All her musings clicked into place.
She knew that voice.
Her eyes widened. When she blinked, behind her eyelids, she saw a latticed wall, hair that obscured more than a mask did, and a smile that never quite grew to reach its full potential.
Her breath came short.
The Duke of Talwyn was Pyramus.
Her Pyramus.
Chapter Six
“And you know a lot about throwing balls, Talwyn?” the Duke of Whitestone teased. “You are quite the expert, are you?”
The small group laughed playfully, and Phoebe took the opportunity to turn her face and compose herself for a moment.
When she lifted her head back up, she found her face burning because somehow, even though she had remained quiet while all the others chuckled, she had managed to capture the attention of the Duke of Talwyn.
Of Pyramus.
Of the man who had read her a most scandalous passage and asked how she had felt hearing it.
Conceal yourself.
Phoebe darted a quick look around the crowd. Instantly, her eyes fell on her mother, father, and Lord Birchwood who were standing near the refreshment table.
She winced.
The choices are limited. I can either go back there and rejoin that hateful party or conceal my reaction.
She ventured to dart a quick look at the duke and was relieved to see that he had turned toward Genevieve.
He does not recognize me and now I must pretend as though I do not know that I have found him.
She swallowed back her building gasp and forced a laugh that sounded too fake. She despised the sound; it resembled the brittle laugh her mother often employed when she meant to seem charming.
Her chest felt awfully tight all of a sudden, and Phoebe fought the urge to press a hand to it to release the tension. Her fingers crept up to her neck, seeking her pendant, only to remember its absence once again.
The Duke’s eyes drifted back toward her, and he gazed for a second at her throat, which prompted her to immediately drop her hand and muster a smile.
“Yes, Whitestone,” the Duke of Talwyn scoffed, but didn’t take his eyes off Phoebe for a long while. Finally, he turned to his friend, and Phoebe could breathe easier again, released from those shocking, green eyes. “I do know how to host a soiree. I am a duke. It is in my blood.”
“And yet you have never thrown a ball, peculiarly enough,” the Duke of Whitestone mused. “So how are we to know?”
Under his breath, the Duke of Ravenwood snorted, a strange sound that piqued Phoebe’s attention. She had spent years working out how to read people, and she now wondered:what do you know differently, for that was a sound of secret knowledge?
