“Well, a Duchess usually hosts those sorts of things,” the Duke of Talwyn answered dismissively. “Seeing as I have no wife to plan such events, there has been no need to invite guests into my home. But…I do not miss a trick. If I set my mind to doing it right, I imagine I could host a soiree that would excite even the most discerning and demure of guests.”
“Indeed,” Vincent laughed, and Phoebe didn’t miss the sharp look that the Duke of Talwyn shot him.
Pointedly ignoring her friend, the Duke turned back to Phoebe, clearing his throat. “Forgive my friend, Lady Phoebe. He seems bent on ridiculing me this evening.”
Before she could say something foolish like confessing her identity as the fox-masked lady, or even dare to call herself hisThisbe, he had swept up her hand with his own and pressed a kiss on her knuckles.
Those same fingers that curled around hers, had clutched a sensual book. They had been parted from her by a latticed screen, and Phoebe could not chase the thoughts away as she blinked down at him.
Genevieve nudged her. She frowned deeply while her eyes shot an alarmed look as if to say:collect yourself!
Phoebe did, and she finally spoke up. “Y-Your manners…and those of your friend are… well-intentioned, Your Grace, I’m sure.”
As she spoke, the Duke stilled. Phoebe was certain this stiffness indicated that he recognized her voice, but he held back his reaction far better than she had. With an endearing smile, he straightened back up and released her hand.
“I appreciate the praise, my lady, as does Ravenwood…the cheeky scoundrel.” He chuckled under his breath before he turned to Genevieve. “Lady Genevieve.”
He bent over her hand and kissed it, too, and although it was merely a polite,ton-appropriategreeting, Phoebe felt a strange pang of envy that was quick enough to shake off.
The Duke of Talwyn dropped Genevieve’s hand and stood straight once more. He pivoted slowly as he cast an appreciativeglance over the trio of ladies. “May I say that you look positively ravishing tonight? My friends here can confirm that I am an expert judge in beauty. I am particularly skilled at noticing the most ravishing beauties.”
Genevieve giggled, not entirely the blushing debutante, but more so as if he amused her. She liked attention, and if it were delivered on a silver platter, she would be happy.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she preened. “I bought this gown especially for tonight.”
“And it is stunning,” he told her. “It suits your eye color, my lady.”
“And what of my cousin’s gown?” Genevieve encouraged, gesturing to Phoebe.
For a second, Phoebe cringed at the way her cousin was fishing for a direct compliment, but she quickly realized this was Genevieve’s way of bringing her into the spotlight when she could not do it for herself.
“Oh, your cousin’s gown…” The Duke of Talwyn slowly dragged his gaze back to Phoebe.
He gave her a once-over that seared almost as much as his voice had the night of Lord Spencer’s ball. She fought a blush, but she knew it appeared, nonetheless.
“It is exquisite,” he continued. “The way the bodice cups her figure, the way the skirts fall just below the ankle, hiding her skin in a most tantalizing way… and, well, the color. How it brings out the soft shades of her sun-colored hair…”
He lifted a hand and laid it over his heart as if her beauty had pierced his soul.
Phoebe could only gaze back at him, speechless, for she had not expected it.
Was he overperforming? Was he lying for her pleasure and need? Did he sense some sort of desperation in her, a need for validation? If so, it was most humiliating.
“She is a lady I would be honored to dance with tonight, if I am given the chance,” the Duke finished while dropping his hand and inclining his head pointedly toward her.
Phoebe’s breath caught, and she found herself shaking her head. “I… I cannot, Your Grace. I apologize.”
He cocked his head further in her direction, smirking lightly, as if he had questions to ask but held them back while they were in the company of others.
“By Jove, Talwyn, give your flirtatious behavior a rest,” the Duke of Whitestone—Percy, Phoebe reminded herself—chuckled. “You are startling these poor ladies. Lady Phoebe looks ready to faint.”
Do I?
Phoebe cleared her throat, lifted her chin, and smiled broadly. “I-I am barely ruffled.”
“Is that true?” The Duke of Talwyn asked in a low, sultry voice that reminded her of how he had spoken on the other side of the privacy booth that night.
“It is,” she managed to say in a tight voice. “It is indeed.”
