“Then I must try harder,” he smirked, and her heart skipped a beat.
“Perhaps you ought to just try authenticity, Your Grace.”
Phoebe did not know where the bold rebuke came from, but she relaxed at the choked laugh both Percy and Vincent emitted. But they did not know that she felt as though she had seen a more authentic version of this man, the Duke of Talwyn.
Just a few nights ago, while pretending to be Pyramus and hiding behind the mask, she had encountered a man beyond the screen… A man who read dark, salacious romance books like her and challenged her to speak openly about the feelings they aroused.
That man was nothing like this Duke who was clearly trying so hard to flatter strangers and conceal his true nature from even his friends.
“I believe you have been told, Talwyn.” Vincent snorted again and clapped his hand on the Duke of Talwyn’s shoulder, tugging him a step away from Genevieve and Phoebe. “Do leave them be. Sometimes, your charms do not work, and that is quite fine.”
The Duke of Talwyn muttered something that Phoebe swore sounded like a complaint, but she tried to ignore his grumbling.
“Fine,” he eventually said louder, “but I am intrigued, Lady Phoebe. I have attended plenty of balls, and Lady Genevieve looks familiar, though I have not had the pleasure of an introduction. Yet you… you, I have not seen before.”
Phoebe startled at that blatant acknowledgement of her absence. She had always assumed she had not been missed, her lack of presence in thetongoing unnoticed, but here he was, reminding one and all that she had not been at many balls recently.
“I have… I have been out of London for some years,” she answered lightly. “Family matters kept me in the country.”
At that, there was some sort of understanding in the Duke’s eyes as he nodded, and she could not look away from his deep, emerald gaze.
Her breath caught, and she wished she could feel the brush of his lips against her hand again. Through that wall at Lord Spencer’s Masquerade, she had wanted nothing but to see him and hear those scandalous, tempting words drip from his lips. Now that she could see him clearly and drink in all his fine words, she wanted nothing more than to feel his touch.
Phoebe tucked her hands behind her back, fighting the urge to offer the Duke her hand once more. It would only be seen as her accepting his dance invitation belatedly, no doubt, but she could not afford to dance with another man in the face of her engagement.
“How was your time away, Lady Phoebe?” he asked, casually, pulling himself out of the Duke of Ravenwood’s grasp so he might linger at her side. “I imagine London can be overwhelming at times. We all crave some time away, hence why we often retire to country estates. I hope it was a most restful period for you.”
Phoebe went to answer, even as she struggled with what to reveal. She wished to be honest and admit that, no, it had not been restful.
Rather, she had felt quite the opposite.
Although being away from London had indeed spared her the relentless crowds of balls and fortune-seeking suitors after her father’s wealth, the circumstances that forced her absence from society were far from favorable.
Before she could answer properly, by telling not quite the truth, but something close enough to it, she saw movement in the corner of her eye.
Her mother, prideful and poised, as always, approached them flanked by Phoebe’s father.
“Phoebe!” her mother barked. “I thought I asked for you to not stray from sight, but there was a moment not long ago when I could not see you properly.”
“Mother—” Phoebe began to say but was abruptly cut off by her mother’s sharp shake of her head.
“By my side, Phoebe,” she hissed, “as I instructed.”
And then her arm was grasped, even as her mother curtsied to the three dukes and duchess, not even bothering to introduce herself. Phoebe turned to see Genevieve’s helpless, pinched expression, and a frown forming on the otherwise genial features of the Duke of Talwyn.
Phoebe opened her mouth to bid them all adieu and hastily apologize for her mother’s brusque manners, but she did not say anything of those things because the Countess clamped hold of Phoebe’s arm and stayed rooted to her side.
“I…I…” Phoebe stammered.
“Your Graces,” her mother announced loudly, speaking over Phoebe as she addressed the gentlemen, “this is Lord Birchwood, the Marquess of Birchwood. Surely, you know his name, for he is most prestigious among theton.”
Phoebe felt the painful sting of embarrassment swell within her bosom at the effort her mother was giving to be noticed, but sheforced herself to smile that tight, polite smile she had practiced enough times in the mirror.
And just like that, the three other Dukes cleared their throats, shifting, as if they knew Lord Birchwood’s character. Or perhaps recognized a mama who was pushing her daughter headfirst into the marriage mart.
Phoebe did not know what to do or say next, so she stood there, looking at the others, wishing she could escape.
“Good evening, Your Graces,” Lord Birchwood greeted with a smarmy grin. “I see you have already met my betrothed, Lady Phoebe.”
