“Your Grace?” he replied, showing plainly that he was incapable of understanding what was to be done or said next.
“Well…” the Duke mused as he continued tapping his lower lip in a pensive manner, “Considering how your betrothed is the most striking woman in the room and you profess for all to hear that you are an accomplished dancer, it is a wonder that, nobody has seen you dancing with Lady Phoebe as of yet, Lord Birchwood.”
Next to her, Phoebe felt the Marquess freeze. He held that statue-like pose until he let out a bellow that sounded almost like a laugh.
“I am certain you were late, then. We danced earlier, at the start of the ball.”
“We were here from the start,” the Duke of Talwyn countered. “We merely stepped out for a private card game.”
“Then surely … surely you missed the time we spent dancing together then.”
The Duke’s gaze fell to Phoebe. “Is this true, Lady Phoebe?”
Beneath the attention, she felt both grateful and emboldened. This was the first time that somebody other than Genevieve had publicly challenged Phoebe’s father, mother, and would-be husband.
The Duke was the first gentleman to step between Phoebe and her keepers and ask the truth of the matter.
“No,” she dared to say. “No, it was not then. It was not at all, in fact. Lord Birchwood, you have not asked me for a dance once tonight. Until now, I did not even know that you enjoyed dancing.”
“I—” Lord Birchwood stammered, his eyes widening as he looked between her and the group of dukes. “I—I will be glad to show my skills…some other time.”
He tilted his chin upward, making it seem as if he was glancing overtop the heads of those gathered nearest.
“But now…ah yes…now I see that a few of my associates are beckoning for me.” He raised a hand as if to greet someone who might be calling for him to join their party. “I must… must take my leave for the moment and…and meet with another marquess regarding business dealings.”
With that, he scooted away from Phoebe’s side, dodged around the Earl and Countess, and stalked toward the refreshment table.
Phoebe turned back to Genevieve before she could see her parents’ disappointment, finding her cousin looking in amused disbelief, her laughter building. Even Verity looked quite impressed. But it was the Duke of Talwyn that Phoebe found her gaze straying towards, wanting his validation.
“Lady Phoebe,” the Duke whistled. “I hope the threat of standing up to partner with your betrothed later has not deterred you from dancing for the rest of the evening.”
“Heavens, Talwyn,” Vincent muttered while sniggering under his breath. “Do leave the young lady alone. You have done her enough service for the evening.”
The Duke of Talwyn stepped forward so that he occupied nearly the same spot the Marquess had just vacated.
“Do you want me to leave you alone, Lady Phoebe?” he whispered so low that Phoebe was certain she was the only one who could hear him.
Before Phoebe could answer his question or even come up with a snappy reply of her own, her mother wrapped her fingers tightly around her upper arm, snagging her back towards them.
“We are leaving,” her mother hissed in her ear. “Now.”
As soon as she was home, Phoebe was dragged by her mother into the parlor and all but thrown through the doorway as she rounded on Phoebe.
“How dare you speak to poor Lord Birchwood that way!” she snapped. “He has done nothing to you! He has offered you the world, Phoebe, so how could you be so ungrateful?”
Before Phoebe could say anything, her father stepped forward. “What did you think you were doing tonight? Were you trying to impress your new friends by being more outspoken than you ought to be? You embarrassed not only us, but yourself tonight, Phoebe.”
“I—” She tried to defend herself, but instead she withered beneath their glares. Phoebe locked eyes with her mother first, then took a deep breath and zeroed in her focus on her father. “I was not trying to impress the dukes. I do not even know them.”
“But you wish to?” Her mother challenged.
“No,” Phoebe answered, but it was too quick of a reply to be believable. Her mother’s eyes narrowed, her lip curling with distaste.
“Must we remind you that our entire fortune is riding on this engagement?” Her father asked. “If Lord Birchwood decides that he cannot tolerate such an insolent wife, then he will deny us everything we have worked so hard to achieve.”
“I do not understand,” Phoebe whispered.
She had long known that she was a pawn in some kind of wicked game her parents were playing with Lord Birchwood, but she still did not understand the ramifications nor the terms that guided them.
