“What are you doing?” she whispered to herself, laughing self-deprecatingly. “You do not get to have such silly whims. You are Lady Phoebe, and you are betrothed to Lord Birchwood.”
She slumped back against her pillows, exhaling deeply. “Lord Birchwood, the most awful man in existence. But he will be your husband, and even if he was not to be, it does not matter. You did not truly capture His Grace’s attention. He was trying to charmyou and embarrass Birchwood. Charmers and flatterers know how to make ladies blush just for their own amusement.”
Groaning, she tried to release her hopes, but her thoughts kept straying to the handsome Duke who had lingered upon kissing her hand. Who had stood up to her parents for her and had chased Lord Birchwood away just by applying a little pressure.
After a moment of setting down her writing journal, she picked it back up again and read over the last line.
“Do not entertain this notion further,” she scolded herself.
Yet, as the candle burned through the night, Phoebe found herself spinning her tales, crafting her words into something more magical than her own life. She dreamed of something that existed within the boundaries of Lord Spencer’s ball.
She envisioned what might have happened next if she had dared to stay inside that privacy booth.
Or if she had allowed herself to speak more freely with the Duke of Talwyn.
With Pyramus.
Whoever he was.
Chapter Seven
“How lucky are we? To think that we both have somehow charmed Their Graces to have the honor of being invited to the Duchess of Whitestone’s musicale!” Genevieve sighed. There was a dreamy smile on her face as they got out of their carriage.
Before them, Whitestone Hall was alight with flickering candles in the windows, and Phoebe could barely hold onto Genevieve, for her cousin was hastily making her way to the white, marble steps.
“Youarecertain she also meant for me to accompany you?” Phoebe worried aloud. She knew that Genevieve and the Duchess of Whitestone—Verity,she reminded herself, recalling the Duchess’s laughter when she insisted that she wished to be known by her given name—had met more than once, unlike Phoebe and Verity.
Genevieve had also informed her that the invitation to the musicale was not the only time they had corresponded with one another. That comment had been rather boastful, and Phoebe laughed at her friend’s pride.
“I am most certain. She specified you by name! You have intrigued her, as I have, and it seems that her husband is also encouraging this acquaintance. Verity joked in one of her letters that he often worries she is not social enough outside of her family, so I think he is happy that she has found us.”
Found us. As if they were a treasure for a Duchess, when it ought to be the other way around.
Phoebe’s arm tightened on Genevieve’s. “Then, I am most fortunate that my cousin is also my best friend. I have a balance of both.”
Genevieve giggled. “Indeed, we have gotten the best of both worlds. However, to call ourselves friends of a Duchess, and one as well-respected as Verity Duncombe does feel rather nice.” Her cheeks were flushed with excitement as they joined the greeting line.
Phoebe just shook her head, amused. “You and your chase for social status.”
“I am alady,” Genevieve insisted. “If I do not strive to better my social standing, then how should I fill my empty hours until I am married? The more popular I am, the more I shall attract better suitors.”
“You know, from anybody else, that outlook would sound incredibly shallow,” Phoebe snorted. “Yet you make it sound… sincere, simple, and very real.”
“Exactly.” Genevieve smiled smugly. “You might have the skill with words, dear Phoebe, but I have a way with the vocal delivery of them.”
Phoebe only nudged her playfully as they wound their way up the stairs, following the queue into the entrance hall. Her head tipped back as she gazed upwards at the high walls, trying to make out the little patterns pressed into the domed ceiling above.
“Cupids.”
At the voice behind her, Phoebe froze. Slowly, she turned around with Genevieve, to come face-to-face with the Duke of Talwyn. He was watching her with a cool, distant smile, but he pointed upwards.
This evening, the Duke of Talwyn was attired in a maroon waistcoat with fitted black breeches and a pair of shiny Wellingtons. His rusty red and brown tresses were combed neatly and mostly concealed underneath a tall silk top hat. A cranberry hued ribbon wrapped around the hat, and Phoebe noticed how the color nearly matched his coat, but not precisely. A simple, happy clump of daisies poked out of the buttonhole in His Grace’s lapel and Phoebe took a moment to smile at the sweet nosegay before returning her gaze to the ceiling.
“Up there,” the Duke explained, “they are little cupids. Quite a sentimental choice, if you want my opinion, but I was not consulted on the matter. Verity began the renovation as soon as she finally dragged Percy out here for the first time. That man is more attached to his townhouse than a drunk is to his tankard.”
Genevieve laughed at that, but Phoebe was too busy visually taking in the handsome Duke before her whose voice still wrapped around her as surely as it had the night they had met.
“You do not like the cupids, Your Grace?” Genevieve prompted.
