“Yes,” Phoebe ground out.
“And have you really been flirting with a Duke?” Charlotte pressed.
“Of course not,” Phoebe blurted.
“Yes, you have,” Genevieve retorted.
“I have not.” Phoebe knew it was childish to quibble in such a manner, but she could not help herself.
“You have,” Genevieve said adamantly. “Just a few moments ago, you were all but begging the Duke to tell you his deepest, darkest secrets and…”
“Lady Phoebe!” Lady Macintosh squealed, letting her surprise show evidently in the tone of her voice. She sat up straighter in her seat and craned her neck slightly. “Which Duke do you fancy then?” She leaned a little to the left. “Do not say you have been flirting openly with our host, the Duke of Whitestone.”
“I would never,” Phoebe vowed. “I respect Verity…err…his wife…The Duchess of Whitestone and…”
“She does not care a fig about Whitestone,” Genevieve interjected. “Phoebe only has eyes for…”
“For?” Charlotte prompted when Genevieve did not finish her thought.
“The Duke of Talwyn,” Genevieve and Phoebe murmured in unison as His Grace strode to the center of the room.
Even though she had only seen him a few moments ago, Phoebe’s breath caught in her throat when she laid her eyes on him. She knew he was charismatic, and he had looked rather dashing when he strode away from them before, but now, she was so entranced by the mere sight of him that she could not bear to look away even for a second.
“Excuse me,” the Duke called. As the crowd hushed, he paused and cleared his throat. He took a second to adjust his cravat, then proceeded.
“I am going to sing a ballad for you all,” he said, his voice a half-laugh. “When I first agreed to perform at this event, my friends, the Duke and Duchess of Whitestone, insisted that I sing something that moved me. They thought that if I shared an original work or perhaps a song I learned to sing in my youth, I might uplift the audience.”
“While there was wisdom in their words, as I prepared for this evening, I found myself harkening back to tunes that displayed not just my feelings but represented universal themes, ones we could all appreciate. Love. Guilt. Betrayal. Ballads mean a great deal to me, no matter their language. So, this evening, I will sing an Italian ballad.”
Phoebe blinked at him as he turned and mounted the dais.
Italian.
And then she wondered at the hint of validation he sought from the crowd, wondering if it was a humble show, or if it was a genuine worry.
But then the Duke began to sing, and Phoebe forgot all the questions that had been swimming through her head.
His voice was beautiful. She had recognized the allure of his voice long before she had even known his name but hearing him sing was different than listening to a recitation. He reminded her of the way she felt when she looked upon a clear night sky with stars decorating it.
His voice was everything she had not known she ached for. It was fascinating, enticing, and she felt herself moving further forward on her chair as he sang the ballad. She had no idea what the words were, but he was right. The tone and melody were enough for her to understand, and her heart ached terribly to learn more.
He overtook the room with rapt attention, singing stunningly, his eyes fluttering closed. Like this, he almost looked vulnerable. With his hand on his chest, his eyes closed, and his mouth forming those indiscernible words precious few knew but somehow understood, the Duke looked like a man who could conquer the world. No matter where he went or what words poured from those captivating lips, people would listen to him and appreciate his worth.
Phoebe could not look away, could not focus on anything else. The agony on his face was endearing, and she wished she knew what plagued him so deeply.
How could she not listen?
He did not have the voice of a nightingale, but he had one that was deep and curling, as if casting a spell over the music room. Phoebe willingly fell into that trance, her own eyes closing, as she just focused on his voice.
It made her chest rise and fall, such deep beauty in lines.
Heavens.
Heavens, how could I not want to hear more?
Yet, too soon, it was over, and Phoebe felt a strange sort of grief. Wondering if she might ever hear that voice again, full of song, pitched in a melody of his own choosing, one that enraptured an audience.
Yet when the crowd burst into applause, the Duke of Talwyn bowed slightly then took a seat at the opposite end of the first row as though he had not just brought an entire audience to the brink of tears.
