Lord Birchwood’s right hand shot forward. He snatched Phoebe’s left arm and his fingers tightened around her wrist. She bit back a noise of pain as he pulled her arm close to his side so that she had to rest her hand on his knee.
“Hold your tongue around me, Lady Phoebe. You do know I will be informing your parents abouteverythingyou have done and saidtonight, do you not? Good behavior, unruly behavior, any distractions… all shall be reported.”
Her spine went rigid, her shoulders tightening, as she immediately composed herself at the threat of her parents’ wrath. They had sent her away just for declining proposals in the past; they had pawned her off into her grandfather’s care when she was merely ten years old, claiming Phoebe was not the daughter they had wanted, and perhapshecould teachsome sense to the ungrateful girl.
She had never been ungrateful. Phoebe had only ever been a girl, trying her best, whose love of arts had sung far louder than any musical number she could be taught how to play.
Unbeknownst to them, her grandfather had only ever heightened that love, and she had found endless comfort in her days out in his countryside estate.
He had nurtured her love of literature and been the first to encourage her to write in her journal daily. He wanted her to experience the wide world but also taught her that it was important to reflect on matters thoroughly.
When she lived with her dear grandfather, Phoebe had spent hours filling the pages of one diary after another and often, at the end of the night, the old man had helped her scrub away stubborn ink spots that lingered on her fingertips and palms.
“I understand,” she murmured. “I apologize for my insolence.”
“As you should. I am certain you do not want your parents to handle it, so allow me to do the honors.”
He gripped her so hard she was certain she would have to wear long sleeves to hide any bruises, but Phoebe kept that aching smile on her face despite the pain that continued as the first half of the opera concluded.
But as soon as it stopped, she rose to her feet. “I… I wish to get some lemonade.”
“I can get that for you,” Lord Birchwood said, standing up, but Phoebe was already up and moving.
She jerked her arm forcefully so that he either had to drop his grip or risk causing a scene.
“Do not concern yourself.” She thought quickly. “You should stay and take the chance to speak with other influential lords such as yourself. What better place than here? We are among the most respected after all.”
Lord Birchwood considered that for a minute, and Phoebe’s heart raced. She knew that he was already on the edge. He might reject her offer to stay, and insist upon escorting her to the lobby, but after a moment, he nodded.
“You are right, of course, my sweet.” He raised his voice slightly, and Phoebe knew that he must have suspected others of listening in on their conversation. “You should go to fetch your own lemonade while I stay here and converse with these fine fellows.”
Before Phoebe had even managed to dart from the box, Lord Birchwood was already leaning over the railing and speaking to Lord Bixby.
Phoebe would be forever indebted to Lord Bixby for providing this much-needed distraction. She ducked out quickly right as the gentlemen began muttering about the nuisance of going to the opera and listening to beautiful sopranos wail about their trials and travails.
As soon as she escaped the auditorium, Phoebe made a dash for the nearest terrace, gripping the balcony railing and gasping. Her upper body curled over it for a second, her ribs screaming from the pressure of her corset.
When she righted herself, she was aware of somebody standing near the open doors.
“For someone who is engaged to be married, you certainly were in a hurry to flee the box you shared with your betrothed.”
Phoebe whirled at the sound of the Duke’s voice, her mouth parting. She had been remembering it so much lately, calling it to mind when she met his gaze, thinking of it before she wentto bed every night, that she was partially surprised to see him standing there before her.
With one swift, casual movement, the Duke drew the doors closed behind himself and motioned for Phoebe to step into the shadows of the curtains with him.
This is inappropriate. I should…
Her mind did not have time to finish that thought because the Duke of Talwyn started speaking, and she did not wish to miss one word that poured from his red lips.
He leaned against the wall and fixed his curious eyes on her. “Then again,” he continued, “we both know you arenothappy, so why are you agreeing to such an arrangement?”
“You of all people, as a duke, should know that some ladies have little choice. If a young woman is lucky, and her parents are kindhearted, they might take her opinion into consideration but?—”
“But when her parents are not benevolent, she must go along with whatever they say,” he finished.
“It is a difficulty that most women, like me, must bear, Your Grace.” Phoebe breathed deeply, forcing herself to continue speaking honestly. “There have been precious few people in my life who care what I think or feel and…” Her hand crept up her throat, reaching for the pendant that?—
That was not there, once again.
