“That sounds hideous,” Genevieve replied. “I do not how you did not feign illness and beg off altogether.”
“I cannot always disappear any time Lord Birchwood comes calling.” Phoebe tried to see her responsibilities through a reasonable lens.
“You can and you should.” Genevieve, as always, gave her opinion in the bluntest manner possible. “I found a book on medicine the other day in Papa’s library, and do you know what I thought?”
Phoebe shook her head but said nothing because she knew that her cousin would likely answer her own question.
“I thought that it might help you if I brought the book to Tripleton House.”
“How?” Phoebe looked skeptically at her friend. “What would I do with a book about medicine?”
“You could discover a new ailment every day.” Phoebe had been lounging on the lawn, sprawling on her stomach across a plaid blue and white blanket, but now she sat up and propped her chin in her hands. “Think of it, Phoebe. Every time that awful Marquess comes to the door wearing a new suit you could tell your maid that you have a fever, or ruminella, or are suffering from contusticions.”
Phoebe’s brow wrinkled. “I have heard of fevers before but the others…”
“Oh…” Genevieve giggled as she swatted her hand through the air dismissively. “I just made up those sicknesses, but don’t you see? That’s why you need to read the book. Shall I bring it to you next time I come?”
Phoebe sighed. “I shall consider it.”
“Really?” Genevieve perked up even further.
Slowly, Phoebe slid a pressed flower between the pages of her journal and closed the pages. “Unfortunately, I think you may be onto something. Every time I see Lord Birchwood, I am sure he will have come to tell me that he has set a wedding date and Gen… I just do not know if I can bear it all.”
“Very well.” Genevieve climbed to her feet, dusted off her day dress, and nodded firmly. “I shall bring the book with me the next time I visit and you…” She jerked her chin toward Phoebe’s diary. “You have some writing to do before we see each other again.”
“I shall try.”
Genevieve offered Phoebe a helping hand. Phoebe accepted it and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. Once they were both standing, the ladies set to work collecting the items they’d carried outside earlier in the afternoon.
Phoebe grabbed the handles on the woven basket. Genevieve picked up a pair of glass tumblers. Then, just as Phoebe was bending over to snatch the corners of the blanket, she heard footsteps on the path behind them.
“H-hmm…” A man cleared his voice, and Phoebe immediately dropped her hold on the blanket.
She spun around to find the Duke of Talwyn standing there.
He looked even more handsome than she remembered. It had been an entire week since she last encountered the Duke at the opera house. Since that time, she had been feeding her soul by re-living those moments they shared.
Every time Lord Birchwood appeared and demanded that she spend time with him, Phoebe wished it was the Duke of Talwyn knocking at her door.
And now, here he was.
He stood tall, in an olive green waistcoat and pale beige breeches. Both hands were folded behind his back, causing the fabric on his coat to strain as it fought to contain his broad shoulders. A black top hat was pulled low on his forehead, and there was once more a sprig of daisies situated cheerily near the brim.
“Your Grace!” The words popped out of Phoebe’s mouth, and she immediately blushed at the squeaky sound of her voice.
“It is you,” Genevieve cried as she dropped the glasses she’d been holding and hurried forward.
When Genevieve dropped into a quick curtsey, Phoebe hastily followed suit and swiftly tried to collect her thoughts.
He’s here! He’s here! I wished to see him and then he materialized.
Phoebe could not understand this sudden stroke of good fortune. Never in her life had she hoped something would happen and then saw her wishes granted.
“It is I,” the Duke murmured as he took off his hat and ran a hand through his long, luscious locks of hair.
Genevieve emitted a very unladylike moan, then covered the sound quickly by saying, “We were just speaking of you, Your Grace.”
“Were you?” Without his top hat shading them, Phoebe got a clear glimpse of the Duke’s dazzling eyes. She had recorded their luminosity correctly in her writing. The Duke of Talwyn, just like the fictional Prince Samuel, had mesmerizing eyes. “And what were you saying?”
