She was his Phoebe… his fox… his Thisbe. And every interaction they had experienced before had led them straight to this union tonight.
When Sebastian gazed down at her and saw that Phoebe was looking up at him, staring at him with those sparkling blue eyes, he knew, with certainty, that life would never get better, it would never feel better than it was at that moment.
“Phoebe,” he whispered, keeping his voice quiet and low, not wanting to break the new bond that had formed between them. “I need to ask you something.”
“Anything,” she murmured as an exhausted, yet pleased sigh escaped her lips. “I will do anything to please you now, Sebastian.”
He cleared his throat, knowing that the words he meant to say next were important. They ought not be muddled or incoherent. Not when his question had the power to change the course of their entire lives. And he needed Phoebe to hear him clearly.
“Will you, Lady Phoebe Tripleton, do me the great honor or becoming my wife?”
“I…” She stilled in his arms. Her eyes, which had been locked on his a second before, darted frantically. “You want me to marry you?”
“Is that not what you want?”
Her eyes flitted back and forth as her lashes fluttered. “Are you… are you giving me a choice?”
“Of course,” he breathed as he lifted a hand and used his fingertips to wind a lock of her ash-blonde hair around his pinky. “You always have a choice with me, Phoebe. You may accept my proposal and be my wife or…”
He honestly meant to present Phoebe with another option, but Sebastian could not conjure a single suitable alternative.
For him, there was only the woman he held in his arms. She was the answer to all his quandaries. He wanted her stories to be his, too. He could not see a future that did not involve the two of them spending all their days and nights locked in each other’s embrace, sharing warmth and laughter and love.
Silence hung heavily in the garden. It lasted for so long that Sebastian felt a twinge of discomfort twisted low in his stomach.
“Phoebe,” he whispered after waiting a beat. “What do you think, my dear? Would you like to marry me? Will you choose to be my wife?”
Chapter Eighteen
Phoebe awoke the next morning before dawn.
She did not bother to ring the bell for her lady’s maid but instead stuffed herself into a rather old day dress, the sort she wore when she lived in Nantwich.
Her hair was a right mess, but Phoebe did her best to style it in a low bun before throwing a pretty bonnet on top and lacing the ribbon tightly.
She crept through the house, careful not to wake a soul. When she tiptoed past the breakfast room, she was keenly aware of movement within and bit back a sigh.
Do my parents never sleep?
Phoebe herself was not normally an early riser, so she was not sure what sort of hours her mother and father kept. But since she, as well as the Earl and Countess of Tripleton, had left theball in the wee hours of the morning, it stood to reason that they should still be abed.
But I am not. I could not sleep a wink.
Bravely, Phoebe glided past the breakfast room, dashed down the hall, and stepped out onto the stone steps of Tripleton House. She darted a quick glance left and right, checking the streets for others. She saw only a few kitchen maids and other household staff, starting their work early, preparing for the busy day ahead.
And what a day it shall be!
Phoebe skipped down the steps, then nearly galloped off in the direction of Genevieve’s father’s house. Thankfully, the cousins did not live far from one another. And Phoebe reached the abode faster than usual, because by the end she nearly sprinted to reach the door.
She mounted the steps then stood there, gulping in the crisp morning air, before raising her hand and knocking sharply three times.
A giggle flew from her lips when she remembered what Genevieve had said so long ago about rapping her knuckles on the red ribbon doors three times.
To think… Sebastian was Lord Spencer… is Lord Spencer. I met the host at his very own party and…
“Lady Phoebe?” Jones, the wizened old butler who worked for Genevieve’s family opened the door slowly and blinked his eyes once… twice… three times at her.
As always, Jones was dressed in a dark suit with a clean, crisp silver cravat knotted neatly at his neck. His thinning hair, which was nothing more than a tuft of fluffy white curls, was combed flat so that it looked sleek and shiny. “Is something the matter?”
