But this Season was just like every other Season. Very few dances for Phoebe, no suitors or callers, lots of chess games with George while the music played and seventeen-year-old girls who weren’t any prettier than Phoebe laughed and twirled and flirted. Why had she thought things would be any different? She should never have gone along with Alice. But that was what she always did, wasn’t it?
Then in May, with only a dozen or so balls left in the Season, George away in the country so she didn’t even have the comfort of blindfold chess with her best friend, Phoebe felt an elbow in her ribs from Alice as they fanned themselves between Alice’s dances at the Ashmore ball.
“Oh, His Grace, Thornwick,” Alice growled to Phoebe. “Do you see him looking at me?”
Phoebe had not noticed Thornwick looking at Alice. In fact, she thought Thornwick might actually be looking ather, Phoebe.
“He’s marvelous, Phee,” Alice said. “Those golden locks, those blue eyes. That nose. That smile.”
Yes, that smile. And it was a smile, not a grin. The smile of a man who enjoyed life, had no worries, no anxieties. How wonderful it must be to be like that.
He came toward her. Phoebe couldn’t help looking over her shoulder to see if Lady Olivia Radcliffe or Lady Ellen Stafford was standing behind her. No. No one. And Alice was taking Phoebe’s fan out of her hand and backing away herself.
“My lady? Lady Phoebe, is it?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” She curtsied.
The Duke of Thornwick bowed.
“Small stature, pearls, an inch of petticoat showing.” Phoebe clutched at her skirts but the duke smiled. “Charming. I thought I was right, but this is not the occasion to be wrong. And I want to do this correctly so I am going to go find our hostess to obtain a proper introduction, but I wanted to make sure it was you and that you didn’t give away any of your remaining dances while I did that.”
“No, Your Grace.” Phoebe blushed.
“Do you have any waltzes left?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Consider the next one reserved for me. Yes?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The introduction was made and she found herself in Thornwick’s arms for a waltz.
“You’re a lovely dancer, Lady Phoebe.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. You’re a wonderful waltzer yourself.”
“I’m glad to get a chance to meet you without your guard dog nipping at my heels.”
What was he talking about?
“I’ve admired you from afar this last month and have thought you quite lovely. Most suitable.”
Phoebe had no idea what to say to that.
“Are you shy, Lady Phoebe?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Perfect. I love shyness.”
Phoebe couldn’t help herself. She giggled.
“What is that little laugh for?”
“I’ve never heard of anyone thinking shyness was an attractive quality.”
“Well, for me, it indicates a certain temperament. A domestic temperament. A pleasant, sweet woman.”
