In the mirror, Phoebe glanced at Skinner, who had returned to work on her hair. “That’s what I’d planned.”
“Excellent.” Audrey sank elegantly into the armchair. “Both Edith and I are…well, heartened, and very pleased to see you making an effort.”
Phoebe wanted to turn and look at Audrey, but a hiss from Skinner and a tap with the comb warned her to keep her head straight.
Before she could formulate any sensible response, Audrey continued, “I thought perhaps I should mention that the Deverells, all the males that is, while being quite…well, not to put too fine a point on it, rakehellish through their formative years, all of them—every last one throughout the family’s history—have become quite staid once they wed.”
From the corner of her eye, Phoebe saw Audrey tilt her head, considering, then she added, “I’ve never been sure that the two states weren’t connected. That the latter wasn’t a direct consequence of the experience of the former, if you take my meaning.”
Audrey fell silent; Phoebe wasn’t sure what to say. Then Audrey spoke again.
“Your mother and I were very close. We shared all our hopes and dreams. I’ve told you that before, but there’s one story I haven’t mentioned, and I feel now is the time. When I was young—younger than you, about twenty-two—I had a beau and thought I was in love. For all I know I was, but my father was quite sure my suitor was a wastrel and he forbade the match. In those days I wasn’t quite so independent as I’ve since become, and while I sulked, I can’t say I fought all that hard. But…” Audrey shrugged lightly.
Phoebe frowned. “You’ve never stopped loving him?”
Audrey blinked her eyes wide. “Oh, no—it wasn’t like that. My father was quite right—poor Hubert was a wastrel. No, it’s not that I’ve been carrying a torch for him all these years. But what I have often wondered was, What might have been?
“You see, dear, we never do know.” Straightening, Audrey resettled her shawl. “I should hope, knowing me as you do, that you realize I regret very little in my life, that indeed I enjoy my life and am quite content with matters as they are. Or so I believe, but I do wonder, from time to time, whether my life would have been even better, even happier, if I’d grasped the chance that fate once offered and fought for what I wanted. I did want him at the time, but now I’ll never know what might have been—would he have been a wastrel if I’d married him? Would I have been even more content than I am?”
Audrey paused, then, with a rustle of silk, rose. “What I wished to say to you, dear, poised as you are at this moment in your life, is that while I regret nothing I’ve done in my life, I do sometimes regret what I didn’t do—those opportunities fate sent me that I didn’t grasp.”
Skinner finished Phoebe’s hair and moved aside. Audrey took her place, meeting Phoebe’s eyes in the mirror, laying a beringed hand lightly on her shoulder. “I just wanted to suggest, dear, that when opportunity knocks, you think of what might be before you turn it away.”
Phoebe looked into Audrey’s hazel eyes. Lifting one hand, she touched Audrey’s where it rested on her shoulder. “Thank you. I will think carefully.”
Audrey’s smile lit her face. “Good.” She turned to the door. “Now I’d better go and roust out Edith. We’ll see you in the drawing room.”
Skinner moved to hold the door for Audrey. Closing it behind her, Skinner returned to pick up and shake out Phoebe’s fringed shawl. “She’s still a devilishly handsome lady—no reason for her to think she’s past it. She’s not that old.”
“No, she’s not.” Phoebe rose so Skinner could drape the shawl over her shoulders. “Where’s my reticule?”
While she put on her garnet and pearl earrings, and looped her pearls about her neck, she thought over what Audrey had said. She had, of course, been speaking of marriage, but…
Phoebe let herself out of her room and headed for the stairs, confident that in her case, the same dictum applied to indulging in a liaison.
How would she know what might be if she didn’t?
Audrey’s revelation about Deverell males continued to play in Phoebe’s brain. He entered the drawing room late, dark and devilishly handsome in black evening coat and crisp white linen; he came straight to her side, but there was little time for any but the mildest observations before Stripes arrived and the company went in to dinner.
Once again, she and he weren’t side by side. They were, however, seated opposite each other, which in some respects suited her better. In between chatting with Milton Cromwell and Peter, she grasped moments to observe Deverell, to evaluate and assess, and ponder. Rakehellish Audrey had said; it was an apt description. He didn’t exhibit the behavior of a true rakehell, but he definitely had a propensity for the role, as well as all the qualifications.
It wasn’t just his handsomeness, not just his glib tongue. There was something in his gaze, some hint of…not wildness, but something untamed and untameable, something not quite civilized, that set him apart.
Very definitely apart from the other gentlemen present. Which was no doubt the reason that all the young ladies continued to cast interested—willing to be infatuated—glances his way.
She inwardly sniffed; they would have to stand in line.
By the end of the meal, she’d decided it was those elements that made it so clear he would run in no woman’s harness that most attracted women to him. That, after all, was the essential danger in him.
It was what most fascinated her.
That defined, she would have given a great deal to know what attracted him to her—what brought him directly to her side as the company filed into the ballroom.
Halting beside her, he reached for her left hand and raised it, looking for the dance card that wasn’t there.
When he looked at her, brows rising, she explained, “I’m twenty-five.”
He grinned and lowered their hands, letting his fingers slide over hers. “Good. Then you can waltz every waltz with me.”