“Lord Berkley,how lovely to see you here tonight."
The marquess slowly turned toward her voice, drink in hand, his brown eyes hard as they raked over her, from the bottom of her toes in their cream kid slippers peeking out of her patterned hemline, up the skirts of her royal blue silk gown, over the embroidered waistband and up the gathered bodice, where they rested for a moment on her skin peeking out the top before finishing at her face.
He had done it on purpose, she knew, to disarm her, but she refused to allow him to notice he had caused any sort of reaction within her. She smiled at him in the sultry manner of a woman interested in a man for more than his conversation.
He raised his eyebrows, and she wondered if she had begun too strong, if he would become suspicious following the tone of their previous encounters. She sucked in a breath as it was her turn to now take him in. She had forgotten how tall he was, how imposing his figure could be.
But she would not be cowed.
“Lady Phoebe,” he said after sending a nod of dismissal the way of his companion. Perhaps she had intrigued him after all. “I must say I am surprised to find you seeking out my company after our past … meetings.”
She was prepared for this.
“I simply wanted to apologize, Lord Berkley,” she said with what she hoped was a disarming smile. Should she try to bat her eyelashes at him? No, that would be going too far. He wasn’t a fool. “I have not seen you again following that day on Fleet Street, and I have since realized that you were simply looking out for my best interests, and I was altogether boorish toward you. As for our previous meeting … well, we remain in disagreement, but I must tell you how interesting it was engaging in such a clash of wills with you.”
One thing she could not do was to veer from her beliefs, to agree with his ridiculous notions. Best to not speak of it with him for now. He said nothing for a moment, studying her as he took a slow sip of his drink.
“Very well,” he finally responded. “I am pleased, if somewhat surprised, you feel that way. But, Lady Phoebe, I would happily challenge you to another test of wills. Would you care for a dance?”
“Pardon me?” Phoebe gaped at him, her mouth hanging open. He wanted to dance with her after one simple apology? She hadn’t expected this, wasn’t prepared for it. She didn’t dance. But — wasn’t this what she wanted? She hastily closed her jaw and nodded at him mutely. A wicked gleam came into his eye as he set his drink down and lifted her hand, placing it upon his arm.
The cacophony of noise around her, voices, music, booted feet, and laughter, blended together to become a chorus of sound that she hardly registered as she allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. Phoebe could feel each of the curious stares sent her way — that she, Lady Phoebe, a woman who lived on the outskirts of theton, had captured the eye of Lord Berkley, enough for one dance at least.
She didn’t care for the thoughts of others, she reminded herself as she held her head high, ignoring the stares. She had come tonight to the party of Lord and Lady Holderness with one purpose, and she was achieving it. She should be pleased with herself.
Phoebe was startled for a moment when the marquess abruptly stopped, then jumped when his hand curled around her waist and was nearly floored when he took her other hand in his, heat pouring into her from where they were connected, even through the thin layer of her white glove.
This is just a game, Phoebe.She felt his gaze upon her, but instead of looking up at him, she allowed her eyes to wander around the top of the ballroom, at the mural of angels on clouds painted on the ceiling above them, the crimson red of the backdrop and walls below providing a feeling of decadence. The Holderness family lived in grandeur, and they were pleased to show it off.
“Did you find a new gown?”
Phoebe whipped her head toward her dance partner, her eyes colliding with his. Damn, he was an attractive man. Not traditionally so, but there was something about him … what was he saying? A gown? Why was a man asking her about a gown? Oh yes — the dress shop.
“I did, Lord Berkley, thank you,” she said, avoiding the need to add details. “And your business the day we met?”
His jaw tightened. “All remains in order,” he said cryptically.
She nodded, and as she did so, she tripped slightly. She had never been a particularly adept dancer, and it seemed lack of practice had not increased her skill.
“Damn,” she muttered under her breath, then stiffened when she heard the marquess snort.
“How ladylike of you,” he said, the traces of a smile gracing his lips.
“I never purported to be ladylike,” she said with an edge of steel to her voice, and he shook his head.
“I am not disparaging you, Lady Phoebe,” he replied. “I was taken aback, that is all. I have heard such words on the tongues of my own sisters, though I believe they do it only to torture me, and I continually advise them to keep from uttering them amongst polite company.”
“I would hardly consider you to bepolite company, Lord Berkley, considering our history with one another.”
The words were out before she even thought them through, and Phoebe bit her lip to keep from saying anything further. She was supposed to be attracting the man, for goodness sake, not pushing him further away.
But to her surprise, after a moment of stunned silence, the marquess laughed. A deep, low chuckle, it came rolling out of him, and Phoebe could only watch him in astonishment as she felt the rumble in his chest from where they were connected. Gone for a moment were the harsh lines of his face, the cold eyes, the intimidating bearing. Somehow he became … just a man, and she couldn’t help the true smile that spread across her face in response.
She looked down for a moment before meeting his eyes once more.
“Tell me of your sisters. I have had the pleasure of meeting Viola, but not yet the rest of them.”
And so he did. He described his sisters, his face retaining its soft look as he did so, and Phoebe could read how much he cared for them — not just because they were his responsibility, but because he loved them, nearly more as a father than a brother.
“How long since you became the marquess and have been looking after them?” she asked softly.
“Five years now,” he said with a shrug. “It is trying some days, but they keep life interesting, I suppose. Thank you for the dance, Lady Phoebe.”
Phoebe looked around, realizing the dance had ended, and she felt a fool as she noted she had continued to move. She stopped, nodded, and smiled once more.
“Thank you, Lord Berkley. I hope to see you again soon.”