“You are right,” she said, pointing a finger in their general direction with some flourish. “A new viewpoint needs to be shared. It is time.”
She strode back to the sofa, taking a seat with a flounce of her skirts. She picked up the glass in front of her, containing some type of punch that was altogether too sweet. She reached into the folds of her skirt to find the flask within a deeply hidden pocket, adding the rum to her drink before offering it to her friends.
“A toast,” she said, holding up her glass. “To the future.”
Confusion reigned on their faces at her words, but they raised their glasses anyway.
“To the future,” they chorused, and Phoebe shared a grin of triumph with them.
“Now,” Elizabeth said, rising gracefully. “We must return to the party, or my mother will never allow me to hear the end of it upon our return.”
“I suppose we must,” said Phoebe, standing herself, and, being in closest proximity to the door, she began to lead them out. She brought her hand to the doorknob, but gasped when it turned of its own accord, and, off balance, she fell forward through what was now open space, until she collided into something very hard, very immobile, and very unforgiving.
She looked up. And up further. A very strong jaw, one currently clenched quite tightly, entered her view. Phoebe took a step back, tilting her head so she could better see the face of the statue in front of her — for it seemed the man was incapable of moving.
His cheekbones were harsh, his nose pronounced. The only soft feature about him was the lock of sandy blond hair swooping down low over his forehead. His eyes were a deep chocolate brown. And they were currently looking down at her with an icy hard frigidness that nearly made her shiver. Not that she would. She refused to show him any indication of weakness, nor any sign of backing down. For she knew very well who this man was.
“Lord Berkley,” she finally greeted him. “May I be of assistance?”
If it were possible, he looked even further down his nose at her.
“Excuse me?” His voice was low and gravely, sending a wave of shivers down her spine. Not of fear, no — it was something else, something peculiar that she couldn’t quite place.
“I asked you,” she drawled slowly, as if he couldn’t understand the words coming out of her mouth, “if you required assistance. For I can think of no other reason that you would be standing so immobile in the path of a lady when she is trying to exit a room.”
She heard one of her friends gasp behind her, and she started a bit, having completely forgotten they were still there for a moment.
“Lady Phoebe, isn’t it?” the man asked, not moving an inch — and neither did she, as they seemed to be locked in a battle of wills, neither prepared to provide the other any glimpse of weakness or retreat.
“It is,” she said, holding her head high. She was of average height, but still this man towered above her. It annoyed her, but it wasn’t as though there were anything she could do to change that.
Finally his lips turned, in what might be considered a smile on another man, but on him simply made it look as though he were mocking her. He inclined his head slightly, and took a step backward, waving his hand in front of him, as though he were permitting them to leave.
“Ladies,” he said, his facade softening slightly as he looked past Phoebe to the three women standing behind her. “Forgive me. If you please.”
Phoebe made to walk around him, but he held up a finger.
“Lady Phoebe, would you be inclined to stay a moment? I am actually interested in speaking with you.”
Phoebe narrowed her eyes as she tilted her head back to look at him, wondering what he was about. She had met him a time or two, as she was slightly acquainted with his sister. The marquess being a favorite among polite society, however, meant he had likely hardly ever looked at her, and she had certainly never sought him out. He seemed a serious sort, the type of man typical to theton,with outdated opinions and interests only for those who were like himself. He often had one young lady or another on his arm, the simpering type with their coquettish grins and flirtatious giggles. Phoebe avoided men who seemed to prefer that mold of woman, as to them, she would certainly prove to be a disappointment.
She looked past him at her friends. Elizabeth was shaking her head in warning, Julia shrugging her shoulders, and Sarah attempting to smother a grin.
“Very well, Lord Berkley,” she said, her curiosity overcoming her disdain for the man. “A moment.”