“Act like girls, and I shall call you girls,” he said nonchalantly, but his eyes were on Phoebe. “Lady Phoebe,” he said with a nod, as though he had happened upon her in a ballroom and not invited her into his home.
Although she supposed he actually hadn’t invited her. His sister had, and he had simply done the polite thing and agreed with her request.
“Lord Berkley,” she said with equal stiltedness. “Your dog is lovely.”
“That is the first time I have heard Maxwell referred to as such, but thank you.”
It was their only conversation before they went into supper, for his sisters did not allow anyone else to say a word, as they questioned Phoebe about everything from how long she had been “out” in society, to when she had met their brother. She couldn’t exactly tell the truth of that. Somehow she didn’t think the marquess would be pleased with her sharing the fact that the two of them had argued to the point of her slapping him in the middle of one of the Earl of Torrington’s drawing rooms.
The women were equally curious of who in society Phoebe was particularly close with, and what her plans were for events this season. She tried to appease them as best she could, but they weren’t exactly enthralled with the fact that she only attended the odd event, and solely when she knew her friends would be in attendance. When she thought about it, she wasn’t entirely sure why they went out in society, though now it was helpful in order to review the fashion and gossip columns of her newspaper. Not that she would call it a gossip column. No, it was more of a who’s who in order to entice new readers, who would then hopefully continue on reading the rest of the paper.
She certainly couldn’t explain all of that to the eager young ladies, however — nor especially their brother.
They were going in to dinner — Maxwell was sent to the kitchens for his own supper — when they heard a voice within the foyer, and soon a smiling face greeted them at the bottom of the stairs.
“Ah, I’m just in time!”
“Ambrose!” the girls shouted in chorus.
“You’re late,” Lady Berkley admonished, though she still placed a gentle hand on his cheek as she strode by.
“My brother, Lord Ambrose,” Lord Berkley said to Phoebe with a wave of his hand, not even looking at the man as he walked by. Phoebe looked from him to Ambrose with some consternation at the animosity between them, but before she could ask anything, Lord Ambrose took her hand and bowed low over it.
“Ah, the Lady Phoebe Winters,” he said with a charming smile. He looked like Lord Berkley, except that his smile seemed much easier, his features slightly softer. “You have been on the lips of my family ever since my brother was found with you on the gossip pages and the Holderness dance floor. I am pleased to finally have the opportunity to make your acquaintance.”
Lord Berkley apparently re-thought his dismissal of his brother as he returned to the foyer, taking Phoebe’s hand from his brother’s and placing it on his own arm.
“If you were so eager, Ambrose, then perhaps you should have been here on time,” was all he said, and as he led her away, Phoebe looked over her shoulder with a smile. “A pleasure!” she called, to irritate Lord Berkley more than anything else.
Phoebe could not recall ever being part of a livelier dinner, particularly one with so prestigious a family. She glanced over at Aunt Aurelia, who was laughing at Ambrose beside her. Apparently the man did not reserve his charm for young ladies.
“Tell me, Lady Berkley,” she said to the woman seated next to her, who, for the most part, watched her family’s banter with a smile on her face, “Did you happen to know my parents? The Viscount and Viscountess of Keith?”
“But of course,” she said, her smile warm yet confused. “Did your aunt not tell you? My late husband was a great friend of your father’s in their youth.”
“Truly?” she asked, sitting back in her chair, slightly stunned. Why would her aunt not say anything on their travels? And was the marquess aware of their relationship?
“Their family homes were but a mile from one another when they were boys,” Lady Berkley continued. “We always enjoyed your parents’ company when we saw them in the city.”
“Interesting,” Phoebe murmured. “I had no idea.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lady Berkley whimsically. “Why, I can remember many times spent together. We would have dinner parties, sometimes just the four of us, sometimes with others invited as well. Or we would attend parties that would last long into the night, so late that the hours would turn into early mornings. Your father always told the most wonderful stories, and your mother was such a gentle soul. Your father fell in love with her the moment he saw her, and that love never waned.”
She continued on, remembering parties and balls from their first days in London, as Phoebe listened with rapt attention and wide eyes.
“Thank you for sharing such wonderful stories,” she said, leaning toward Lady Berkley. “I do not mean to pry but why … why did I never know you?”
“Oh, well, I suppose we drifted apart at some point,” she said, with some regret in her tone. “John, my husband, and your father had a bit of a falling out as it were, and unfortunately never did reconcile. It’s been years…” her face turned wistful. “Anyway, I am so glad to have you here, to make amends with you if not your parents.”
Phoebe simply smiled, her mind full of thoughts, curious at all Lady Berkley had told her.
She had hardly paid any attention to the rest of the table, and she looked around now, her gaze stopping suddenly when she felt the marquess’ eyes upon her. They were slightly hooded, and yet nothing could hide the intensity of the deep brown that stared at her.
She managed a slight smile and a nod of her head. She reminded herself why she was here and determined that before this night was over, she must discover what the marquess was up to.
When they rose to leave the dinner table and return to the drawing room — the entire lot of them, as the men were composed only of the marquess and his brother — Lord Berkley appeared at her elbow, holding her back as the rest of the party drifted out of the room.
“A moment of your time, Lady Phoebe?” he asked, to which she nodded. Perfect. Time to ask her questions.
He drew her down the corridor, but stopped at a door before the stairs, pushing it open to reveal what must be his study. An ornate mahogany desk sat in the corner, while three of the walls were lined with filled bookshelves. A huge globe dominated one corner, while a portrait of a man who must have been his father hung in prominence between shelves behind the desk. The fire crackled merrily in the grate, and the marquess led her over to a pair of brown leather mahogany chairs sitting in front of it.
“I realize it is not altogether done for you and me to be alone, but I do not believe, Lady Phoebe, that you are particularly concerned about propriety.”
“Not really,” she laughed. “Now, what can I do for you?”