CHAPTER18
Phoebe stilled. She must not have heard him correctly. For if she had, Jeffrey Worthington, Marquess of Berkley, had just asked her to marry him. Which was preposterous. For not only would he never marry a woman like her, but he certainly wouldn’t ask her in the middle of the theatre, surrounded by his mother, sisters, and her aunt. And definitely not while Henry VIII was onstage divorcing his wife and denouncing Cardinal Wolsey of all of his titles and possessions.
But Jeffrey’s insistent gaze didn’t leave her, and she was overcome by the musky, spicy scent of his cologne, the warm hand upon her, the hard planes of his face, and the set line of his lips. When she finally looked up to meet his eyes, they beseechingly searched hers.
“Will you?” he whispered.
“I… I…” she had no idea what to say. For her heart — her traitorous, mutinous heart — was telling her to say yes. To nod enthusiastically and tilt her head back just enough so that he could lean down and kiss her here, in front of an entire theatre of patrons. They would celebrate with their families and announce their betrothal, before having a beautiful wedding at St. George’s, and she would live out the rest of her days as a marchioness.
But would they be happy days? Her mind intervened now. How could she be with a man with such vastly different beliefs than she held? The two of them had simply avoided returning to the conversation they had first clashed upon for some time now. Anytime she raised the subject, he quickly changed it, or they averted the argument altogether.
They couldn’t, however, escape the inevitable for a lifetime. And what would Jeffrey do when he realized that she had, if not been lying to him, been evading the truth — that she was the woman he sought, the publisher ofThe Women’s Weekly, which he so hated?
She couldn’t, however, say no. The words wouldn’t come.
“Later?” she pleaded instead, asking him for some time in which she could consider it, to determine what she should do. Slight disappointment clouded his eyes, but he nodded in understanding and leaned back in his seat, though he didn’t relinquish her hand, for which she was grateful.
Of course, paying attention to the play now was certainly out of the question. Instead, thoughts swirled round her mind, as two vastly distinct futures stretched out in front of her. One as his wife, hosting events and welcoming children, waking up to his face every day. The other as a woman creating change, following her passions, and making a difference.
She managed to finish the evening without having to provide any type of response. With their families present, as well as the stream of acquaintances who came to greet them following the play, there was not a moment for the two of them to be alone.
When Phoebe and Aurelia took their leave, Jeffrey lifted her gloved hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against it, and she could feel the promise that he left along with it, as well as his hope for something more.
She would sleep on it, Phoebe decided. By the morning, she would know what to do.
* * *
But of course,in that, she was completely mistaken. She woke after a fitful night no closer to knowing what it was she should do regarding the request of the marquess.
Instead of preparing to go into the offices ofThe Women’s Weekly, she prepared for a meeting of a different sort. She sent out notes of invitation to her three friends. She desperately needed advice, and there were no other people to whom she would prefer to turn.
And so she found herself, a couple of hours later, surrounded by the ladies in what she thought of as her mother’s drawing room. Her father’s parlor was far too distracting. At first, she had thought to meet in a tea shop somewhere, but the possibility of prying ears surrounding them was too great a risk. As it was, she hoped Aurelia was otherwise occupied.
Julia sat next to her, while Elizabeth and Sarah were side-by-side on the facing coral-and-white striped sofa. A tea tray sat between them, and Sarah was already helping herself to one of the pastries that lined the tray.
“Well, Phoebe, I must say, my curiosity is certainly piqued. Never before have you summoned us so urgently,” said Elizabeth, her auburn hair pulled back in a neat chignon, not a hair out of place.
“I wouldn’t saysummoned,” Phoebe said delicately. “Requested.”
“Very well,” Elizabeth replied. “Now, on with it. I can hardly wait a moment more to know what it is that vexes you so.”
“Lord Berkley has asked me to marry him.”
She could have stood screaming as though she were stark mad and she didn’t think she would elicit such surprise as she did from that one statement.
Phoebe looked around at her friends, who all stared at her with mouths and eyes opened wide. Sarah had paused with the pastry halfway to her lips, while Elizabeth sat frozen and Julia leaned in just slightly closer.
“Say that again?” Julia finally queried in a hushed voice.
“The Marquess of Berkley has asked me to marry him,” Phoebe repeated, her voice just as matter-of-fact as it had been before.
“But what— when— how— what did yousay?” Sarah finally managed.
“Last night. I said, ‘Later.’”
“Pardon me?” Elizabeth asked now. “The Marquess of Berkley asked you to marry him and you told him, ‘Later’?”
“Yes,” Phoebe said, refusing to duck her head in any sort of shame as she defended herself. “He caught me off guard. We were in the middle of the Theatre Royal at Covent Garden, our voices likely echoing around the theatre.Henry VIIIwas onstage, for goodness sake! I wasn’t going to accept a marriage proposal in front of a king who lopped off the heads of his wives.”