CHAPTER20
Jeffrey admired Phoebe’s home. She had clearly been meticulous about its upkeep following the passing of her parents, and somehow it suited her with its tidy walk, traditional brick, and untamed ivy strewn over the side wall.
He smiled as he strode up to the front door, wondering what they would do with the house after they were married. Would Aurelia remain, or would she prefer to join his household? He cringed slightly at the thought of adding not only Phoebe, buttwomore women to his home, but at the very least, he enjoyed the company of Phoebe’s aunt.
The butler allowed him in, and Jeffrey was shown into a different room this time — not the parlor full of her father’s curiosities, but a drawing room that was much softer, more feminine. He assumed it had been used by her mother, and he wondered which room Phoebe preferred.
He asked her as much when she walked into the room, finding her dressed in a plain blue morning dress that somehow favored her exotic looks with its simplicity.
“I couldn’t say,” she responded, her eyes widening in surprise at his question. “I enjoy using both of them, for they are each so unique and remind me of my parents and who they were.”
“And what of a room that suits you?”
“I have my private chambers for that,” she said, pausing for a moment before smiling somewhat shyly and he swallowed hard but recovered quickly.
“Ah yes, the chambers you are currently redecorating?”
“Redecor—” she looked confused for a moment, but then her eyes cleared. “Oh yes! Just a few simple changes, really. It is nothing particularly disruptive.”
Her expression shifted for a moment as she looked down at his hand.
“What have you got there?”
He looked down himself, shocked when he found that the newspaper was still clutched within his fingers.
“I had it with me on the phaeton,” he explained. “It was sitting next to me on the seat and I must have picked it up without thinking once I arrived. Just a newspaper.”
“That doesn’t look like just any newspaper,” she said, her eyes narrowing in on it. “That looks to me likeThe Women’s Weekly. Are you interested in fashion advice, Jeffrey?”
“Oh,The Women’s Weekly, is it?” he asked with a weak laugh. “Ah, I must have picked it up accidentally. Viola’s been reading it, as much as I discourage her not to, of course.”
“Of course?” she said, an eyebrow raised as she crossed her arms over her chest. “And why not? Viola’s her own woman, well of age. She can do as she pleases, or, at the very least, read what she likes, can she not?”
“Oh, come,” he said, his exasperation emerging after they had avoided this subject for so long. “The women in this paper may have ideals, but none of this is going to come to anything. All that will happen is that they will get hurt, and create unsubstantiated ideas in the minds of other women that will not go anywhere.”
“Have you actually read any of it?” she asked, striding toward him, and he was momentarily distracted by the emerald of her eyes. But then they flashed at him with such anger that he was brought back to the present.
“Some of it, yes.”
Well, perhaps three articles of all that had been published, but he was not going to admit as much.
“And what do you disagree with? That women should have minds of their own?”
“No,” he said somewhat uncomfortably. A short time ago, he would have argued with much more vehemence, but he had learned that it brought him much more pleasure to enjoy the side of this woman that was amiable and bright, and he was reluctant to enter into a battle of wills — particularly because now he knew there was a very good chance she would win. “But what would happen if, as this paper suggests, women kept their property in a marriage? Do you know of all the estates that would go to ruin without the promised dowry of a potential wife?”
“And why do such estates fall into ruin?” she challenged. “Because of the lords who far prefer to spend their time gambling and whoring instead of taking proper care of what they are so fortunate to own!”
She was potentially right, but he wasn’t about to admit that.
“Most women enjoy the status they are provided, and the opportunity to spend their lives raising their children and worrying only about what style of gown to wear to the next ball,” he said, pacing the room now. “Why do you not feel the same?”
“You knew from the moment we met that I would never be a woman who felt such a way,” she said, clearly angry and yet retaining an even tone. “Do I seem the type of woman who would ever be satisfied with a life in which my most important decision is choosing whether to wear blue or red?”
She certainly did not.
“If women and men were equal to one another,” he continued, “what would come next? Women in fist-to-cuffs or brawling whenever they disagreed?”
“Of course not,” she said with a sniff. “You are being ridiculous. First of all, men do not do so every time they argue. Secondly, women are much more civilized than that.”