Frowning, she leaned forward and peered at a detail she had only just spotted.
Goodness.
Was that really a woman'sâ
“You seem much taken with that painting, Phoebe. Any particular reason why?”
She gave a guilty start and looked up into Lucas's face. His eyes glittered with amusement, and she had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what had drawn her attention. Her cheeks flooding with heat, she took the coward's way out.
“Not particularly. All the paintings are lovely, are they not?” she said in a bright voice. “I have already discovered several by Benjamin West, which was the reason I asked my aunt to allow me to visit Somerset House. Mr. West was originally from Philadelphia. Did you know that, Lucas?”
His lips pressed into a thin line as he fought to hold back laughter at her ineffectual evasion. Inwardly she winced, knowing full well she sounded the definition of a hen-witted female.
She cast a quick glance past him. At least Aunt Georgie had not seen her peering at that painting, since she had taken Annabel's arm and moved to the other side of the gallery.
Lucas placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “I did not know that, Phoebe. Perhaps you could show me some of Mr. West's paintings.”
His mouth twitched and his eyes still held that telltale gleam.
She sighed. “Very well, although I know you are humoring me. And I also know it was very bad of me to be looking so closely at that indecent painting. But I have never seen anything like it, and you cannot blame me for being curious.”
“My sweet, there's nothing wrong with curiosity. Besides, you're bound to see more scandalous sights if you remain in London. I've attended balls where more than one lady's wardrobe malfunctioned in the most spectacular way. Not everyone would think that's a bad thing, either,” he mused.
Her jaw slackened. She could not decide if she was more shocked by his casual acceptance of vulgar behavior, or by the fact that he called her
my sweet
.
Too flustered to respond, she let him guide her at a measured pace around the room. Fortunately, the din from the crowd minimized the need for conversation. She studiously gazed at all the paintings, trying to ignore the way he studied her. Even more importantly, she tried to ignore the way his very masculine presence made the breath shallow in her lungs and her legs go wobbly. She had to resist the urge to clutch his arm and lean against him, but that would only heighten the alarming sensations flooding through her body.
“Phoebe,” he prodded in a deep, quiet tone.
“Yes?”
When he didn't answer, she looked up at him. His smoky gaze snagged hers, and her knees knocked against each other. Lucas affected her in the strangest way, and the fact that he was so much taller and broader than she was prompted some rather naughty and wholly embarrassing thoughts.
His lips curled in a roguish smile. “You're looking lovely today, did you know that? Your new bonnet is charming. In fact, everything about you is charming.”
His extravagant praise made her pause. Why had he taken to complimenting her so effusively these last few days? He had never cared about her clothes and appearance before. She could not be sure she liked it. It made her too aware of him when her nerves were already stretched tight.
“Thank you,” she said cautiously.
“I don't think I've seen that brooch before.” He touched the cameo on her shoulder. “There's a larger, similar portrait of your grandfather as a young man at the manor.”
She touched it, letting her fingers rest there for a few seconds. For years, she had fancied she could draw strength from the cherished heirloom. It somehow connected her to the family she had never known, serving as a lifeline to something precious in the lonely days after her father's death.
“It was my mother's most prized possession.” She flicked him a tentative glance, hoping he would understand. “I know that seems odd, given they remained estranged to her death.”
“Your grandfather had a portrait of your mother, from her first Season. He kept it in his study, where he could always see it.” He made a subtle movement, bringing her closer to his side. Phoebe knew she should resist, but thinking of her parents left her with an aching heart, and Lucas offered comfort.
“I didn't know your grandfather that well,” he said. “I saw him very little, during those years in the Peninsula. But I spent a fair amount of time at his side in the months before his death, and I know he deeply regretted the parting with your mother. He truly loved her.”
A joy that felt more like sadness closed her throat. Taking a deep breath, she focused on a large canvas of a farmer's field on a bright summer's day. The colors swam in a haze of tears, forcing her to blink them away. “Then why do you suppose he never wrote to her?”
He gently turned her so her back was to the canvas and his body shielded her from any curious onlookers. “Pride, I suppose. From what Uncle Arthur has told me, the earl was never one to admit a mistake. But the fact that your grandfather wanted you with him should tell you how much he loved your mother, even if it came too late.”
He tipped her chin up, brushing a finger along her jaw before dropping his hand down. Such a small gesture, but she trembled nonetheless. “I know he would have loved you, too,” he said. “Those last months, all he cared about was your future. He worried about you, Phoebe. That's why he asked me to take care of you.”
His eyes probed hers, intense and watchful. She inhaled a tangled mix of emotionsâlonging, anxiety, and something that had the power to completely devastate her if she let it. Her mind skittered away from it, frightened that Lucas might see it in her eyes.
She cleared her throat. “Thank you, Lucas. But as I have told you before, I do not need taking care of.”
His eyes got that flinty look. Not a good sign. “Phoebe, what do you want from life?”
The abrupt question surprised her. She peered up at him, wondering if he really expected an answer.
His patient, watchful silence indicated he did. Shifting uneasily, she glanced around the room. Aunt Georgie and Annabel were sitting on a bench in the center of the room, talking to a woman in a purple-plumed hat. The rest of the room was a whirl of noise and motion, everyone too busy to notice her or Lucas. She felt separated from the rest of the world, encased in an odd little bubble with him.
She raised her eyes back to his face. “I wish not to be a burden to my family or friends.”
His eyebrows shot up. “That's it?” he asked incredulously. “That's the sum total of your worldly ambitions?”
She shrugged. What else could she tell him? That she wanted what everyone wantedâhome, family, love? How could she say that to him, knowing the burden her grandfather had placed upon him? He would surely take it as a reminder of his obligation to herâor what he believed his obligation to be. She no more wanted to be a burden to him than to her brother, George, or to the Stanton family.
He muttered something under his breath. Taking her arm, he started them back on their round of the room. “And how does this grand desire of yours translate into practicalities?” he asked, his voice hinting of sarcasm.
She cast him a scowl. “I did have a life before I came to England. It might not mean much to you, but it had purpose and meaning for me.”
“Ah, so we're back to that. Do you really wish to return to a life of drudgery in your brother's household?”
“It was
not
drudgery,” she replied stiffly.
He snorted. “You're avoiding the question.”
“I believe we have discussed this before, Lucas. You already know I do not wish to return to that life,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “Not if I have a choice. But nor can I spend all my days living off General Stanton's generosity.”
Except the thought of leaving her uncle's household made her positively ill. She felt at home at Stanton House, more at ease with life than any time since the death of her father. But that sense of belonging did not make it right, nor did it justify a life of idleness at the expense of her aunt and uncle.
“But apparently you could spend the rest of your days living off your brother's generosity,” he said with a charming smile. “I think there's a flaw in your logic, sweetheart.”
She stared at him. How was it possible he could both annoy and flatter her at the same time? His condescending attitude deserved a set down, and yet her treacherous heart melted with pleasure at his teasing affection.
She took refuge in the irritation. “I do not have to be a dependent. There are other things I could do.”
“Really? Like what?” he asked with great interest.
“I am very well educated. I taught my nieces and nephews. Surely I could teach other children, as a governess.”
His amusement evaporated. “The hell you will.”
Disconcerted, she looked away. “I will not spend the rest of my life as a dependent.”
His finger tapped her chin again, provoking her to look at him. A tiny gasp escaped her when she beheld the stern, proud expression on his face.
“You are the granddaughter of an earl, and a Stanton. You were raised by a gentleman in genteel circumstances, and a life of servitude will never be in the cards for you. Do you understand ?”
His tightly repressed anger hollowed out her stomach, but she would not allow him to intimidate her. She thrust out her chin. “I will do whatever I believe is right.”
He bent his head, coming nose to nose. “Phoebe, I will not repeat myself. You will not again speak of this madcap idea of being a governess, do you understand?”
As she glared back at him, she heard a titter from beside her. Glancing to her right, she saw two young women watching them with avid interest. She groaned inside. The last thing she wished for was to make a spectacle, but the determined look on Lucas's face showed he held no similar compunctions.
“Very well,” she grumbled, desperate to end the discussion.
“Very well, what?”
She rolled her eyes. “I understand I must give up any notion of being a governess.”
He studied her for a moment before nodding his head. “Good. And I suggest you never mention it around the General, in particular. I guarantee you wouldn't like the reaction.”
She sighed, deflated. “I promise. But what am I to do with myself? I cannot go on like this forever, no matter what you and my aunt and uncle might think. It is not right, Lucas, and such an aimless existence would not make me happy.”
As tempting as it was to disregard the future, her life with the Stantons could only be a temporary respite. Even Lucas must think the same, since he had raised it in the first place. Given that, what choice did she have but to return to America, to George and his family? At least there she had her brother's children to love.
But anguish speared through her just at the thought of leaving England . . . and Lucas. Her chest grew tight and she found it hard to pull in air.
“Phoebe, look at me.”
His voice was quiet but carried a commanding tone. She looked up. His eyes were gentle with understanding, but that only made her throat tighten more.
“There's no need for you to worry about anything until after Christmas,” he said. “Everything will be sorted out in due course. I promise.”
She wanted desperately to believe him. His gaze heated as she studied him, and a coil of that all too familiar yearning spun out from the center of her body to her limbs.
“You do trust me, don't you?” His voice went low and husky.
Repressing a shiver, she nodded.
“Then let it go for now, and try to enjoy yourself,” he said. “You've more than earned it.”
“I will try,” she whispered.
“Good. Now let's collect Aunt Georgie and Annabel. I'm taking you to Gunter's for ices. Have you ever had one?”
She shook her head.
“I thought not,” he said with a grin. “Consider it all part of the plan to enjoy yourself as best you can. Whether you want to or not.”
Then he took her hand and settled her against his side, as if she had always belonged there and always would.
Chapter 10
Lucas glanced at the casement clock in the corner of his uncle's library, impatient for the women to join them. Tonight was Phoebe's first ball and an important one at that, since Lady Framingham's semiannual extravaganza marked the official close of the Little Season. Tonight would herald Phoebe's formal introduction into London society.
But how long did it take to put on a gown and dress one's hair, especially with a whole bloody regiment of lady's maids to assist?
Uncle Arthur cleared his throat, bringing Lucas back to the stilted conversation in the library.
“Forgive me, sir,” Lucas said. “What did you say?”
From behind his imposing desk, his uncle studied him with an ironic eye. “I didn't say anything. It was your cousin Silverton who addressed you, but you were so deep in thought you failed to hear him.”
Lucas repressed a grimace. His cousin was the reason for his foul mood. Aunt Georgie had decreed that the Marquess and Marchioness of Silverton would accompany them to the ball, to illustrate the full weight of the family's support behind Phoebe. Although Lucas could appreciate the strategy, it meant spending even more time in Silverton's company.
On a rational level, he knew how ridiculous their feud had become, and how tiresome for the family. Some days, when he was especially weary of hating Silverton, he even thought about asking his forgiveness for stealing Esme away. There were even times when the words came to the tip of his tongue, but something always held him back. Perhaps it was the understanding that Lucas could never forgive
himself
for betraying the man who'd been his best friend. He had rightfully earned Silverton's enmity and he wasn't about to give it up, especially since his cousin had never given any indication he would accept an apology. Better to go on as they were rather than risk exacerbating the ugly drama that had nearly blown the family apart all those years ago.
“If his lordship would repeat the question,” Lucas said in a bored voice, “I will do my best to answer it.”
Lounging in an armchair on the other side of his uncle's desk, Silverton simply smiled. But Lucas knew him better than almost anyone, and read the meaning in his expression. Inside, his cousin seethed.
“I wondered when you would be returning to Mistletoe Manor,” Silverton replied in an equally bored tone.
Lucas snorted. “Does it matter? I hardly think you'll be visiting.”
Silverton's eyes narrowed to frosty blue slits. “For some reason I cannot fathom, Meredith has a desire to see the manor, and I would not care to deny her the pleasure of a visit. If it would not inconvenience you too greatly, that is,” he finished with heavy sarcasm.
Lucas almost groaned. He loathed the idea of Meredith and the other Stanton women traipsing around his ramshackle manor house. Especially Phoebe, who would likely run screaming in the other direction, or burst into tears at what her grandfather had let the house become. He hated disappointing her but neither did he want to offend Meredith.
“Meredith will always be welcome at Mistletoe Manor. I would suggest, however, that she wait until after Christmas. I hope to have the house ready for visitors by Twelfth Night.”
Even then it would be evident how bad the situation was, especially to Silverton, who had the finest holdings in Kent. The last thing Lucas needed was the family taking on the Merritt estate as their next project. He had enough obstacles to overcome without their well-meaning but usually ill-fated interference.
To his surprise, Silverton nodded. “I understand the old earl left matters in regrettable shape. The estate has some of the best orchards in Kent, not to mention one of the finest examples of an Elizabethan manor house in the county. I sincerely hope you'll be able to restore it to its former glory.”
Oddly enough, his cousin sounded sincere. Lucas couldn't remember the last time they'd had a civil conversation. In their youth, they would babble away for hours about everything under the sun, but those days were long gone.
“Perhaps Silverton and I can ride over one afternoon and take a look,” said Uncle Arthur. “Your cousin and I have been managing estates for years, while you're still new to the game. Doesn't hurt to ask for help, you know.”
What a bloody awful idea
. Lucas didn't need Silverton poking around the place. Mistletoe Manor was a wreck, and the idea of comparing it to Belfield Abbeyâand Silverton
would
compare themâmade Lucas's insides go tight.
But his cousin did not appear entranced by the idea, either. In fact, in that imperious way of his, Silverton looked downright appalled.
Fortunately, the library door opened and Aunt Georgie and Meredith walked into the room. His aunt looked dignified and elegant, and Meredith's pink net gown set off her statuesque beauty to great effect. Silverton's face lit up when he beheld his wife, and Lucas had to repress a flash of envy.
Not that he desired Meredith. He'd learned firsthand the harsh lesson to never covet another man's woman. But he did envy what they obviously sharedâhappiness with each other and their children, and a deep contentment with life. Lucas doubted he would ever possess anything similar, and perhaps he didn't even deserve it.
“Good evening, Lucas.”
He jerked around. Phoebe had slipped so quietly into the room he'd failed to notice. But he noticed now, and what he saw rendered him speechless.
A diamond of the first water.
Her gown, gauzy and clingy, was the color of an autumn leaf just beginning to fade. Her glossy black curls were piled on her head, revealing her slender neck and pretty ears. A few artfully arranged tendrils curled down around the sides of her face, drawing attention to her delicate features. Her big brown eyes shone with excitement, and her lips, pink and luscious, curved into a shy smile.
But what set him back on his heels was what the dress revealed. The quaint little rustic had been consigned to distant memory, and in her place stood a lush, sweetly curved temptress. The gown barely skimmed her shoulders, and the neckline dipped down over plump white breasts that would drive any man under the age of eighty insane with lust. Yes, she wore long gloves that covered most of her arms, but that was nothing in comparison to all the tempting flesh laid bare for any man to see.
Phoebe's smile faltered under his bemused gaze, replaced by an uncertain look. She bit her lower lip as she cast a doubtful glance in Aunt Georgie's direction.
“Lucas, does your cousin not look lovely?” His aunt's voice held a note of reprimand, prompting him to recollect himself. He forced a smile as he stepped forward to take Phoebe's gloved hand.
“Without question.” His voice deepened to a rumble, and that had him mentally wincing. “I have no doubt Phoebe will be the belle of the ball.”
He also didn't doubt he would be spending the evening protecting her from rakes and wolves, while doing his best to keep his own hands off her luscious body. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined Phoebe like this, nor considered how greatly it might affect him.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “It is very kind of you to say so, but I cannot help feeling uncomfortable. I feel so . . .” Blushing, she let her voice trail off.
“Exposed?” he finished dryly.
She nodded.
Meredith laughed. “Lucas, don't be such a prude. Half the women at the ball will be wearing dresses a great deal more revealing. Phoebe looks just as she should.”
Silently, he disagreed. One of the things he truly appreciated about Phoebe was that she was
not
like most of the women he knew.
Aunt Georgie gave Phoebe a reassuring smile. “There is nothing in your appearance that will cause any kind of remark, other than the fact that you look perfect.”
Phoebe sighed. “I will defer to your collective wisdom, but I know I will have to resist the temptation to spend the evening yanking up my bodice.”
Everyone laughed but Lucas.
Aunt Georgie turned to smile at him. “Lucas, I believe you have something to give your cousin, do you not?”
Right.
He'd been so knocked back by the new Phoebe that he'd forgotten what came next. It had been his aunt's idea, but with a little luck he'd be the one to benefit from Phoebe's gratitude.
Reaching for the velvet pouch he'd left on the end table, he carefully tipped out the contents into his hand. “This was your grandmother's,” he said, holding up the ruby and diamond necklace.
While not large, the stones were of the best quality and superbly cut. The finely wrought setting perfectly suited Phoebe's delicate beauty.
Phoebe sucked in a breath. “That belonged to my grandmother?” Her voice sounded curiously strained.
“Yes. By tradition, this necklace has been worn by the countesses of Merritt since the early seventeenth century. Your grandfather gave it to your grandmother, and now I'd like to give it to you.”
He undid the clasp and prepared to put the gleaming strand around her unadorned neck. The only jewels Phoebe wore were simple garnet drop earrings. He and Aunt Georgie had planned it that way so she could wear the necklace. Such an occasion demanded a special gift, and it didn't hurt that the giving would also signal his intentions, both to Phoebe and to the rest of the family.
But as he stepped forward to place the gemstones on her neck, Phoebe backed away. She held up one hand, and damned if she didn't look ready to fly into a panic.
Lucas stopped short and frowned. “What's wrong?”
She shook her head. “I cannot wear it.”
“Why not?”
“It is much too ornate for me,” she responded in a tight voice.
He tamped down his impatience with the inconvenient reassertion of her Quaker modesty. She would parade herself in a revealing gown and yet balk at wearing a cherished family heirloom? God preserve him from female logic.
Meredith cast him a swift glance and moved to stand beside Phoebe. “My dear, the necklace is perfectly appropriate, I assure you. And it's your grandmother's, too, so you shouldn't feel any hesitation in wearing it.”
Phoebe's chin jerked up in defiance. “And yet, I do.”
She returned her gaze to Lucas. Her features had settled into a calm mask, but her eyes held a volatile mix of emotions, including a pain he didn't understand. “I thank you for your generosity, Cousin,” she said in a formal voice. “But I cannot accept your gift.”
Lucas could barely restrain his frustration. “Why the devil not?”
Uncle Arthur bristled. “Watch your language around the ladies. Especially your aunt.”
Aunt Georgie rolled her eyes. She heard worse from her husband every day. Nonetheless, the entire situation had turned into a fiasco, made more humiliating by the fact that Silverton was shaking his head with disbelief.
Lucas switched his gaze back to Phoebe. From the neck down she was the most tempting woman he'd ever seen. But from the neck up she was all rigid, disapproving Quaker.
“I am not comfortable with excessive ornamentation,” she said stiffly. “Naturally, I am grateful for your generosity, but I would ask you to respect my wishes.”
That was too much for Uncle Arthur. “Good Lord, child. Those are the Merritt jewels and the Earl of Merritt wishes you to wear them. What possible objection could you have? Don't want to offend your cousin, do you?”
Phoebe's eyes widened, and Lucas bit back a curse. Yes, he was angry she had chosen this moment to exercise her ridiculous scruples, but he didn't want his uncle reprimanding her in front of half the family.
“Arthur, you are not helping,” warned Aunt Georgie.
“Well, dammit, my lady,” her husband protested. “The gel isn't making any sense, and I'd like to know why.”
“Perhaps this isn't the best time to discuss the issue,” Meredith broke in. “After all, we don't want to be late for Phoebe's first ball.”
“Very wise, my love,” Silverton said. “I vote for tabling this debate until later.” He cast an ironic glance toward Lucas. “Preferably when the rest of us aren't around.”
Lucas felt his temper rise, but this time he couldn't keep it in check. “I don't give a damn what you think,” he growled at his cousin. “But I do give a damn about what Phoebe thinks.”
He turned back to her. She stood her ground, unbending and cold. She'd shut him out, and that infuriated him.
“No, Lucas,” his aunt said firmly. “Now is not the time.”
He kept his eyes fastened on Phoebe's pale face. She locked her gaze on his waistcoat.
“Aside from the excessive ornamentation of the piece,” she finally said, “it would be most improper for me to accept it, especially from thee. As thee said, the necklace is handed down through the generations, from one countess of Merritt to the next. I am not the countess of Merritt and, therefore, I cannot take it.”