Authors: Wendy Vella
Finn didn’t often feel shame; in fact, he couldn’t remember the last time. He always showed people the correct amount of respect and never knowingly insulted or upset a person to achieve his own ends. He was ruthless when required, yet never ignorant, or so he believed. Will’s gray eyes were steady on his as he waited.
“I have never suffered from the disease that inflicts so many,” Finn sighed. “I believe it’s called running off at the mouth,” he added, and was relieved when he heard Will’s chuckle.
“It is so rare to hear you apologize I am almost tempted not to accept. Alas, seeing the distressed look on your face, however, I fear I must.”
Finn looked out over the guests as the realization of just what this man’s friendship had come to mean settled upon him. He had not had many chances in his life for male companionship. Becoming guardian to headstrong twins at age sixteen tended to hinder friendships, but now he had Will in his life he wanted to keep him there.
“I’m not distressed. That look is simply because you took the last crab patty and I wanted it,” Finn said. “And I do apologize; I just rarely have the need to.”
Will chuckled again. “And there is the arrogant man I know so well.”
“I’m not arrogant,” Finn denied, and then when Will didn’t speak he added. “I’m not.”
“Of course you are. You’re never challenged unless it’s by me or your brothers, and usually you always get your own way in everything, again unless I’m around to stop that happening. I’m sure you’ll select a wife with no backbone, which will mean there is no one in your future questioning you. Therefore, I feel duty bound to do so.”
“I’m rapidly regretting that apology,” Finn muttered.
“Your brothers do their best to annoy you regularly and upset your narrow existence, but even there you are able to deflect, regroup, and walk away unscathed. It does my heart good to see you shaken now and again, Finneous.”
“I don’t lead a narrow existence,” Finn protested. “I lead a full and busy life.”
“Alone, with no one to naysay you.”
Finn looked over the dancer’s heads until he found Phoebe. She was smiling sweetly at Phillips, who in return was about to fall into her chest.
“I like my life,” Finn added, and to his ears he sounded defensive.
Will was silent for a while before saying, “Do you know, Finn, I think you should get to know my wife’s sister better. She is really a sweet- natured woman.”
Finn snorted. “I think not, my friend. Miss Langley and I may enjoy sparring with each other, but there is little doubt that a closer acquaintance would not be healthy for either of us.”
“Still intent of finding that perfect, sweet, and biddable wife you told me about one drunken night in India?”
Finn shook his head. “I wish you would forget that conversation.”
“Well, are you?”
“Yes,” Finn spoke softly. “It is my fondest wish, and I believe the search will soon end.”
“I know that when your mother handed the twins to you and fled, everything changed in your life, and that you wish for a wife who bears no resemblance to her. However, you have a lively wit and intelligence, Finneous. Can you not see that finding a woman with neither will leave you unhappy?”
Finn sighed. He wished he had kept his mouth shut on that drunken night. He’d told his friend far too much, it seemed. “Just because she is not outspoken does not mean my future wife will be dull, Will.”
“True,” Will nodded. “But having my own bossy, outspoken and determined woman, I want everyone to share my happiness.”
Finn laughed as Will had wanted him to.
He was subjected to another long look, and then Will stuck out his hand which Finn took.
“I wish you well then, my friend, with your hunt. However, I would ask you to remember one thing.”
Finn didn’t think he was going to want to remember what Will said, but he nodded anyway.
“Life cannot always run to plan, my friend, and remember that not all women are equal…some are worth far more effort than others.”
“That makes no sense, Ryder.”
But Will said nothing further and Finn watched him walk to where his wife stood talking with another lady. He slid his hand around her waist and Olivia leaned towards her husband. He could never imagine Phoebe Langley relying on a man for her care and support or, for that matter, leaning into him. Taking a last gulp of his drink, Finn then made his way to Miss Arbinger’s side to claim her for the next dance. At least she was sweet and amiable.
Phoebe tried again to put some distance between herself and her dance partner. After the gentle, sweet-natured Mr. Phillips, Lord Hitchcock was the direct opposite.
“Please observe the correct distance, Lord Hitchcock.”
“Forgive me, Miss Langley. I simply long to be near you.”
Lecherous pig, Phoebe thought, forcing a smile onto her face as he leered down her bodice.
“As you did Miss Tatley, just minutes before,” Phoebe added, taking another step backwards.
“No one inflames my passions like you, Miss Langley.”
Lord Hitchcock was at least sixty years old and behaving like a man of much younger years. He was dressed like a dandy, with silly high shirt points and a bright orange waistcoat. His hair was arranged in some ridiculous style that made the top of his head look like an onion at the end of its life.
“I have no wish to inflame anyone’s passions, Lord Hitchcock. Therefore, I think it best we spend no further time in each other’s company.”
Around them, guests danced and chattered, some laughing loudly with the express intent of drawing eyes, others whispering as they gossiped about people who stood no more than a foot away. Phoebe often heard people talking about her, usually woman tittering about something she’d said or done, but she ignored them and kept a smile fixed firmly on her face. She knew some people found her outspoken; however, she would not apologize for it. Phoebe had decided long ago to be true to herself.
She and her sisters had lived their early years with everything they could wish for, but all that had changed after the death of their father. Left penniless, they had resorted to stealing to survive. Donning disguises, Phoebe and Olivia, her eldest sister, had ridden out at night and robbed carriages. Phoebe still remembered the fear and how it had clenched at her insides and clawed at her throat as she had held her pistol pointed at their victims. When a person was forced to take such drastic measures to survive, it changed you. She understood what it was to be hungry and cold, and looking at the opulence and extravagance around her, she sometimes struggled to mask that difference, and sometimes she didn’t want to. Phoebe believed she was a better person now than the sweet-natured, sheltered child she had once been.
“Will you walk outside with me, my lovely Miss Langley.”
“I will not, Lord Hitchcock.” Phoebe kept her words cool, when what she really wanted to do was slap the man silly.
Idiot!
The problem for Phoebe was that she felt as if she didn’t fit here. After years of dreaming about stepping into London society, she now realized that the differences inside her made it hard for her to conform. She craved independence and the need to be herself, and struggled to be the lady she knew she should.
Thankful that the musicians chose that moment to stop, she slipped into a curtsy and then fled. She would take a few minutes alone in the retiring room, a small respite from the noise and odors of so many bodies squashed in one space. A delightful crush, the hostess had cooed. ‘A bloody squash,’ Phoebe had muttered to her sister.
She saw that Olivia and Will were talking with Lord Levermarch and Miss Arbinger, and had no wish to speak to the viscount, so Phoebe made for the door. She could always find her brother-in-law and his friend in the crowd. Both were big and towered over many of the other guests. Shooting another look at Lord Levermarch, she felt her stomach clench as he leaned down to hear something Miss Arbinger was saying to him.
It wasn’t as if he showed any interest in her like others did, yet she always felt as if her skin was itching when he was near. He was always rigidly polite, even when she was saying something outrageous or teasing him. Although sometimes when those cool blue eyes of his were on her, they came to life and she saw something flare in their depths, but then it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He was proper and never raised his voice. However, Phoebe believed that under that correct façade lay another side to the Viscount, one that he held carefully leashed and occasionally Phoebe provoked a response from.
He was big, broad-shouldered and his dress was always immaculate, if a little somber for her tastes, although again she often saw a brief flash of defiance to convention like the strip of blue satin he wore this evening. His thick, black hair was sprinkled with silver and he kept it short and well-trimmed. He was everything she always believed she would loathe in a man; however, much as she tried, Phoebe could not bring herself to loathe Lord Finneous Levermarch. He smelled good, too, like the woods surrounding her family’s home in Twoaks on a winter’s evening, crisp and fresh. He also disapproved heartily of her and everything she did. On this depressing thought, Phoebe turned left at the top of the stairs and reached the retiring room. Eager for some privacy if only for a few brief minutes, she entered.
CHAPTER TWO
“Miss Langley, don’t tell me you have run out of dance partners! La, I declare this must be a moment documented in history, our dearest Miss Langley without accompaniment.”
It was as Phoebe had told her sisters after last night’s social event. She didn’t go looking for trouble; it just invariably found her. Eyeing the bristling Lady Croxley, Phoebe realized her hopes of snatching a few moments of privacy were futile. She wondered why the women of society were either terrified of her or loathed her. Livvy said it was her beauty that intimidated them, which was hardly her fault, and she was not about to go about wearing dull brown dresses with her hair in a severe bun just to appease the masses. Fashion was her passion, and wearing these wonderful gowns a long-sought dream.
“Will you not answer the question?”
Wincing at the shrill tone, Phoebe looked around the retiring room. Apart from Lady Croxley and her two minions, there was only one other lady present. Miss Wooller, who, like Phoebe, was having her first season. They had never actually conversed, only exchanged the occasional head nod or smile.
“No,” Phoebe said, returning her gaze to the woman before her, holding her ground she stared calmly back at Lady Croxley. She was really quite pretty. Correction, she would be quite pretty were it not for the sour expression she wore permanently on her face. Blonde hair, pale skin and green eyes, Phoebe had never really stood this close to her before, mainly because they had clashed from their first meeting.
“No?” Lady Croxley lifted one elegant eyebrow. “Would you care to elaborate, or was my question to complex?”
Her two puppets dutifully giggled.
“No, I have not run out of dance partners, and as I am at present in the women’s retiring room,” Phoebe emphasized the word women’s. “I fail to see how you could come to the conclusion that I have, as surely it would take a very persistent and indeed foolish man to follow me in here.”
Lady Croxley screeched which made her look like a child throwing a tantrum.
“You are an ill-bred creature with nothing but your looks to recommend you!”
Phoebe had a temper. She also very rarely showed restraint. However, in this instance she found some. ‘Breathe and then speak,’ Livvy always told her.
“You are, of course, entitled to your opinion, Lady Croxley.”
“No true gentleman will ever offer for a trollop like you, whereas I shall be a viscountess before the season is over.”
As viscounts were not overly abundant this season, and two of the three currently in London Phoebe knew were over sixty, she could only guess the lady was referring to Lord Levermarch.
“I find your manners both offensive and unjust, Lady Croxley. I will also point out that it is you that are shrieking and behaving in a manner unbefitting a lady. Therefore, perhaps the title of trollop should be offered to you instead.”
Surprised that Miss Wooller had decided to enter the fray, Phoebe turned to watch her approach. Usually she was found on the edges of the ballroom, sitting quietly.
“Shut up, Wooller!” Lady Croxley shrieked. “You shouldn’t even be in this room, let alone at this ball. You stink of trade, and all the money in the world will never make you appealing!”
“That is quite enough, Lady Croxley. Your argument is with me, not Miss Wooller,” Phoebe said with a calm that was rapidly deserting her.