The Princess & the Pea (26 page)

"Oh?" Cece suppressed a skeptical grin. "Just what did you tell her?"

Jared tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and the two strolled toward the other guests. "I simply informed her I would tolerate no more interference. I advised her the next moderately acceptable American heiress would be my bride."

"Indeed." Cece raised an incredulous brow. "Am I to gather then that I am moderately acceptable?"

He stopped and studied her lazily. His gaze drifted down her body, lingering here and there with a thoroughness that brought a rush of heat to her cheeks.

The caress of his insolent glance continued until she wasn't sure if she wanted to slap his face or throw herself into his arms. Finally his gaze met hers.

His eyes twinkled with unconcealed amusement. "Moderately."

She gasped with indignation. "Moderately?"

"There you are." Lady Millicent bustled up to them, oblivious to the sparring match she interrupted. "Cece, my dear, you have done a marvelous job. The evening is off to an excellent start, and I've no doubt this is just the beginning."

Lady Millicent positioned herself between Jared and Cece. locking their arms with hers, and started toward the other guests, chatting all the while. "It's all so wonderfully creative and original. Who would have thought of moving everything out-of-doors? Even the cooking. Of course, everyone here is giving Olivia the credit for all this." Millicent shook her head in an exasperated manner. "It's dreadfully unfair."

Cece and Jared traded knowing glances.

"I quite agree," Jared said, "it is unfair."

"It's nothing." Cece said quickly. "This is, after all, Lady Olivia's party. I was simply helping out."

Millicent snorted disdainfully. "Olivia took advantage of your good nature. It was quite unsporting of her. Why, I—"

Millicent halted abruptly and gasped. "It can't be!"

Cece and Jared followed her gaze. A tall, distinguished-looking man stood on the edge of the gathering and appeared to be searching the crowd.

"He looks vaguely familiar." Jared said thoughtfully, "but I can't quite place him."

"Who is he, Lady Millicent?" Cece said, curiosity in her voice.

"This is completely unexpected. I didn't even know he was in England. How delightful." Millicent broke into a grin and a brisk walk. "That, my dear children, is my brother-in-law. Quentin's father, Sir Robert Bainbridge and—dear me."

Millicent pulled to a stop and stared at Cece. "I nearly forgot."

"What?" Concern, brought on by the odd look on Lady Millicent's face, underlaid Cece's word.

Millicent pulled a deep breath. "Robin is not only a member of my family, but he easily could have been part of yours.

"But for a quirk of fate, he would have married your mother."

Phoebe White's mind wandered and her gaze drifted. It was not as if Henry and the gentlemen he was in such an animated discussion with were boring, mind you. On the contrary, the impact of the value of the dollar versus the pound when it comes to something-or-other as it related to what-in-the-world was fascinating beyond words. Phoebe took a long sip of champagne and stifled the impulse to yawn.

Still, she had to give Henry his due. He no doubt knew she paid no attention whatsoever: regardless, every now and then, he'd nod in her direction, as if she were a legitimate part of the conversation. Henry was such a dear.

Her gaze meandered amid the guests. While none of them realized it, she was well aware this evening was the product of her daughter's hard work. Phoebe would have been more than happy to help Cece had the child only contacted her at Millicent's. But no, Cece was determined to manage this event by herself. That she did so splendidly filled Phoebe with pride and a touch of melancholy: Her daughter was obviously well prepared to stand on her own two feet. Her oldest babe was no longer a child.

Phoebe's casual glance caught on a tall figure near the edge of the crowd. Blond and broad shouldered, his very shape appeared reminiscent. She pulled her brows together in a considering frown. Surely she knew who this was, although she was certain she had not been introduced to him this evening. She observed him idly and sipped her wine. His features were still hidden in the shadow's and her curiosity peaked. The stranger turned to accept a glass from a servant and stepped forward. Lantern light flickered on his face.

Phoebe's breath caught in her throat and time stood still.

"Robin," she said with a soft gasp.

For a moment she was no longer the mother of two nearly grown daughters and the wife of a millionaire but a green girl on her first trip abroad. For a moment twenty-three years of love and marriage and life fell away and she was again innocent and untried and trusting. And for a moment the first man she ever loved, the first man who ever made her heart sing and her hands tremble, waited once again for her across a crowded ballroom ... or an ocean.

Just like that awkward girl, Phoebe stared, unable to pull her gaze away. Panic squeezed her heart. What would she say to him? What would she do? What would he do? It had been so very long. Did he miss her? Hate her? Love her? Had he been happy without her? Did he still want her? What would be her response if the answer ... was yes?

It wasn't as if they hadn't ultimately cleared things up between them. But it had all been by letters. All the anger and sorrow and resignation had been dealt with by written words only. This would be their first face-to-face meeting since they parted, each vowing eternal dedication to the other.

He looked absolutely wonderful. Older, of course, but distinguished and handsome nonetheless. Her mirror told her she had aged gracefully. Her figure was still trim, her face still fair. Would he think so?

Robin's gaze flicked past her, then snapped back to mesh and lock with hers. Stunned disbelief washed over his face, followed quickly by resolve. He started toward her, and she fought an immediate impulse to run, whether toward him or away she didn't know. Shock rooted her to the spot.

He drew closer, and even at a distance she could see a steely glint of purpose in his eyes, a sense of determination in his step. What were his intentions?

Abruptly, someone stepped between them and she lost sight of him in the sudden wave of bodies milling about the grounds. Her heart thudded in her chest and she gulped a bracing swallow of champagne in a futile effort to quiet her unsteady nerves. The crowd shifted and she craned her neck to see around those still blocking her view.

"Phoebe." His voice was a dream from the past.

She tightened her fingers on the wineglass. Somewhere in the back of her mind she noted that her manner was exactly like her daughter's. Phoebe squared her shoulders and raised her chin. Pulling a slow, steady breath, she turned.

She held out her hand and cast him her most sincere smile. It was the smile of one acquaintance to another. Serene. Pleasant. Impersonal.

"Robin, how delightful. Millicent didn't mention that you were expected."

"I wasn't." His hand clasped hers. His gaze searched her face with an intensity that weakened her knees and her resolve. He brought her hand to his lips and brushed the back of it lightly. The skin beneath her gloved hand sizzled with the heat of his touch. "If I had known you were here I would have returned to England much sooner."

"We decided to come on a sudden impulse. The visit wasn't planned at all." What was she saying? Inane, everyday things. Social niceties. Polite conversation. What did it matter when his eyes blazed into hers with the fire of a man rediscovering a long-lost treasure? "It was my daughter's idea."

Gently she pulled her hand from his, but his gaze refused to release her.

"It has been a long time, Phoebe." Even today, she would have recognized his voice anywhere. Mellow and strong, it echoed in the depths of her soul.

"Almost forever," she said softly, abandoning all pretense at reserved behavior.

"I must speak to you." His tone rang with controlled passion. "Alone."

Shock, fear and excitement coursed through her veins. "I'm not certain that is—"

"Phoebe?" Henry's voice jolted her back to reality. To 1895. To who and what she was, Ladies Aid volunteer ... accomplished hostess ... proud parent... loving wife. "I don't believe I've met...?"

"Henry," Phoebe said quickly, grateful for the opportunity to tear her gaze from Robin's and breathe freely again. "This is an old friend of mine, Sir Robert Bainbridge. Robin, this is my husband, Henry White."

"Your husband," Robin lifted a brow in a subtly superior manner.

"Robert Bainbridge." Henry said thoughtfully, as if he were trying to place the name. His eyes narrowed a fraction and he smiled a pleasant smile he reserved for particularly difficult business dealings.

Phoebe's heart sank. She had told Henry everything about Robin. After all, she'd met her future husband on the ship returning home from England. It was absolute foolishness to believe for a second he would have forgotten all about Robin.

No doubt no one but she noticed the interchange between the two men. How they seemed to size up the mettle of the other. They were of a similar height and breadth, but the differences were far more striking. Robin was fair, with hair still the color of sunshine on wheat and eyes blue and deep. Henry's eyes were a rich brown, so endless when aroused or angry, one could almost see one's soul in them. Even though his walnut hair was kissed at the temples by silver, he appeared far younger than his forty-eight years.

"Pleasure to meet you." Henry said and held out his hand.

Robin gripped it with a smile that never reached his eyes. "Quite."

Each man stared at the other with a kind of primal challenge Phoebe would have found fascinating had she been able to concentrate on that instead of noting how the knuckles of both men were white with the grip of the other.

For a long moment they stood, until breaking apart as if by mutual consent.

"If you will excuse me," Robin said politely. "I have yet to find my son."

"By all means," Henry nodded.

"Phoebe, my dear." Robin's gaze raked across her, and she shivered with the message in his eyes. "It was delightful to see you. I'm certain I will see you again soon." He nodded at Henry. "White."

"Bainbridge." Henry's voice rang firm and cool. He watched Robin cross the lawn and greet his son. his gaze hard and considering. "Phoebe?"

"Oh, do look, Henry." Phoebe said, panic rushing her words. She had no desire to talk about Robin, at least not at this moment. She took his arm and steered him in the general direction in which she had last seen Cece. "Cece is right over here, I believe. I promised to—"

"Phoebe..."

She refused to look at him. "I do not wish to discuss Robin. I would prefer—"

"Phoebe ..." He fairly growled the word.

She stopped and stared up at him. "Yes, dear?"

"Are you cold?"

His consideration touched her and guilt tweaked her conscience. How could she forget about Henry? Even for a moment? "Thank you, but I'm quite fine."

His eyes caught hers with an intensity that even after all these years never failed to send flutters through her midsection. "Then ... why are you trembling?"