The Seduction of Lady Phoebe (2 page)

The milk and toast came, and Rose made Phoebe drink and eat before finally tucking her desolate mistress into bed and pulling the hangings closed.

Phoebe lay in the darkness trying to push Lord Marcus Finley out of her mind. He was a vile rogue and an arrogant troll. Thank God, he was being sent to the West Indies. She would never have to ever see him again.

Eight years later. June 1814, Newhaven, Sussex, England

Guy, the Seventh Marquis of Dunwood, watched as the American-made schooner approached the dock. A tall, tanned, young man in his late twenties stood at the bow, a line in hand ready to throw to one of the dock hands on the pier. He looked more like a seaman than a well-born gentleman.

His youngest son. The one, Guy thought ruefully, he hadn’t recognized two years ago, when Marcus had come to visit.

The line sailed through the air and looped perfectly around a piling. After tying it off, Marcus walked back and addressed the captain before disappearing from sight.

Not more than a half an hour later, Dunwood greeted his son. “Welcome home. You could have returned earlier.”

The good humor drained from Marcus’s eyes. “Not and have made provisions for Lovet’s family. They were left in bad straits when he died.”

Dunwood would never understand the reason his son saw the need to care for those who were not his dependents. Apparently the West Indies had more of an impact on him than Dunwood thought it would. Well, what Marcus did with his private fortune was no bread and butter of Dunwood’s. Rather than argue, he asked, “How is the new steward doing?”

His son’s broad shoulders relaxed. “Well indeed. He used to work for the Spencer-Jones family, but when their third oldest son married, the property my new steward was managing went to the son. The man came highly recommended. I made the offer before anyone else could beat me to it.”

“Good. I’m glad you were able to find someone.” Dunwood started toward the two large coaches near an inn. “Where are your trunks?”

“I’ve only one. Covey, my man, will see it stowed,” Marcus said. “How are Arthur and the girls faring?”

“Your brother is doing as well as can be expected, as are his daughters.”

Marcus glanced around to see Covey wave to him. The last time he’d visited his brother, Arthur was hale and hearty. Now he was dying of consumption. His wife had passed a few years ago leaving him two daughters, but no heir.

As a result, Marcus had been recalled from banishment. He wondered how difficult it was going to be, after all the years of being his own master, to live with his father and be under Dunwood’s rule.

Glancing around the small town, Marcus felt as if he were in a foreign country, but he’d been gone long enough. He looked at his ship, the
Lady Phoebe
, tied up at the dock. Perhaps too long.

“After you’ve spent a few days visiting your brother, I’ll take you to London.” His father’s lips formed a
moue
. “You need to call on Weston and Hoby to see about your clothing before the Little Season begins. One of your first jobs will be finding a wife.”

Marcus nodded. At long last he and his father agreed about something. “I’ll make it a priority.”

Last week in August 1814, Cranbourne Place, England

Phoebe walked briskly into the large, sunny breakfast room, the train of her pale green nankeen riding habit draped over one arm.

She greeted her brother, Geoffrey, the sixth Earl of Cranbourne. “Good morning.”

When he looked up from his news sheet and met her gaze, Phoebe saw the fatigue etched in his face.

“Oh, you poor dear,” she said. “Is it the baby?” Miles was Geoffrey and his wife, Amabel’s six-month-old son.

“Yes,” Geoffrey replied. “He’s getting his first tooth. I dare say, had I’d known he would be in this much pain, I would have recommended to him that he not bother.”

Grinning, Phoebe said, “I am sure he would have appreciated the advice.”

Geoffrey handed her a section of the news sheet, and they sat in companionable silence until her sister-in-law joined them.

After pouring a cup of tea, Amabel asked Phoebe, “When do you leave for Town?”

She swallowed a piece of toast. “Next week.”

“I do wish I could go with you,” Amabel said.

“What a whisker!” Phoebe smiled. “You have no desire at all to go to London and dance attendance on me, and, indeed, I have no wish for you to have to do so. I am quite content to stay with my aunt St. Eth. I much prefer the political parties the St. Eths attend.”

Her sister-in-law pulled a face. “But they are so dry.”

Phoebe laughed when Amabel wrinkled her nose. “I know, for you the subject is a dead bore, but I enjoy it extremely.”

Her sister-in-law frowned. “My dear, how will you ever find a husband if you are attending only political parties?”

“It is not as if there are
no
unmarried gentlemen at the parties,” Phoebe retorted. “Besides, I daresay I have met every unmarried gentleman the length and breadth of England. Not one has given me the smallest desire to marry. Perhaps I shall set up a salon and become a famous bluestocking.”

Her sister-in-law’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You cannot mean that!”

Phoebe tried to hide her exasperation. “I know you’ve tried very hard to bring about a match for me. I wish you would not persist. I shall marry when I find a gentleman I can love and not before.”

“But you must marry,” Amabel said. “You are almost twenty-four, and you are much too beautiful to become a spinster.”

“I am well aware of my age,” Phoebe said as mildly as she could. “I’m not on the shelf yet.”

After taking a sip of tea, Amabel said airily, “I have invited my brother to visit us.”

Phoebe creased her brows. “Evesham? I thought he was too ill to travel.”

“No, Arthur is indeed too ill,” her sister-in-law said. “I have invited my other brother, Marcus. He shall arrive in three days’ time.”

“Lord Marcus?”

Amabel hesitated before continuing, “He needs to marry now, and I immediately thought of you.”

At the mention of Lord Marcus Finley, Phoebe’s stomach clenched, and the humiliation she had not felt in years burbled within her, feeding her anger.

She took a breath and calmly but firmly said, “I have met Lord Marcus, we did not suit. Amabel, pray excuse me. I have just remembered something I must do.”

Phoebe rose and left the room. Upon entering her chamber, she closed the door with a snap. The control with which she had been holding herself threatened to unravel. Lord Marcus Finley was back.

Myriad feelings of fear, hurt, and despair assailed her. It confused her to feel almost as raw as she had eight years ago when he’d shattered her childish romantic ideas. She had pushed him out of her mind then and, other than the bad dreams, had not purposely thought of him since.

She’d hoped never to hear his name again and certainly did not want to meet him. She’d learned to protect herself, but still mourned her loss of innocence he’d stolen. She would not weep over Lord Marcus. No good could come of thinking of him. Forgetting that day had been easier when he had been safely across the ocean.

Phoebe breathed deeply and strode to her writing desk, a beautiful cherry secretaire. She furiously mended her nib then took a piece of hot-pressed paper, dipped the pen in the standish, and wrote her first letter to her aunt, the Marchioness of St. Eth.

My Dearest Aunt Ester,
I was very happy to receive your letter informing me that you are now in residence at St. Eth House. Dear Aunt, I am in sore need of replenishing my wardrobe, and I trust it will not be too inconvenient for me to come to you on Thursday. I look forward to being with you soon.
Your devoted and loving niece,
P
She penned a letter to the inn she intended to stay at and then wrote a note to Amabel. An hour later she knocked on the door of Geoffrey’s study, entered the room, and began to pace.

He raised his brows. “Something has you in a bother. Is this about Amabel’s brother?”

“Yes.” Phoebe walked some more before turning to him. “Geoffrey, I cannot see him again, I choose not to. I—I am sorry, but I have decided to bring forward my trip to London to to-morrow.”

“Do you wish to tell me what this is about?” he asked with grave concern. “Shall I defend your honor?”

“No.” She stopped as her throat caught. “I don’t wish to talk or even think about it.”

“If you change your mind, I’m here to listen.” He paused. “I suppose you need my baggage coach?”

Phoebe smiled gratefully. “You are the best of brothers, but no, thank you. My excuse to Aunt Ester will be that I must shop. I shall take only what I can carry in my coach.”

Phoebe handed him her missives. “Will you frank these for me? I want them to go by express post.”

“Yes, of course.” He took the letters, sealed them with wax and his signet ring before scrawling his title across them, and gave them back to her. “Tell Wilson I said to have one of the grooms ride to town immediately. What time do you plan to leave?”

“Quite early, I think, before Amabel is down to breakfast,” Phoebe said quietly and left the room.

She found her maid in the dressing room. “Rose, we are leaving in the morning and will take only one carriage. I would like to depart at seven o’clock.”

“May I ask, my lady, if this is to do with Lady Cranbourne’s brother?”

Phoebe sighed. “I take it the news of his impending visit is all around the servants’ quarters?”

Rose nodded.

Phoebe answered her frankly, “Yes, that is the reason.”

Her maid’s face became militant. “Everything will be ready to leave at first light, my lady. There is no reason in the world why you should have to see that Spawn of Satan again!”

Early the next morning, Geoffrey handed her into the coach. “I’ll see you when I come up for the legislative session votes,” he said. “Give my love to Hermione and Edwin and Aunt and Uncle St. Eth . . .”

Phoebe laughed. “Yes, yes—and William and Arabella and Mary,” she added. “I shall. Thank you for being so understanding. I cannot imagine Amabel will be happy about this.”

“No, probably not.” He smiled wickedly. “Of course, not having married a harridan like m’sisters are, I know she won’t fly up into the boughs.”

Phoebe punched him playfully. “No,
you
certainly do not live under the cat’s paw. She spoils you.”

Geoffrey grinned ruefully. “So true. Is Marcus Finley that bad, love?”

“He is a disgusting, vulgar scamp!” she replied angrily.

“Oho, you did take him into dislike!”

“Yes.” And now she must find some way to avoid him permanently.

Chapter Two

A
fter waving farewell to her brother, Phoebe sat back against the plush squabs and tried to allow the coach’s sway to comfort her. The vehicle was in the newest style, light, and well sprung. The outside was a dark green with gold piping, and the inside cushions were in her favorite shade of apple green. Across from Phoebe, Rose’s eyes drifted closed.

Phoebe sighed, settling in for a quiet journey. At least she had made her escape before Lord Marcus arrived. Perhaps with his brother being so ill, Lord Marcus would not come to Town for the Little Season. On second thought, based on what she knew about him, he probably would be in London, if for no other reason than to visit the gaming hells and impures. She ruthlessly shoved him from her mind.

Her first day of travel passed much as she’d expected. The weather was fine and warm, and the roads dry. After a time she began reading
Patronage
, the latest novel to have come her way.

She arrived at her sister Hermione’s home in the mid-afternoon. Her nephew William’s shrill voice floated on the air. Phoebe leaned out the window, smiled and waved to her nieces and nephew as the children came running toward the drive.

William shouted, “Mamma, look, Mamma look, it’s Aunt Phoebe!”

Laughing, she descended from the coach. William and Arabella, five-year-old twins, took Phoebe’s hands, and Mary, age three, grabbed onto her skirts.

Phoebe hugged and kissed them all. “My loves, I am very happy to see you as well, but you must allow me to greet your mamma.”

Phoebe disentangled a hand and held it out to her sister. Hermione and her twin, Hester, were a few years older than Phoebe, but younger than Geoffrey.

Her sister embraced Phoebe, and Hermione’s eyes twinkled as the children tried to pull their aunt away. “Not that I am not delighted to see you, my dear. But what, may I ask, brings you to me a week early and with no notice?”

Phoebe pulled a face. “
Amabel
is match making again.”

Answering an insistent tug on her skirts, Phoebe picked up little Mary.

Hermione shrugged. “Amabel has been trying to arrange a match for you since the first season after she and Geoffrey married, when you fagged her to death.”

“Yes, but this time she has gone beyond the line of what I can endure.” Phoebe pressed her lips together. “Though to be fair, she doesn’t know what she did.”