Phoebe passed through the French doors of the overcrowded ballroom out onto the balcony. The hour was half past one in the morning. Early by London Society standards. The echo of the orchestra receded as she crossed to the low stone wall overlooking the gardens. Soft moonlight soothed her tired eyes after the bright lights of the room. Her ears roared with the buzz of the crowd occupying a room meant to accommodate two hundred, instead of the nearly three hundred that now milled about the space. The soirée would likely prove to be the crush of the season. Phoebe grimaced at the thought that the success of the party had something to do with the fact the future Marchioness of Ashlund was present.
She leaned against the stone wall. Darkness blurred sculptured bushes that outlined the grounds while bare-limbed trees in the arboretum beyond them reached heavenward. The cold of the stone penetrated her full gauze over-sleeve, and the stifling heat that had driven her outside began to dissipate. She took a cleansing breath, thankful she had foregone the torture of the corset Molly had tried to force onto her.
“Certainly God will avenge us that one,” she said into the air.
“Avenge us what one?”
Phoebe turned to face Jane Halsey. “Lady Halsey.” She inclined her head. “Forgive me for not speaking to you earlier. As always, you’ve outdone yourself.”
Jane gave a low tinkle of laughter and glided across the terrace to Phoebe’s side. “It was not I. This is my mother’s home and her affair.”
“True,” Phoebe agreed, “but all of London knows it is you who makes it the gala of the year.”
A flush of pleasure reddened her cheeks. “I do try.” She leaned stiffly against the banister.
Lady Halsey, Phoebe noted with amusement, did wear a corset.
Jane gazed out over the garden. “Forgive me for being so blunt,” Jane said, “but I was shocked to hear of your engagement.”
No more than I, Phoebe mentally complained, but said, “Were you?”
“I understand your reticence. Did your uncle bother to consult you in the matter?”
Phoebe regarded her. “What exactly do you understand, Lady Halsey?” She should have beaten Leticia Mansford when she’d had the chance.
Jane straightened. “You needn’t pretend with me. It is true, Lord Ashlund is rich, and he does possess a certain charm.”
The memory of Kiernan MacGregor’s charm ignited a warmth inside her stomach. “A certain charm, you say?”
“He is large,” Jane gave a shiver that Phoebe sensed was not revulsion. “Imagine,” Jane went on, “if he decided to beat you.”
Phoebe recalled the night Kiernan had tied her to her bed and wanted to laugh. “I, er, hadn’t noticed that inclination in him.”
“You'll live in luxury," Jane went on, "but is it worth being forced to bear Scottish children?”
Phoebe’s amusement vanished. She regarded Jane. “I was sure you were going to repeat Lady Mansford’s ridiculous rumor that Ashlund had been unfaithful.”
“That is to be expected.”
Phoebe gave her head a slow shake. “In these past weeks, I have met far more fools in England than in Scotland.”
Jane gasped.
“I wonder, Lady Halsey, if Lord Ashlund had offered for you—”
“I would never entertain such an offer,” she interrupted with a lift of her chin.
“Indeed not,” Phoebe agreed, “when you have such illustrious offers as Lord Phillips. How old is he, sixty-two?”
“It does not signify,” Jane hissed. “His family ties are impeccable.”
“What happened to that fellow, what’s his name, ah, yes, Andrew Paxton. Young fellow, about thirty-three or thirty-four, if I recall.
“He wasn't suitable,” Jane fired back.
“I should say not,” Phoebe replied. “He is just the sort to demand his husbandly rights.”
“When your Scottish bastard of a husband beats you, don't turn to me for help,” Jane whispered in a voice shaking with anger.
Phoebe blinked in genuine surprise, then grinned. “You err in thinking he is a bastard. The Ashlund line is also impeccable. As for my coming to you for help should my husband entertain the numskull notion to beat me, that isn't possible, as I shall likely end up in Newgate for murder.”
Phoebe felt the presence of someone behind her even as Lady Halsey stiffened. When Jane’s eyes widened, Phoebe cursed silently, for she knew exactly who stood behind her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kiernan kept a straight face when Phoebe faced him, despite the expression on her face that said I may yet end up in Newgate for murder.
"Lord Ashlund," she said, "what kept you?"
Kiernan sauntered to her side. The flick of her attention to his leg, then the gleam in her eyes told him she noticed his slight limp. That was the price he paid for cutting his convalescence short. The ride to London hadn't helped and, if he'd had his way, he would have rested instead of attending this party. But his discomfort was worth the element of surprise. And Phoebe was definitely surprised.
“Will we dance tonight, my lord?” she asked sweetly.
But she'd taken back the edge—fast.
He lifted her hand and caught a whiff of the violet soap she used to bathe as he brushed his lips against her skin. “I insist upon the first dance.” She shot him a look that said that first dance would be taxing on more than just his sore leg.
He released her, then addressed Lady Halsey. “Jane.”
She curtsied, gripping her skirts with such ferocity it was obvious she meant to keep from offering him a hand. Kiernan grasped her hand and pulled her up. He fixed his gaze on hers and brought her fingers to his mouth.