Phoebe walked through the doorway of Lord and Lady Sheffield’s home that night, already exhausted. How in the world would she survive an entire season of late nights? She’d only been to one ball so far, but after having spent a year in mourning, she wasn’t used to staying up until all hours of the night. Not to mention her responsibilities at home were many and they were exhausting—both physically and emotionally.
Despite the fact she’d already spent one evening in the bosom of the ton, her nerves still threatened to get the better of her. Her stomach was a veritable bird sanctuary as she made her way to the ballroom, surrounded by lords, ladies and other important people. Her plain muslin dress, artfully upgraded with pearls and ribbons, still seemed inadequate next to the green silk creation on the woman to her left. Or the jonquil, topaz-studded gown of the one in front of her.
Phoebe sensed Becky on her heels and silently thanked God she was with her; it was comforting to have her maid-cum-companion by her side through these nerve-racking events.
She politely nodded her head to the few people she knew from the night before, and some that she even knew from her first season, two years ago. But she didn’t trust herself to speak yet. If she opened her mouth, one of the birds in her stomach would surely make its way to her throat. She didn’t relish making a fool of herself right away.
Thankfully, only a few moments passed once they had found their seats before the four-piece ensemble mounted the dais and began to tune their instruments. The players consisted of the three Sheffield daughters: Elaina, Emma and Ermentrude. Phoebe felt especially sorry for poor Ermentrude. Not only had she been given the most atrocious name of the three sisters, but she’d inherited the smallest amount of good looks as well. The poor thing had small green eyes that were far too close together and hair the color of fire.
The fourth player was apparently a cousin, and she sat poised before the gorgeous Broadwood piano. Phoebe’s heart ached a little at the thought of her own piano and the day she’d watched the collectors remove it from her home.
Aside from the day she’d heard of her father’s death, it had been the most difficult day of her life.
The music began, and Phoebe pushed the sad thoughts from her mind to focus on the players. They were quite good, she thought, with a definite sensitivity to the style. Just as she was beginning to enjoy herself, she felt the telltale tingle of needing to relieve herself.
Blast that extra cup of tea! Phoebe looked about the room, trying to assess if she could slip out without being noticed. They were toward the back, and Becky sat next to her, at the end of the row. The door was a little farther than she might have hoped for but . . .
Oh, dear, she really could not wait. The program indicated three pieces, all with several movements to them, before they would reach the intermission.
She leaned in to whisper to Becky. “I must remove myself to the retiring room.”
“Shall I come with you?” Becky whispered back.
Phoebe shook her head. “I’ll only be a moment.” And then she slipped past her companion, and walked quickly and hunched over until she reached the door, refraining from making eye contact with anyone on her way.
She heaved a heavy sigh of relief as she reached the hallway and gingerly shut the door behind her. She looked about, hoping to find a servant who could point her in the right direction, but the hall was empty. They were probably preparing for the reception that would be held at the end of the concert.
Phoebe looked right, then left, and finally decided to go left in search of the necessary. It felt odd, snooping about the Sheffields’ home, but what choice did she have? When one had to go, one had to go.
And then, blessedly, she came upon the room that had most certainly been deemed the ladies’ retiring room. Chinese silk screens stood in the far corner of the room, no doubt hiding the much-needed chamberpots, and a little maid sat quietly by the vanities.
Once she had completed her urgent task, she made her way to the vanity to check that all was still in place. Her auburn curls remained neatly tucked into the coiffure Becky had created for her. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright. She bit down on her lips to bring a little more color to them and then all was perfect.
Phoebe slipped into the hall and started back toward the ballroom where the musicale was still under-way. Her pace was a bit slower now, since she no longer had the need to hurry, and as she padded through the corridor, she noticed a door that stood ajar. Curiosity made her peak her head inside—just for a moment. However, before she could stop herself, her feet carried her farther into the room toward the beautiful Shudi harpsichord. It stood in the center of the candlelit parlor, leading her to believe she’d stumbled upon the manor’s actual music room.
Indeed, the fresco on the ceiling revealed tiny cherubs playing tiny harps and flutes, and aside from the harpsichord, a cello stood propped on a stand in the corner.
She alternately sighed with longing and bubbled with excitement, contemplating if it would be ill-bred of her to sit down and play while she was supposed to be listening to the concert in the other room. Perhaps a few minutes wouldn’t hurt. She would still be back long before the intermission. And it seemed like a lifetime since she’d had the opportunity to play. Who knew when the next would present itself?
Making her decision, Phoebe sat on the bench and began to play.
***
Benjamin strode into the gilded ballroom of the Sheffield mansion thirty minutes late for the start of the musicale. His sister would probably be furious with him for not being on time, for he would have missed opportunities to mingle with eligible young ladies. There was still afterwards, though, wasn’t there?
But truth be known, he didn’t really care to mingle with anyone but Miss Blake. He doubted she was here tonight, however. It was a smaller crowd that was invited to these sorts of things, and Miss Blake didn’t seem all that well connected. At least not yet.
Benjamin stood at the back of the hall and scanned the program. He had already missed the Handel, and they were in the middle of the Haydn now. Though they played better than most of the debutantes who put on musicales, Benjamin was feeling a bit restless. After five minutes of Haydn, he could barely stand still, let alone even think about sitting. So, as discreetly as he had crept in, he crept back out.
He wouldn’t be able to go far; Katherine would expect to see him at intermission. But perhaps he could find the library and a glass of brandy, sit quietly and contemplate what he’d learned at Miss Blake’s house that afternoon.
It was still hard to believe she had no idea about the duel, about her father’s gun wound. He would have expected Geoffrey to tell the man’s wife and daughter what had really happened, but perhaps he’d seen no reason to. Perhaps he thought it would be easier for them if they thought he simply died of natural causes.
Benjamin wandered farther through the house, noting that while he enjoyed the Baroque style of music, he didn’t much care for the Baroque architecture. Sure, it was a sensorial feast for the eyes, but good Lord, it was gaudy! Even the cherubs in the wall paintings seemed uncomfortable in their surroundings.
He was about to open the doors to what he assumed would be either the library or a study when he heard the sounds of a harpsichord wafting down the hall. Playing Mozart.
It was sheer curiosity that set his feet in the direction of the music; it took a brave person to sneak away to perform their own musicale while another was going on just down the hall. He wanted to see who this brave soul could possibly be.
The door stood slightly ajar, and it creaked as Benjamin pushed it open. The music stopped abruptly, and then he found himself face-to-face with Miss Blake. He almost wanted to laugh at the coincidence, but he was too taken aback to do much of anything at the moment.
She, too, seemed at a loss for words, and he couldn’t blame her. She’d been caught red-handed.
“Lord Glastonbury,” she finally managed. “I-I was just . . . um . . . ”
He smiled and moved into the room, closing the door behind him. “It’s all right, Miss Blake. You don’t have to offer any excuses to me. As you can see, I, too, am wandering about the halls of the manor whilst the musicale is in progress.”
The tension seemed to drain from her face and eventually gave way to a smile. “So you are,” she acknowledged. “You weren’t enjoying the music?”
“No, no, it wasn’t that. I was just . . . feeling a bit restless is all. You?”
Even in the dim light of the parlor, Benjamin could see the color that infused her cheeks and he again wanted to laugh. However, again, he didn’t wish to embarrass her, as she’d probably slipped out to use the necessary. Instead, he did the gentlemanly thing and changed the subject.
“I didn’t know you played, Miss Blake.”
She smiled up at him with those big round eyes. In the candlelight, they shone gold, like rare topaz glimmering in a dark cave. It would be easy to forget he was going against every dictate of society by being alone with a young lady in an abandoned music room. Very, very easy.
“Ever since I was a child. It was the only feminine pastime I took to.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Benjamin corrected. “You’ve already proven you’re an excellent dancer.”
“Yes, but women cannot dance alone. Therefore, it is not an entirely feminine pastime.”
“Well, you must embroider then.”
Miss Blake laughed, a haunting, lilting sound that struck a chord as sharp as if it had actually been played on the harpsichord. “Remind me to show you my embroidery one day.”
Benjamin stared at her, and before he could stop the words, he said, “You would get along splendidly with my sister.”
“Oh! Yes . . . the Duchess of Weston is your sister, is she not?”
“She is,” Benjamin replied, wondering what it meant that he wanted Miss Blake and his sister to be acquainted.
“I’m afraid I don’t typically have opportunity to consort with duchesses, so I’ve yet to meet her. Are we of an age?”
“Katherine is a bit older, perhaps, though I can’t say without knowing your age. However, I do know better than to ask—”
“Twenty,” she interrupted. “Just turned. My birthday falls at the beginning of April.”
Benjamin smiled at the surprising young woman. “Then, yes, the two of you are of an age. Katherine will turn one-and-twenty in December.”
There was a lull in their conversation, but not an uncomfortable one. He liked that Miss Blake didn’t feel the need to fill every moment with inanity like many of the girls he’d met at last night’s ball.
“Well, we should probably be getting back before someone notices we’re gone.”
Benjamin knew she was right. It would be intermission soon; it wouldn’t go unnoticed if they walked in together once everyone had stood to stretch their legs. They needed to go, and soon. But not yet.
“Do you know any duets, Miss Blake?”
Her dark eyes widened at his question. “You mean you play, my lord?”
“Benjamin. Please.”
“Oh . . . well, then I must insist you call me Phoebe.” She graced him with a wry smile. “It’s only fair.”
“Indeed, Phoebe. And, yes, I do play.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t know any duets, and wouldn’t we need two instruments for that, anyhow?”
Benjamin decided he was going to find a way to share the same bench with Phoebe if it killed him. He wanted to be close enough so he could find out what she smelled like. Perhaps find out what she tasted like too, if the opportunity presented itself.
“I’ve an idea!” he said, making his way to the bench. She had stood when he first came in, but now she dropped her little bottom back to the seat. He took his place beside her, making sure to press himself as close as possible. Ah. She smelled like the most fragrant of rose gardens, soft and fresh and—
“Benjamin?”
“Sorry!” he exclaimed, bringing his mind back to the present. “Do you know this one?”
He began to play a Mozart sonata. One he loved and played often. And when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Phoebe poised her left hand above the keys, he dropped his own left hand and she began to play. The hands in this particular piece were played close together, though, and Phoebe had to turn her body into him in order to execute the notes.
Benjamin momentarily lost his concentration when her breasts pushed into his upper arm, and his fingers missed several notes in a row. Dear God, this was absolute torture. She was so close, smelled so delicious, and now her breasts—her full, delectable-looking breasts—were mashed against him.
He knew she was aware of it, too. He heard the sharp intake of breath, felt the slight ritardando in her playing. But neither of them stopped for fear of what might happen if they did.
However, the piece was only so long, and after a mere couple of minutes, they reached the end. They played the last chord in perfect precision, and as the echo faded, it became evident that their breathing had found precision as well.
When he felt her gaze on him, he turned to look at her. She licked her lips, and Benjamin wasn’t sure how long he could continue to play the gentleman. The tightening in his trousers was already more than he could bear.
Dear God, he had never been so aroused in his life.
But she was an innocent. And she was the marrying kind. The kind he wanted to marry. It wouldn’t do to ruin the poor girl here, where they could be caught. He actually liked this Phoebe Blake, and he wanted to do things right. To court her properly, and ask her mother for her hand, not announce they would be married because he had defiled her in the Sheffields’ music room.
But then she licked her lips again, and Benjamin decided he was no longer accountable for his actions. He leaned into her and planted his lips on hers. Phoebe responded immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts to him like a wanton woman while he wrapped his arms about her slender waist.
Benjamin had kissed many women in his life—women with a great deal of experience in the art. But none had ever aroused him, enchanted him, like this one. The smell of her, the feel of her womanly curves beneath his roaming hands—all of it combined and unraveled him until he wasn’t even sure of his own name anymore.
But with a jolt of remorse, he remembered her name. Or, more importantly, her father’s name. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he had ever heard the old baron referred to by his actual name, rather than his title. If he had, he had not associated the two. Even his nephew Geoffrey had always called him Grimsby, never Blake.
Shaking his mind free of his thoughts, he pulled back from the kiss and met with Phoebe’s lazy, lusty eyes. Yes, it had been a rather thorough kiss—one she wasn’t likely to forget anytime soon.
“Now we really ought to be getting back,” he said, his voice barely reaching above a gravelly whisper.
Phoebe only nodded before she slipped off the bench and retreated from the room. Benjamin remained for propriety’s sake and then made his way back to the concert in progress.