Candlelight Wish (18 page)

While the Pershings sorted through various scores, Phoebe moved to Miles’ side. “You and your friends have gone to a great deal of trouble for me this night.”

“Not in the least.” His smile held a touch of amusement. “I fear they will now make you play for your supper. I hope you are not too tired.”

She shook her head. “I am actually looking forward to it. But I have had little opportunity to play with a group like this. I hope I won’t disgrace myself.”

Miles’ eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “You couldn’t,” he said simply and turned his attention to tuning his borrowed instrument.

After the first few faltering tentative notes, Phoebe lost herself in the joy of playing with gifted companions. She could imagine nothing more unlike teaching bored young ladies the rudiments of the pianoforte. They launched into another piece, this one a sonata unfamiliar to her and she quickly discovered it was of Mr. Pershing’s own composing when he broke off in the middle of a run of sixteenth notes and announced he must make a change.

Miles laid his cello aside. “This will take some time,” he informed Phoebe. “Would you care to stroll in the garden while we wait?”

As Xanthe and Mrs. Pershing embarked on an impromptu duet at that moment, Phoebe rose and accompanied Miles toward the drapes on the far side of the room. She’d never seen him so relaxed. The change in him fascinated her. Or did she merely choose to see him without the eyes of prejudice this night? He drew back the curtain to reveal French windows which he opened and she stepped out beneath a shaggy rose arbor arching high on its trellis.

Moonlight flooded the garden and a surprisingly warm breeze brought the heady scent of the huge blossoms along with gardenia and violet. Other flowers blended their aromas, creating an intoxicating perfume. She could hear water babbling softly from the depths of a nearby stream and above, in a sky of midnight blue velvet, myriad stars glimmered with a rainbow of light. Violet, brilliant pale yellow and icy blue, the intensity of the colors penetrated and she realized Xanthe added her mite to the beauty of the night. She wasn’t the least bit surprised to see half a dozen tiny fairies dancing about on the moonlit grass nor another half dozen plying miniature musical instruments. She cast a surreptitious glance at Miles but he seemed oblivious to the exotic touches to his surroundings.

He led the way along a flagstone path between lavender shrubs and hollyhocks until they reached a bench set against a wall of hawthorn. She seated herself, knowing she had not the least worry about staining her gown and he joined her, leaning back to look up at the sky.

“One should always escape to a garden whenever one has worries,” he said.

“This is certainly a perfect one,” she agreed, a touch dryly.

A cat emerged from beneath the hawthorn, gleaming pale in the moonlight. For one moment Phoebe thought it was Titus then it leapt to her lap and she realized this was a smaller feline, pale cream in color. And it lacked that smug supercilious expression. She stroked its fur and it set up a rhythmic purring.

“You are honored.” Miles sounded amused. “Hannibal does not favor everyone.”

“That was one of the many disadvantages of the Misses Crippenham’s Academy.” Phoebe rubbed an ear to the cat’s intense satisfaction. “I could not keep either a cat or a dog.”

“A grave disadvantage,” he agreed. “Everyone needs a puppy to chew one’s slippers or savage one’s best waistcoat.”

“You have had one, I see.”

“Mmmm. Though they’re not half the trouble of some sisters.” He turned to gaze lazily down at her. “And what of you? Have you any siblings? I don’t remember you speaking of any.”

Which was hardly surprising because until these last few minutes they’d scarcely exchanged a civil word. “My brother Thomas is up at Cambridge,” she admitted and at the thought of him couldn’t prevent the smile that came to her lips.

“And you have been supporting him.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Only helping,” she said quickly. “He tutors.”

Miles’ brow snapped down. “That cannot cover the half of his expenses.”

“They aren’t as great as they might be. He lives very quietly, which he says is excellent training for when he becomes a curate and won’t have two pennies to rub together.”

His frown deepened. “Is he suited for the church or can he think of no other profession?”

Phoebe shook her head, smiling. “I should say he is suited for nothing else.”

She had been hearing the melodic notes of the flute and violin since they had come outside. Now they broke into a familiar waltz melody. She caught herself humming it and when Miles stood and held out his hand to her it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it. Hannibal sprang from her lap and she rose to glide into the first of the open steps.

Lucilla had a point, Phoebe reflected as she looked up at Miles, aware of the play of shadow and moonlight on the planes and angles of his face. A touch of romance added something to one’s existence, gave one’s heart a reason to beat faster, one’s breath to come more quickly, one’s flesh to tingle with the contact. She allowed the music to flow over and through her, breathed in the sweet scents of the garden. Awareness swept over her, of his eyes, his smile, of the intangible bond that seemed to link them as surely as did his touch. When he gathered her into his arms for the circling steps, she melted against him, losing herself in the overwhelming sensations he created in her. He released her all too soon into the open movements then pulled her close once more. And all the while his hand warmed hers in a clasp so perfect it seemed impossible to break it.

The music ended and from within the house came the sound of voices. For a long moment they stood together, their hands still touching. Then he led her back to the bench and settled at her side, his gaze still holding hers. Slowly he lifted one finger to touch her cheek then brush tendrils of hair back from her face.

In another moment, the hazy thought filtered into her mind, he might kiss her. A thrill of yearning enveloped her and her hand stole to his arm, just touching his sleeve. But the more reasoned portion of her brain warned her none of this was real, that it was all a Xanthe-induced fairy tale. She didn’t want to succumb to a make-believe romance. What if Miles didn’t truly want this? He couldn’t, not judging from their previous encounters. Yet she longed for his touch, to feel his arms about her, to taste his kiss, so desperately it caused a physical ache within her.

“Phoebe.” He breathed her name, making it a caress.

She couldn’t allow it, couldn’t let him do something he would regret. It took every ounce of her will to force herself to rise and once on her feet she found herself alarmingly unsteady. “Forgive me, I seem to be somewhat exhausted by the events of today. It would be best if we returned home soon. And I must thank you again for coming to my rescue.” She gave him a wavering smile than turned and hurried into the house.

As she came through the curtains the Pershings looked up from the table where they examined a newly edited violin score. Xanthe laid aside her silver flute and rose. “My dear, there you are at last. It is time we took our leave.”

Phoebe managed to express her thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Pershing for their hospitality then found herself ushered outside to where Xanthe’s coach already stood waiting. She started to climb in but knew Miles was there watching her. She longed to turn back, to run to him, to feel the strength and security of his embrace. How could she, though, when so much magic lingered in the air, influencing them both? Yet her gaze sought him where he stood on the steps, staring after her. She looked away, her eyes blurring, and settled on the rear seat, fighting the tears that threatened to overflow.

She was tired, that was all. She’d spent a long eventful day knowing worry and fury and fear. And then Miles had come. It was only natural she had overreacted to his capable and reassuring presence, to his masterful management of a terrible situation. She was grateful, that was all. And if Xanthe hadn’t intervened with her romantic setting they might have settled into a comfortable friendship. Instead…

No, she was too tired to sort out what had happened between them instead. Or had anything at all? Had it just been in her imagination? What would he have said had she allowed him to speak?

No, she’d been right to prevent him from saying words that owed their origin to a romantic setting provided by Xanthe. When he spoke—if he spoke—she had to be certain the words came from his own heart.

And what about her heart?

Too many questions remained unanswered and right now exhaustion kept her from thinking clearly. Tomorrow, she promised herself. She would ride early, encounter him in the cold light of early morning reality and see if the magic still lingered. If it did…

She cast a suspicious glance at her fairy godmother but Xanthe appeared to have fallen asleep.

Chapter Nine

In the end Phoebe did not ride in the Park the next morning. Her muddled feelings confused her and she didn’t want to see Miles with her mind in this uncharacteristic chaos. She longed for exercise, to focus herself on controlling a difficult mount, anything that might help restore order to her disordered thoughts. She needed to know what had prompted the tenderness of his touch, of his voice, what lay in his heart.

But mostly she needed to know what lay in her own.

She paid a round of morning visits with Xanthe but found no diversion in talk of the ball that would be held that evening at Evanridge House. Miles would be there. She could not possibly avoid him. Of course she probably need have no fear. She could count on him to behave as the gentleman he was and give not the least sign of the emotional upheaval that had occurred.

He might not even be aware of it. It might all have occurred in her own imagination.

She still hadn’t come to any certain answer to that question by the time their carriage pulled up in Cavendish Square that night. As she entered the ballroom already filled with the elite of the
ton
, she wondered for a moment if Xanthe had been at work, enhancing the decor. But her fairy godmother claimed complete innocence, leaving Phoebe to wonder at the dazzling gleam of the chandeliers, the flickering of myriad candles, the silks, satins, laces and jewels that everywhere met the eye. Her own gown, an amber silk underdress with a half robe of blonde lace, had arrived only that morning from
Madame
Bernadette and Phoebe secretly believed that even Xanthe could not have created anything more beautiful.

Would Miles like it? Suddenly she had to know. Her anxious gaze searched the crowded room until she spotted him, tall and elegant, less than twenty feet away. She could just glimpse the unmistakable dark head with the thickly gleaming waves of hair. If she went to him, would his eyes light with that warm smile that had caused her such confusion last night? Would he ask her to dance, perhaps a waltz so he could take her once more in his arms?

For the past several weeks, she reminded herself, she had hated him, blamed him for all her troubles. And now? She couldn’t answer that, not yet. Nor did she dare approach him in so crowded a place where her uncertainty might betray her to so many gossip-minded observers.

She dragged her gaze away from him and went in search of Xanthe who had continued her progress along the wall, skirting the chairs placed for the chaperones. She found her near the refreshment table, regarding with a gleam of mischief in her violet eyes a lady of regal bearing and haughty countenance. Xanthe, it seemed, had been enjoying herself, for the ostrich feathers that made up the lady’s
head
now drooped below her shoulders. Even as Phoebe watched, the plumes changed to vivid colors and began to sway in time to her humming.

Xanthe, her expression not quite prim, turned to Phoebe. “A glass of champagne punch, my love? I believe you will enjoy it.” She gestured toward the table on which stood a giant bowl.

Phoebe peered into it, her suspicions aroused—and with cause. Xanthe’s hum changed to a lilting tune and a tiny frigate appeared, its sails billowing in a nonexistent wind. A miniature cannon fired at a floating orange segment, which exploded in an array of sparkling lights. Phoebe cast a rapid glance about but no one, not even the footman who stood on duty behind the table, seemed to notice. With a sense of relieved appreciation she watched the ship take aim at another segment, which went the way of the first.

Charles Dauntry claimed her for the reel that formed and she moved easily onto the floor, relaxing in his undemanding company. She had never seriously considered him a suitor, she realized, despite his frequent visits and flattering attentions. She felt no temptation to do so now either. Tonight she would not think about her wish, about her need to make the most of her opportunity to find a husband. Her determination to do that had nearly brought her to ruin. Tonight she would simply enjoy herself.

The lively dance ended but Ashby intercepted them before they left the floor, begging the honor of leading her into the country dance that would form next. She accepted with pleasure, recognizing his company as another respite from worry. Nor was she mistaken. Each time the movements brought them together he had some ready joke or droll comment on his lips concerning his cousin Lady Wrexham’s litter of King Charles spaniel puppies and soon had her laughing. It was with regret that she heard the music end and took his arm to go in search of refreshment.