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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

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As one, Meredith, Sophie, and Annabel turned and glared across the room at Lucas. He happened to glance over just at that moment, and caught the full force of their irate gazes head-on. His jaw dropped and Phoebe could swear he turned red. Then he frowned and turned back to Mrs. Dorkington. Phoebe did notice, however, that he removed his hand from the wall and took a step back from the widow.
Mrs. Dorkington, apparently, did not approve, since she tried to snuggle up to Lucas again. He evaded her attempt with a laugh and took her arm, escorting her back in the direction of the refreshment table and out of his cousins' line of sight.
“Men,” said Sophie, her voice dripping with contempt. Awkwardly, she pulled her chair half round to close off their group in a semicircle.
“You mustn't be too upset, Phoebe,” she said. “Lucas is behaving like a spoiled little boy, but it doesn't really mean anything.”
Phoebe repressed a groan. “I am not upset in the least,” she answered, as calmly as she could. “Lucas is free to spend his time with whomever he wishes. I am just sorry his family should see him behaving so badly.”
There.
She sounded quite convincing.
“I can see you don't care a whit,” Sophie replied in a dry voice. “Believe it or not, we've all been in your shoes. Not Annabel, of course. I'll say one thing for my brother Robert. He's always had a great deal of common sense when it comes to women.”
Annabel grinned, and the other two women smiled as if they knew the answer to some vexing puzzle. Only Phoebe felt completely at sea, which was not surprising given her lack of experience with the male of the species. And in spite of her reluctance to talk about Lucas—or even think about him—her curiosity was caught.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Sophie glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then leaned in to their little circle. “Simon acted almost as badly as Lucas on the very night we became engaged. He arrived at a ball on the arm of the most notorious widow of the ton, and spent quite a bit of time flirting with her that evening. Needless to say, I was furious.”
Phoebe's eyes widened. “I cannot believe it. His manners are so distinguished.”
“Believe it. We had quite a dustup later, as you can imagine. It turned out to be quite an interesting evening.”
To Phoebe's surprise, the countess turned red and began vigorously fanning herself.
“I can just imagine,” interjected Meredith. “Silverton did the same thing to me before we were married. I was very annoyed at the time.”
Phoebe let out a little squeak of dismay. Not Lord Silverton, too! Were all her illusions to be shattered tonight? “How is that possible? He is devoted to you. Are all men so faithless before they are married?”
“Oh, some men are quite faithless even after they're married,” said Annabel in a cheerful voice. “But you mustn't think any of our husbands are. They're all hopelessly in love with us.”
Phoebe let out a frustrated sigh. Sometimes it seemed her London cousins spoke in a foreign tongue. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” said Meredith, “Lucas's idiotic behavior doesn't really mean anything. I know it feels horrible to you now, but it's what men do when they're upset with the women they really want. Sometimes they don't know how to express it any other way.”
Phoebe gaped at her but before she could protest, Sophie picked up the thread of the conversation. “And sometimes they don't even know they're doing it.”
Phoebe gave her head a shake, but it still did not clear the fog. “Doing what?”
“Flirting. Most men and women in the ton flirt as easily as they breathe.” Sophie tapped her chin with her fan, as if ruminating. “Although Lucas seems to know exactly what he's doing, which I find interesting. He must like you very much indeed.”
Phoebe straightened her spine. “I am sure he does not. By any rational measure, his behavior would give the lie to that.”
Annabel waved her protest away. “Rational has nothing to do with it. Of course you should punish Lucas for being so rude, but Sophie's right. It means nothing.”
Phoebe stared down at her hands, gripped tightly in her lap. How could such behavior not mean something when it hurt so much?
She eased her hands open, smoothing the wrinkles out of her new silk gloves. Looking up, she let her gaze roam over the expectant faces of the other women. “Right is right, even if everyone is against it. And wrong is wrong, even if everyone is for it.”
Meredith sighed and gave her a sympathetic pat on the arm, while Sophie looked morose.
Annabel, however, tilted her head with interest. “Is that a quote? Who said it?”
“William Penn,” Phoebe murmured, still caught in her struggle to understand Lucas's behavior.
Annabel nodded. “It's very apt. I'm sure any number of men I know could benefit from Mr. Penn's wisdom.”
“What I still fail to understand, however . . .” Sophie began. Then she cut herself off with a little gasp.
Meredith peered at her. “What's wrong?”
Sophie closed her eyes and visibly swallowed as she pressed a gloved hand to her lips.
“It's . . . it's just my stomach,” she said in a thin voice. “It happens. I'll be all right in a minute.”
“You don't look all right,” Meredith replied. “Do you want me to take you to the retiring room?”
Sophie shook her head. “No. I just want to sit here.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Phoebe asked. The sickly cast to Sophie's face sent ripples of alarm racing along her nerves.
Meredith cast an impatient look around the room. “Blast him, where has Simon gone to?”
Annabel jumped up. “Don't worry, I'll find him.”
Phoebe also rose from her chair. “We will find him more quickly if we both look. This room is so large, it would be quite easy to miss him.”
Annabel nodded and headed up the near side of the room.
“I don't know,” Meredith said. “Phoebe, you barely know a soul here, and it's not a good idea to wander about without a chaperone. Perhaps it would be best if you stayed with us.”
Phoebe hesitated. The room was huge and crowded and noisy, and she really had no idea where to look for the earl. Did it make sense for her to wander about by herself? She bit her lip in frustration. Why had Lucas chosen tonight of all nights to abandon her?
Then Sophie grimaced and pressed a hand to her stomach, and Phoebe knew she had to do something. “I am quite sure. If I cannot find Lord Trask, then I will look for Silverton or Lucas.”
“Just be careful,” warned Meredith as she rubbed Sophie's back. “And don't leave the ballroom.”
Phoebe nodded and started to weave her way around the edge of the dance floor. It was slow going as she dodged her way around guests clustering in tight little knots. Every minute or so, she stopped and went up on tiptoe, straining for a glimpse of Lord Trask. After ten minutes she was only a third of the way down the room, making her stomach twist with frustration.
Glancing at a bronzed clock on a side table, she was startled to note the late hour. Soon the guests would be called down to supper, and she would have an awful time trying to fight the crowd back to the top of the room. Sweat began to prickle between her shoulder blades as her breathing grew tight. She was not used to large crowds and this gathering was not only large, it was packed into a space not big enough to hold it. A bubble of panic began to build in her chest as two drunk men jostled her, pushing her into a column. She hissed when her elbow connected with a sharp jab against the marble.
Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she leaned against the column to compose herself. She knew it was foolish to be anxious—after all, she was in the house of one of the most respected leaders of the ton, not wandering about in the streets. But not once had she gone out on her own since arriving in London. Lucas or one of her relatives—or even a maid—had always been with her, and right now she felt very much alone.
She let out a snort of disgust at her descent into self-pity. Sophie was ill and she needed her husband. What matter that the crowd pressed so closely or that she was on her own? She would be sure to find one of her party sooner or later, and then all would be well.
Stepping out from behind the column, she collided with a tall, heavyset man. Cold, unnerving eyes stared down at her, and she had to resist the temptation to shrink against the pillar.
Instead, she squared her shoulders and dipped him a slight curtsy. “Please forgive my clumsiness, sir. I did not see you.”
The man studied her for a few seconds, then a cruel smile curled his lips. She had never seen a smile like that before, and it sounded warning bells in her head.
“What friendly god has dropped you into my lap?” he asked in a voice dripping with smug calculation. “Not that it matters, but I do believe this dreary affair has just become a great deal more interesting.”
Chapter 12
The stranger blocked Phoebe in against the pillar and the wall, not only preventing her escape but obscuring her from the view of most everyone in the ballroom. His gaze traveled slowly down her body, then up again, lingering on her chest before returning to her face. By the time he finished, she was grinding her teeth.
“You are quite the little morsel to be wandering around a ballroom all by yourself, aren't you?” he purred.
“I do not wander, sir. I am looking for someone.”
He propped a shoulder against the pillar and gave her a wolfish smile. “I see. Could this person you're looking for be a man?”
Phoebe's hackles rose at the implication. “I am looking for Lord—”
“Then look no further,” he teased. “I am a lord, and unlike the one you seek, I would never be so rude as to leave you on your own.”
He leaned in and this time she did shrink away, edging back behind the pillar. He did not follow, but his eyes tracked her with an avaricious gleam. “There's no need to be nervous,” he said with a chuckle. “We're in the middle of a ballroom, after all.”
He glanced over his shoulder, as if checking to see who might be watching. Phoebe took the opportunity to stand on her tiptoes, hoping to see a member of her party. Unfortunately, she saw no one she knew, and the crowd was now so dense it would be almost impossible to make her way back to Meredith at the head of the room. Lady Framingham's guests were packed in as tightly as a herd of cattle driven through narrow streets to market.
Again she met the stranger's gaze and again she was struck by his cold eyes and the dissipated lines of his face.
“Such a mad crush,” he sighed, “and so typical of Lady Framingham. The woman never knows where to draw the line. I cannot in good conscience allow you to disappear into this crowd. Heaven only knows what could happen.”
“I thank you, but there is no cause for concern. I would be most grateful if you would let me by.”
He gave her an oily smile. “The guests will be going down to supper in a few minutes, and the room will begin to thin. Do me the honor of waiting with me and then I will escort you down myself.”
Impatience flared under her growing sense of unease. Sophie was ill, and this rude man kept her from completing her task. She could only hope Annabel had been more successful in finding Lord Trask. “Thank you, but no. I will be joining my friends for supper.”
Now he affected a wounded look. “You grieve me. I would not have thought it possible for so beautiful a woman to be so cruel.”
He surprised her by stepping forward and making her a flourishing bow. Phoebe scrambled back, again banging her elbow against the pillar. She bit off the oath that sprang too readily to her lips.
“If I cannot persuade you to join me for supper,” the stranger said, “then perhaps you would take pity on your already devoted admirer and grant me a dance.”
Really, the man was a complete fool. “I do not dance tonight.”
He gave a soft laugh that sent a chill rushing up her spine. “You are the stubborn one, aren't you? I like that. A challenge always whets a man's appetite.”
She blinked at the outrageous comment, a combination of nerves and frustration tangling her tongue.
“If you won't dance, perhaps you'd like a glass of champagne.” His gaze, openly greedy now, slid over her face and chest.
“Again, no,” she ground out. “I would ask you once more to let me by. My party will begin to wonder where I am.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I think not, or they would have found you by now.”
Angry and a bit frightened, Phoebe tried to slide by him. He blocked her path.
“Sir,” she exclaimed, “I insist you move aside.”
When he reached out to touch her, she jerked away, fetching up directly against the pillar.
He chuckled. “Your resistance is quite entrancing and wholly feigned, I suspect. I'm tempted to do something outrageous. Like kiss you.”
This time, Phoebe did gasp in shock. She debated slapping him, although the very thought of acting so violently made her queasy. Unfortunately, the awful man was lowering his head as if he really was going to kiss her. She raised a hand, preparing to defend herself, when a welcome voice interrupted her.
“There you are, Miss Linville. Never thought to find you tucked away in the corner at the far end of the ballroom. Silly of me not to have thought of it in the first place. Girls always seem to end up in corners at mad crushes, whether you expect them to or not.”
Phoebe almost collapsed with relief as Mr. Nigel Dash slipped smoothly around her tormentor to stand by her side. She grabbed his arm, swaying toward him. With a concerned look on his kind face, he steadied her.
“Mr. Dash,” she blurted out. “I am so happy to see you. I was searching for Lord Trask, and I got caught up with this . . . this . . .”
From the angry expression in Mr. Dash's eyes, her explanation was not necessary. Startled, Phoebe peered at him. She had only met him a few times, but he had impressed her with his gentleness. However, right now he glared at the man still blocking them, clearly furious enough to do something they might all regret. If she wished to avoid a scene, it appeared she must act quickly.
“This gentleman noticed I was unattended,” she said. “He graciously offered to escort me to dinner. I was in the process of explaining that I was looking for my party, Mr. Dash, when you arrived.”
She finished by pinching the inside of his elbow, just to make sure he understood.
He flashed her a startled glance, then wry understanding filled his gaze. “How kind of Lord Castle,” he said in a dry voice. “But you needn't worry, my lord. I'll see Miss Linville back to her party.”
Lord Castle leisurely inspected Mr. Dash through a quizzing glass that had just appeared in his hand. “Always ready to lend fair maidens and aging dragons a helping hand, eh, Dash? What would the debs and old matrons do without you?”
Mr. Dash ignored him. “Are you ready to return to your party, Miss Linville?”
“Yes,” she said, fervently. “I most certainly am.”
Unbelievably, Lord Castle held up a restraining hand. “Before you whisk away the most interesting woman in the room, Dash,” he said, “perhaps you could give me a formal introduction. That way I could ask the lady to dance without fear of offending the proper authorities.”
Under her fingertips, Phoebe felt the muscles in Mr. Dash's arm grow rigid. Lord Castle must be entirely the wrong sort of person if he balked at a formal introduction.
Now what would they do? The impertinent man simply would
not
leave her alone.
Just then, Lucas appeared out of the crowd, and he looked ready to breathe fire.
“Sorry, Castle,” he growled, inserting himself into the middle of their group. “You'll dance with her when hell freezes over.”
 
 
It had taken Lucas ten agonizing minutes to make his way through the damnable crowd and across the ballroom. He'd been avoiding Phoebe all evening, but he'd kept an eye on her from a distance. As long as she remained with her cousins she had nothing to fear from the rakes who prowled the overheated rooms of the ton, hunting their next willing—or unwilling—victims. Though still angry with her, and himself, for that ridiculous scene in his uncle's library, that didn't lessen his obligations. She might be a starched-up little Quaker, but she was also unbearably innocent and far too likely to fall into harm's way if he didn't prevent it.
Unfortunately, he'd lost track of her when he allowed himself to be lured into Sarah Dorkington's bosomy clutches. The widow had been after him for months, but his unforgivable lapse had led to Phoebe's entrapment in Castle's much more dangerous snare.
When Lucas had first spotted her, backing behind a pillar in apparent retreat, rage had burst through him like an exploding shell. She'd fallen prey to the most vicious rake in London, a man Lucas knew all too well. If it hadn't been for Nigel's timely arrival, Lucas would have plowed his way through the crowd without a care for havoc or injury. Still, he'd jostled more than a few complaining dancers as he forged straight across the packed floor.
Now, as Phoebe stared up at him, her big eyes full of relief, he had to struggle to contain another flare of anger, both with himself and with Castle. It was his fault she'd tumbled into trouble. After tonight, he'd make damn certain she never found herself in this or any kind of danger again.
Castle's lips peeled back in a cruel smile. “Ah, it only needed this to make the evening more delightful. Major Stanton, as crude and vulgar as always. Or, should I say,
Lord Merritt
. Really sir, your language in front of the lady is appalling. Perhaps you forget this is a ballroom, not a battlefield.”
Without answering, Lucas removed Phoebe's hand from Nigel's arm. He tugged gently on her gloved fingers, prepared for her to resist, but she came willingly and plastered herself to his side. A slight tremor rippled through her body as she settled against him, and a tiny sigh of relief escaped her lips.
That little sigh made his heart throb with guilt. Castle had frightened her, and Lucas had to fight to repress the impulse to beat the bastard to a pulp.
He smiled down into Phoebe's face, giving her a quick, reassuring wink. Her eyes brightened and her mouth quirked up into a rueful smile. With a defiant tilt of her elegant chin, she stared at Castle, a stern expression settling on her pretty features. As delicate as she was, Phoebe had done her best to stand up to the vicious viscount, but the thought of her alone with someone of his ilk raised icy prickles on the back of Lucas's neck.
“Are you ready to go down to supper, Phoebe?” he asked, his voice gone gruff. “Aunt Georgie and the others will be waiting for us.”
“You cannot imagine how ready I am,” she said in a voice so enthusiastic he had to choke back a laugh. And the surprise on Castle's face almost made the whole nasty situation worth it.
Unfortunately, as Lucas prepared to guide Phoebe into the flow of people heading to the supper room, Castle put up a restraining hand. “Merritt, you can't run away now. Not before properly introducing me. I take it this young lady is General and Lady Stanton's mysterious relative from America.”
The bastard unleashed a particularly nasty smile. Lucas recognized that smile, and it boded ill.
“I should have guessed, of course,” Castle drawled on, still blocking their way. “She does have the quaintest accent. Quite charming, really, if one goes in for that sort of rustic style.”
Lucas weighed his options. He could either plant Castle a facer now, thus precipitating a scandal, or deal with him later when the ladies weren't present.
Before he had a chance to decide, Phoebe interrupted with an irritated huff. “For heaven's sake,” she said. “If an introduction will end this absurd scene, then, yes, I am Phoebe Linville, niece to General and Lady Stanton. You, I take it, are Lord Castle. I wish I could say it has been a pleasure to meet you, but that would be a lie, and I never lie.”
Castle's face went slack, and Lucas didn't bother to hold back his grin. Even Nigel, who had impeccable discipline, couldn't repress a snort of laughter.
Magnificently unaware of the impact of her words, Phoebe carried on. “Now that we are introduced, I ask you once and for all to move aside so we can join our party. I have suffered quite enough of your unwelcome attentions for one evening, and I do hope you will have the courtesy to spare me a repeat if we ever have the misfortune to meet again.”
By the time she finished her little speech, Castle stopped looking stunned and started looking furious. He took a menacing step forward.
“I wouldn't if I were you, old man,” Nigel interjected in a sharp voice. “Ladies present, and all that.”
“A lady?” Castle sneered. “I very much doubt that. After all, I found her wandering about the ballroom unescorted. And Miss Linville seemed more than happy to receive my attentions.”
Against his side, Lucas could feel Phoebe quiver with outrage. “That is most untrue, and thee knows it! Thee should not tell such awful lies.”
Castle's eyebrows practically shot up into his hairline. “
Thee?
Good God, Merritt. I had discounted the rumor, but I see now it's true. A Quaker! How delightfully odd. The Stantons do have a habit of taking in all kinds of strays, don't they? Whatever next, I wonder? A trained monkey?”
Phoebe went rigid beside him, and Lucas ruefully shook his head. He could almost feel sorry for Castle, too stupid to understand the hellfire he would shortly rain down on him.
“I suppose you're looking for something different in a woman,” Castle said with deliberate malice. “But a religious fanatic from America . . . how quaint! Esme would be so amused, if she knew.”
BOOK: His Mistletoe Bride
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