Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

February, 1822

London

“P hoebe, you simply cannot ask a gentleman if they are aware of the mating habits of bees. We’re at a ball for heaven’s sake!” said a sharp voice, the shrill reprimand determining it to be a lady of questionable years.

The cigar that Lord Harrison Metcalf had raised to his lips paused in midair at what had to be the most absurd sentence he had ever had the misfortune to overhear. So much for enjoying his cigar in the cool evening air, in blessed solitude, away from the crush of the ballroom.

“I was merely stating that bees use dancing to give direction to food sources while we have relegated the action as a form of a mating ritual. It is only logical that the next point of discussion would be to point out that when it comes to mating, a queen is the one who populates her hive with the secretions of many male bees as opposed to a single individual and that there is very little courting in their process of procreation,” a seductive voice answered.

Second. It was the second most absurd sentence he had ever heard, the first place now going to that mesmerizing paragraph, spoken by a smokey voice that should make him think of dark rooms and intoxicating touches. Not bee secretions.

“You’ll never marry if you continue on in this manner,” the sharp voice responded.

“I’m not sure I understand why that is a problem,” the seductive voice said.

Harrison leaned against the wall; his cigar forgotten as his ears pricked up at the unusual conversation. He had surely never heard of a societal miss uninterested in procuring an affluent marriage. That is, if he did not count Margaret Reedy—now Ludlow, the newly appointed Marchioness of Greenwood. And he did not count her, for she was a kind of holy grail that no one would ever be able to touch, including him.

The sharp voice sighed. “How is it that you are my daughter, and yet I still don’t understand you? Compose yourself into a respectable young lady and then join me in the ballroom, Phoebe. And please, no more nonsense about bees.”

“Yes, Mama,” replied the seductive voice.

The balcony grew quiet and Harrison returned the cigar to his lips and took a deep puff, the tip turning a burnt orange. Silence embraced him, and he was glad to be alone once more.

“I’m told it’s rude to eavesdrop,” the sultry voice said.

Harrison sputtered, the cigar falling from his mouth. Stubbing the thing with the toe of his slipper, Harrison stepped out from the darkened alcove to stand before his accuser. The outspoken miss looked nothing like her absurd comments, her blonde hair pinned in a loose chignon while a demure pink gown, absent of lace and fripperies, hugged a body that would make Botticelli weep. The darkness masked her face, the light of a single torch merely cupping her soft jaw the way the hand of a lover should.

“Normally I’d agree, but in this circumstance, I believe it is you who is in the wrong. I was on this terrace before you arrived. Perhaps, before having such a…” Harrison paused, his gaze scanning the sky as he searched the darkened night for the proper word.

“Preposterous?” she supplied.

“I was thinking private, but preposterous might fit a bit better.” Harrison waved his hand. “Before having a preposterous conversation as the one I just overheard, you might check that you are alone.”

The woman said nothing, the silence filling the space in an uncomfortable haze. Adjusting his cravat, Harrison took a step closer. The shift in position gifted him a faint glimpse of the woman’s eyes, their wide gray gaze stopping him in his tracks. How someone just talking of mating rituals could appear so innocent would forever plague him, the oddity of it rather perplexing.

The woman frowned at him. “Isn’t it the responsibility of a gentleman to ensure that women are at ease by announcing their presence? Especially once it becomes obvious that the conversation being had is one of a private matter?”

Harrison raised a brow at her words. “So I am supposed to announce that I am there?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

He shook his head. “That is utterly absurd. All of this could have been avoided if you had simply ensured you were alone before beginning such a ridiculous conversation.”

“No. All of this could have been avoided if you had removed yourself before the conversation veered toward ridiculous. Why do men tend to place the blame upon the woman when they are in the wrong?”

“I beg your pardon, Miss—”

“Lady,” she corrected, the word flat. “Lady Phoebe Kent.” She said the sentence without harsh tone or barb, as if talking of the weather, and Harrison was taken aback. Young ladies, no matter their age, happily corrected anyone who assumed them lesser, but not Lady Phoebe. If anything, it was as if she were resigned of the fact.

“Lady Phoebe, perhaps we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I merely meant—” His words were interrupted once more at the onslaught of giggles that joined them on the balcony, their volume getting louder as the pair came closer. Grabbing Lady Phoebe, Harrison steered her to the dark alcove he had hid in only moments before.

“Stay quiet,” he whispered in her ear, the scent of honeysuckle tickling his nose.

Thankfully, the miss kept silent as the young women’s voices came toward the spot they had occupied, their chittering setting Harrison’s nerves on edge.

“I hope Mr. Greene recovers from his dance with Lady Violet. The insipid girl plodded his feet endlessly during the reel,” one voice said.

“Tabitha,” the second voice said with a giggle. “What if someone hears you?”

“Oh hush, Minnie. Who is going to hear us over here? Everyone must be inside watching the Marquis of Greenwood dote upon his new wife. Strange that Lord Everly hasn’t joined them.”

“I’m certain I saw him earlier this evening,” Minnie whispered. “I hoped he would dance a waltz with me. He is unbearably handsome.”

Harrison rolled his eyes at her words, choosing to ignore the precious comment about him. He would greet Meg and Oliver when he damned well felt like it, and at present, he had little interest in doing so.

“Did you hear what Lady Phoebe said about bees? Her mother’s face practically turned the shade of a strawberry,” Minnie said with a high-pitched squeal. “The girl is an absolute nightmare with her unadorned dresses and tufts of cotton sticking out of her ears.”

“Her family should be ashamed, parading her about this season with the rest of us. She has no decency, spewing every iota of nonsense that pops into her head. Did you see her fanning herself? One would think she were perishing of heat in the desert instead of in a ballroom in London. Her father should have committed her to a nunnery. She’ll never marry, of that, I’m sure. I’d place money on it,” Tabitha said, sounding every bit the future matron she no doubt planned to be.

“We should start a pool,” Minnie said, her laughter ear splitting.

“No one would win. Poor dear might as well join the shelf now,” Tabitha said with a snort.

Lady Phoebe stood tense beside him, her breath shallow as she listened to the two women insult her. Her every movement sent tingles of awareness coursing through him, even in the darkness. Especially in the darkness. Her body pressed against his, her warmth spreading through him through the layers of cloth, and when she took a sudden deep inhale of dismay, his jaw clenched. Harrison was sorely tempted to intervene as the two girls gossiped, but his presence would only add kindling to the fire no doubt already swirling around Lady Phoebe, and in truth, he was not a knight who slayed dragons for young ladies.

“We should go back in, Tabby. I’m sure my mother is already looking for me.”

Tabitha sighed. “Let’s hope we marry this year so we can truly enjoy all the offerings of Lord Brinsley’s ball.”

Minnie giggled, the sound softening as the pair retreated back inside.

Harrison turned to Lady Phoebe, uncertain whether the miss would faint at what she had heard, or become a raging storm. Much to his surprise, she was neither.

“I wish there was a better way to go about this whole matrimony bit,” she mumbled, stepping away from him and back into the spotlight the moon created.

“What do you mean?” he asked, following her.

“All of this, the balls and the courtship.” She waved her hand to the inside. “It’s all an act devised to cover the true purpose of it all.”

Harrison felt the corner of his mouth quirk up in a smile. “The true purpose?”

“Yes. Marriage is a business deal. A contractual entity and nothing more. Sure, there are the occasional love matches, but most of those people in there searching for a spouse aren’t looking for love, they’re looking for a merger. Why must there be all this fuss with rules and manners and uncomfortable garments when we can simply come to an agreement as one would do with a company? It would certainly be a more comfortable affair for everyone involved.”

“I thought ladies liked balls and courtship? Flowers, chocolates, strolls through Hyde Park. Sweet treats at Gunter’s?”

Lady Phoebe blew a raspberry at his statement, thusly proving all the more that this was not the setting for her. “I can do those things for myself.”

“Yes, but isn’t it nicer when they come from another?”

She shook her head, her face alight with exasperation. “Not when the meaning behind them is empty.”

Her words echoed, bouncing around in his head, striking the bits that wanted nothing to do with emotion anymore. With a frown, he looked at her. “All right, Lady Phoebe, then what is the perfect solution?”

“A contract,” she said, matter of factly as she began to pace back and forth on the stone balcony.

“Isn’t that already done?”

“Between the men, absolutely, but I mean a contract between the two parties tied together in marriage. One with rules and regulations, a map so both know what they are agreeing to without all the nonsense that is required in a season.”

“Isn’t that rather cold?”

She looked at him then, her piercing gray eyes ablaze with indignation. “And this is not?” Lady Phoebe made a deep curtsey, her light pink skirts fanning against Lord Brinsley’s stone balcony. “I should return to my mother.”

She did not wait for his agreement, but took her leave, the hem swishing at an almost sullen pace as if it too did not want to return to the ballroom. Harrison watched the woman until she disappeared into the crowd, then resumed his spot on the balcony, his gaze searching the night sky.

He had come out here for a moment of respite, a second’s reprieve from watching Margaret Ludlow, the woman he had loved, be fawned over by the man she married, but instead of quiet, he had found her. Where others might have found her forward thinking harsh and unnerving, Harrison had enjoyed it. She did not dance around a subject but instead voiced her thoughts openly, uncaring that the world around her would think her bold. It was a refreshing change from the simpering debutants inside the ballroom.

Which made it all the more a pity in his eyes. Lady Phoebe would most likely never marry and end up a spinster, just as the two girls suspected. London society had very little liking for bold and brash. No doubt, the young woman certainly had a perilous journey before her, and while he felt for the girl, there was very little he could do. He was no knight in shining armor. More than likely, he was the sad fop who would go about the rest of his life pining over what could have been. The maudlin jester. And no one would ever want to be rescued by him.