Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

March, 1822

T he alcove inside Lord and Lady Halliwell’s library was quite uncomfortable, the cushions severely under-stuffed and the pillows uneven in all the worst places. No amount of plumping changed the shape of the saddened lumps, and given the earl’s depressing offerings with regards to literature, it was little wonder that the room was so gloomy. But it was a room that did not include a multitude of debutants who smelled like an appalling number of florals mixed with body odor, and it did not include men who laughed openly when her mother paraded her before them, intent on making her converse about trivial matters. No, no matter how uncomfortable or sorely lacking the earl’s library was, it was still a better place to be than their ballroom.

It was the third event of the week, fourth if she counted her mother dragging her to the modiste to try on another bloody ballgown. Phee chewed on her bottom lip as she looked out the window onto the garden below, the book in her lap forgotten. There truly was no kind way to put it to her mother and father that perhaps it was time they gave up on their daughter marrying. True, they were only a month into the season, but given the exceptionally lacking welcome she had already received from the ton, it did little to bolster her confidence that a match would be made. Even she could see they were wasting their money on a fruitless endeavor. The endeavor, of course, being her.

With a sigh, Phee removed the small timepiece she had tucked into her reticule, disappointment flooding her when she noted she had only been gone fifteen minutes. It would take more than that to convince her mother that she suffered from a sour stomach and finally be able to take her leave.

As a child, being the only daughter to the Earl of Youngly had been heavenly, her eldest brother Jonathon, Viscount Hunt, gaining the lion’s share of attention as the heir, allowing her the freedom to explore. And explore she had. There was not a book in her father’s library, in both the London and Sussex home, that she had not read. Not a meter of ground that had not seen the soles of her boots. Not an animal nor insect she had not encountered. It had been a heavenly childhood that had quickly been snatched away as she neared sixteen. Then, her days had become irritating lessons, dancing and etiquette, training on household management and wifely nonsense. Her boots for exploring had disappeared as quickly as her freedom, all due to their senseless hope that she make an advantageous marriage, but she knew without a doubt that those dreams were fruitless. Were she able to find love, which seemed as possible as finding the end of a rainbow, perhaps her future would be more certain. But given the ton’s regard for marriage, she knew her value would be far lesser than the new gaggle of debutants that flooded the market this year.

Yes, for the betterment of all, it was best her parents gave up the dreams of marriage for their daughter. Perhaps, if she pled her case, they would banish her to Sussex, the unfortunate daughter who never made a match. Then they all would be content.

The click of the door opening had Phee pulling the navy drapes surrounding the alcove closed, hiding her from the interloper’s view. Hopefully, it was a footman taking a reprieve from his duties, but given the clinking of glass from the liquor cart, she doubted it.

Placing a hand over her mouth, Phee leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, pleading to every god and deity that she not be caught. It would only be one more strike against her to be found here, the earl’s odd daughter sequestered away in Lord and Lady Halliwell’s library, hiding from the eyes of London.

A crash sounded, followed by a muffled fuck . The voice was familiar, its smooth sound enticing, but no matter how intrigued she was to see the man in question, Phee kept still. It would do very little good for either of them to be found alone together. She would be labeled a villain, accused of trapping any man possible into marriage.

The room fell silent and while Phee was certain she had not heard a door open and close, the eerie stillness certainly must mean she was alone once more. Right? With a sigh, she let her head fall against the wall of the alcove. Just as her eyes fell to the book in her lap, the curtain swished open, the tinkling of its metal rings shaking the room from its slumber.

“I thought I smelled honeysuckle,” a man said, standing in front of her, a glass of amber liquid clenched in his hand. “We meet again, Lady Phoebe.”

Phee squinted at the man, searching for any familiar feature, but the only item that niggled at her brain was his voice and the touch of citrus and cigar smoke that permeated the air. “You again.” The balcony bounder stood proudly before her, his sandy blond hair rakishly pushed from his face, his jacket and cravat the epitome of class. A smile lit his face but never reached his eyes, an odd juxtaposition given the humor he had displayed at the Brinsley ball.

“Another accusation from the lips of Lady Phoebe,” the man said, clutching at his lapel, his body swaying from the drink. “One more harsh charge from you and I shall turn into a pile of dust at your feet.”

Phee stood and stepped closer to the rogue, the heavy scent of alcohol on his breath making her nose twitch. While he reeked of a distillery, the man appeared rather well put together, his hair styled rakishly with small pieces falling before his brown eyes in an alluring manner. His tall, lean build, clad in a black jacket and breeches, hinted at strength, but with the way he was swaying, Phee had to wonder if that was simply an illusion.

“How is it that we’ve managed to sequester ourselves with one another yet again?” she asked, stepping away from the intoxicated scoundrel.

“Tis fate,” he said, waving the hand that contained the cut crystal glass in the air. “The gods must know when I am in distress and send me to you so that you may further my torment.” Collapsing into a chair before the fireplace, he sipped at his drink, or what was left of it.

“You are a dramatic man,” Phee said.

“Can you blame me?” he asked. “It’s not my fault you happen to be in my vicinity every time I’m miserable.”

Eyeing the man, Phee weighed her choices. She could escape the library and return once more to the hell that was the Halliwell ball, or remain here with an albeit drunk, but seemingly harmless man, and while away a bit more time before finding her mother.

Moving toward him, Phee took the tufted chair next to his and watched him. His brown eyes were soft, his movements almost sleepy as he eyed the empty fireplace of the library. “Why are you miserable?” she asked, intrigued by the forlorn man before her.

His gaze never left the empty cavern. “Love,” he said. “Loss.” With a shrug, he finished his drink and set the glass down on the pilled red rug. “Isn’t is always those two?”

Tucking her feet beneath her bottom, Phee rested her head in her hand. “Sometimes.”

His head fell back against the white fabric, his eyes rolling to the side to look at her. “How goes the search for a business partner?”

A smile tugged at her lips. “Isn’t it obvious? Why else would I be hiding in here?”

“Hard to strike such a heavy deal alone in a secluded room, Lady Phoebe. Why not get out there and pander your idea to every available man in society?”

Phee laughed. “I tried. Lord Bright laughed, but when he realized I was serious, he excused himself quickly. My mother nearly had an apoplexy.”

“Dead mothers can be a bit of a problem. For what it’s worth, I find what you’re looking for a rather brilliant notion.”

Phee’s head shot up at his words. “You do?”

The man nodded. “You sort out all the nasty business beforehand. Gets rid of the surprising bits and everyone is on equal footing from the start. No one is expecting love or monogamy, especially once the line is secured.” He clapped his hands together. “Just a simple agreement between two individuals with a likeminded goal. Rather efficient.”

“Mm,” Phee said. “If only the rest of society agreed with you.”

He sat up and looked at her then, his brown gaze drilling through her. “It’s not as if you’re asking for unattainable items, right?”

Phee laughed. “Wouldn’t you agree that love is the unattainable item?”

“Perhaps. It might be easier to ask for the moon. Or perhaps the king’s jewels.”

With a small smile, Phee shook her head. “All I’d like is an amicable partnership.”

He sat there silent, his eyes penetrating. “A friendship of sorts? Well, come on then. Give me your list.”

Phee raised a brow. “What?”

“Your list. What would a marriage contract with Lady Phoebe Kent look like?”

“You’re making fun of me.”

He laughed. “Not at all. Come on, I’ll write it down for you.” He stood and scoured the room for paper before returning to his seat and removing a graphite pencil from a small case tucked inside his jacket pocket. Using his leg as a table, he began to write. “Marriage contract to Lady Phoebe Kent. Article one.” He paused to look at her, his expression expectant.

“No children.”

His mouth curled into a smile. “Starting the negotiations strong I see. Most men within the aristocracy would balk at the demand for no offspring. You know how much value we place on our heir and spare.”

“That’s a non-negotiable, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t like children?” he asked as he wrote on the paper.

“I adore children, but I don’t think I’m the right fit to be a mother.” Phee tilted her head and scrunched her face as she searched for the right words. “I have no interest in being a mother. I’d rather be a doting aunt, surprising my nieces and nephews with gifts and games, being the silly one they play with.”

The man wrinkled his brow in thought. “Hmm.”

“Do you want children?”

“This isn’t my list, it’s yours,” he said, looking at her. “What’s next?”

“I shall only attend one ball a month during the season, and it shall be one of my choosing. My spouse is more than welcome to attend any events they feel inclined to partake in, and can give my excuses if necessary.”

He nodded his head in agreement as he wrote the next article on the paper. “Do you dislike social settings that much?”

Phee smiled. “I detest them.”

“Why?” he asked, his focus still on the paper.

“I don’t do well in large settings like balls, and in truth, I dislike the social necessities required to partake in one. I don’t understand their purpose.” Phee shook her head. “My mother thinks I intentionally say odd things to get out of being invited to such occasions, but in truth, I merely say what is on my mind at the time. It isn’t my fault my words happen to be wrong.”

“Doesn’t everyone detest large crowds and noise at one time or another?”

Phee pinched her lips.

“It isn’t just the large crowds and noise. People say things that have an altogether different meaning, and they smile as they mutter something cruel. And I don’t detest the noise, it makes me feel sick. My skin crawls and my palms sweat. It’s somehow so very loud and yet I can hear the rustle of every scrap of fabric, every conversation around me, and the clink of dishware at the same volume as the person speaking right beside me. I come home feeling exhausted, as if I’ve been torn to pieces in the time I was gone.”

He set down his pencil and looked at her. “Have you told your mother this?”

With a smile, Phee shook her head again. “Yes. She told me everyone feels this way at these events but surely that can’t be true. Not everyone is walking around with stuffing in their ears.” Waving her hand, she motioned to the paper on his lap. “Next item?”

With a raised brow, he looked at her, his gaze accessing. With a sigh, he picked up his pencil. “Article three?”

“Bees.”

He looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

She shook her head. “No, that’s too specific. I must be allowed to pursue any hobby I would like.”

With a quirked brow, he set down the pencil and picked up his glass, frowning as he found it empty. Refilling it at the bar cart, he looked over his shoulder at her. “You said bees?”

Phee nodded, a smile on her lips. “Perhaps I must also be allowed to dictate the design of the gardens at the properties as well, just to ensure proper habitat.”

Sitting back down, he nodded. “Right. Right. Should that be one item or two?”

With a laugh, Phee leaned forward to look at the paper. “Two.”

He wrote down the rest of her list, then set the pencil to the side and looked at her. “Is that it?” When she nodded yes, he cocked his head to the side, examining her. “What about intimacy? Does that not get addressed in this contract? Is that a separate contract?”

Phee looked at her hands. “Intimacy will not be part of the contract at all. Whoever I married, I’d expect them to get that from someone else.”

“Rather cold.”

She shook her head. “Why is that? I’m not sure physical intimacy is required in this sort of marriage. Marital congregation is only necessary in the making of children, and seeing as how I don’t wish to have any, I’m not sure it is an essential piece.”

Lord Everly smirked at her as he leaned forward and said in a low voice, “You do know that physical intimacy isn’t just about procreating. It’s a hedonistic activity that can be very pleasurable for all involved.”

Phee’s cheeks heated as she met his gaze, his brown eyes soft and sleepy in the firelight as they danced over her face, and she swallowed at the tingle of want that overtook her.

Clearing his throat, he sat back in his chair with a sigh and looked at the paper before him. “It’s a rather simple list, Lady Phoebe.”

A corner of her mouth lifted in what she hoped could be perceived as a smile. “I want a rather simple life.” Glancing at the clock on the mantel, she cursed under her breath. It had been nearly an hour since she had excused herself to the ladies’ retiring room. Her mother, no doubt, was likely looking for her. “I must return to the ball, I’m afraid. It was a pleasure to divert my time with you once again…” She paused, her brow furrowing. “I don’t believe I’ve caught your name, sir.”

“Lord Everly,” he said.

Phee paused, her eyes assessing him once again, now with the knowledge of who he was. In the three seasons that Phee had been out in society, she had overheard her share of stories about the charming Lord Everly. When the Marchioness of Greenwood had made her strategic reentrance into society, Lord Everly had been by her side, a staunch supporter, as Lady Greenwood had chaperoned her younger sister through her season. On more than one occasion, gossip had been spread that the pair were secretly together, a rather heart wrenching love story given their inability to ever marry, but when Lady Greenwood married the marquis, the ton’s interest in him faded to nothing more than speculation of who would be next to grab the dashing earl’s attention.

“Right. Well, good evening, my lord.” Giving a curtsey, Phee left the library in search of her mother. If she had looked back, she would have seen Lord Everly watch her leave, his once smiling face now a reflective frown as he folded up the piece of paper that held her contract and tucked it inside his jacket.