Page 19 of Her Summer Duke

Chapter Eight

Phoebe put down her book and glanced at Lord Montpelier. She slipped one of her fingers into a long curl of her hair, where it fell over her shoulder, and twisted it around her finger absentmindedly, as her eyes slithered over his torso, from his head to his boots. The man stood patiently with his hat in hand, staring out of the parlour window. Montpelier had asked if he might spend time with her, a chaperoned visitation, of course, and her father had granted Montpelier the privilege of sitting with his daughter with her maid as chaperone. The maid sat in a chair next to the door, fidgeting with her fingers in her lap, whilst she kept her eyes down, respectfully.

Phoebe put her hand to her cheek, as she reassessed Lord Montpelier’s masculine features. She had put considerable thought to the true state of her feelings for him, since Margaret had suffered her own crisis with respect to the Duke of Saltonbury. Montpelier had a firm square jawline and a distinguished long nose. He was actually quite handsome in a very French kind of way.

His pale blue tailcoat intrigued her, since it was not the usual dark blue or black of most men’s tailcoats, yet was not of outrageous patterned fabric like those of the fops and dandies. He had been born in Paris; his mother was French, but his father was British. His upbringing included all of the proper manners required to go about in society successfully. His social style was ever-present, especially when he chanced to dance with her, and his steps were elegant and controlled.

His grand style was quite apparent when he danced the cotillion, undoubtedly because the dance was French. The cotillion was complicated, with refined footwork, but he never missed a step through all of the necessary changes. Phoebe, of course, had misstepped several times and leaned heavily on his hand or elbow, though he never seemed to be bothered by her actions or insecurities.

She thoughtfully bit her lower lip - she knew that she should be swooning over this distinguished gentleman, whom she was betrothed to. Montpelier took such a devoted interest in her, despite her childish games, and perhaps she would have swooned, if it were not for his corpse hands!

Montpelier turned slowly, “We might get good weather yet for a carriage ride, dear Lady Phoebe. I would still like to take you to your cousin, Lady Margaret’s, as we had originally planned prior to the rainfall.”

His thin lips, which he had obviously inherited from his British father, turned up into a frail smile. He was completely smitten with Phoebe, and she knew it – which was another point in his favour. And a drive might be nice, if it were not for the drizzling rain which still fell, although it had lessened in the last hour.

“Yes, well, I had planned to finish my book.”

“What are you reading?”

She lifted the book off her lap, “You would it find it totally uninteresting, I am certain. It is a novel, full of love and drama. Enjoyable, if a little removed from reality.”

She thought she heard him softly grunt his disapproval.

“We could discuss the state of affairs of our government, I know you enjoy that type of banter, Lady Phoebe.” He walked toward her and took the chair opposite her. “If I may?”

“Please, yes, do sit. Which affairs shall we discuss?”

His eyes locked onto hers. “This or that, no matter. I am just delighted to be in your presence, Lady Phoebe. Perhaps after our pleasant chat you might desire to discuss our marriage arrangements?” He leaned forward hopefully.

“From matters of parliament to marriage?” She laughed softly. “My, my, speak of diversion as a topic.”

“I meant no disrespect, I assure you, my dear Lady Phoebe.”

She shifted in her seat, closed her book, and gently tapped her fingers on its cover.

“Then shall we simply move to the discussion of wedding plans, as that, I perceive, is what most agitates you?”

She did not really wish to discuss wedding plans, as she was still rather uncertain of her true feelings about marrying Lord Montpelier. Life had been much easier before Margaret had caused her to rethink it, to contemplate the idea that her fate might not be absolute.

“I must admit, it is. To put it most plainly - what of our wedding date?”

“I, well, I have not given the date much thought. There are quite a few important things to plan, as you are aware, I am sure. Weddings are never a simple matter.”

“Yes, but surely I can assist in the arrangements. I am certain that all could be settled and planned by October 16th. Shall we set that as our nuptial date?”

Phoebe blinked. She felt that she had been backed into a corner and there were no words that would help her exit that corner.

“I would like to discuss the matter with my father, of course, and my cousin, Lady Margaret. This gives me barely, uh, uh…”

“Three months.” Quite satisfied that he had settled the entire matter of the wedding, Lord Montpelier stood. “Come, my dearest.” He extended his ungloved hand for her to take, to assist her to stand. “Shall we brave the ride into the countryside, with or without the rain? I can always put the top up on the barouche.”

She reluctantly took his bare hand in hers, feeling his icy palm against her soft skin. She looked up into his face as she stood, half expecting to see the sewn closed eyes of a corpse, but he was smiling at her with his thin lips pulled taut, exposing his front teeth.

He whispered under his breath as he bowed toward her, “You are so lovely, Lady Phoebe.”

She abruptly turned to her maid, “Bring me my cloak and my umbrella. I am going out.”

The young girl sitting at the door popped to her feet and nodded, then left the room. She returned so hastily that it would seem she had flown like a bird. She had a crimson cloak over her arm, as well as a spencer within her fingers, and she was carrying the umbrella and a pair of gloves in her other hand.