Claimed by the Rogue (13 page)

Phoebe suppressed a sigh, full knowing she was far from the only female to notice him. Like peahens, any number of ladies both eligible and a few wed had found excuses to flock toward him, cooing over his crimson coat and toying with the dance cards dangling from their waists in unmistakable invitation. So far he’d politely but pointedly rebuffed them all—so far.

Not for the first time he reached up to slip a finger beneath his elaborately wound neck cloth. Between it and the starched shirt points standing at attention on either cheek, he looked supremely uncomfortable.

It served him right.

For the past week, he’d put himself in her path in every way possible and not only at the Foundling Hospital. Be it Lady Winifred’s musicale with Aristide on Tuesday, Wedgewood’s show rooms on Thursday where with her mother she’d perused the latest china patterns or Gunter’s Tea Room where just the other day she’d treated Belinda to a lemon ice, it was as if he knew where she would be before she did. As much as she might like to believe those meetings were pure happenstance, she knew better. One of the servants in her household must be in his pocket. It was the only conceivable explanation. Were she to root out the blather box, she’d see him or her turned out without tuppence. She had a suspicion the culprit might be Betty, her new lady’s maid, though without proof there was little she could do about it.
 

It was beyond annoying. And yet were she honest, she’d admit to selecting the cream-colored muslin tamboured in gold thread, her evening best, with not Aristide but Robert in mind.

Catching her eye, he lifted his lemonade glass in a silent salute, smile bold and eyes smoldering. Phoebe’s heart kicked into a canter. Her pulse quickened, her flesh flushed. Beneath her gown, she felt a telltale tingling. Beginning at her breasts, it trickled all the way down to her…

She looked sharply away. The cut direct—she’d learned it at the knee of her mother and yet ere now she’d never thought to employ it in earnest, certainly not upon Robert. Doing so wasn’t snobbery. It was self-preservation. Even with the breadth of a ballroom between them, being in proximity to her erstwhile betrothed made her knees watery and her heart stumble.

“This is insufferable,” Aristide spat into her ear. “Is it not enough that you must bear his boorish company during the day? Must he stalk you by night as well? I have had enough of this foolishness!” Unlinking arms, he took a determined step forward.

Panicked that there might be a scene or, far worse, the prelude to a duel, Phoebe caught at his arm. “Please, it is such a lovely evening. Let us not spoil it by fretting over Robert Bellamy. Beyond all, it is attention he craves. Why not do as I do and simply ignore him? He will move on to greener pastures soon enough,” she added, though a lump lodged in her throat at the very thought.

He relaxed fractionally. “As you wish,
ma petite
, though should he presume to press himself on you tonight, I will not stand for it.”

She released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been withholding. “Thank you.”
 

He answered with a curt nod and looked away, affording Phoebe the opportunity to study him without subterfuge. With his black-brown hair, dark eyes and impeccably tailored evening wear, her intended cut a fine figure indeed. And yet why was it she couldn’t seem to summon so much as a flutter when she stood in his proximity as she did now? As much as she might wish to pawn off her apathy to his peevishness, in her heart she knew there was greater cause.

Robert.

Since his return, she hadn’t been able to summon a single sane thought. The wellspring of feelings flooding her had her second-guessing everyone and everything, most especially herself.

Aristide shifted back to her, barely bothering to conceal his openmouthed yawn. “How soon may we leave?” he asked though the ball was barely beyond its first hour.
 

Knowing Robert stood within eyeshot emboldened her to say, “As the hostess, I must see the evening through to its end, but you need not stay.”
 

A stormy look quelled the suggestion. His mouth twisted into a sneer. “Ah,
oui
, I am sure the good captain would be most happy to take my rightful place. Perhaps for all your protestations, you prefer his society to mine?”

“That is not true by half,” she protested, mindful of the watchful eyes wending toward them.
 

His dark gaze narrowed. “Is it not? You certainly seem to spend sufficient time in his company.”
 

Rather than deny the obvious truth and risk stirring a scene, she said, “I only meant that I do not wish to keep you from—”
 

She paused. Where did he go on the nights they spent apart? Most men might be found at their club, but to her best knowledge he didn’t belong to any. Was it a gaming hell or, far worse, a brothel that he frequented? If so, his nocturnal revelries must have brought him crossing paths with Reggie though her sibling had never spoken of seeing him. Then again, Phoebe supposed that hell-raking habits weren’t something a man, even a scapegrace such as Reggie, took up with his sister.
 

“Wherever it is you go, I shouldn’t wish to impose upon you. I can find my way home with Reggie and Mama.” Indeed, the prospect of unfettering herself from him, if only for the night, brought a giddy sense of freedom.

Aiming a dagger look Robert’s way, he dug in his heels. “I will stay. To the bitter end, as you English say.”

The ungracious remark prompted a decidedly unwelcome and unflattering comparison. Whilst Robert appeared content to wipe her chalk slate and follow her unflaggingly from classroom to ballroom, her betrothed was put upon to attend so much as a single social event.
 

But perhaps she was being unfair. Robert’s return had muddled her mind, resurrecting old feelings better left buried. Unlike the love-struck chit of six years ago, this time ’round she must employ sound sense. Robert was her past, Aristide her future. They were to be married. Why was it she didn’t feel anything close to content?

“It seems greener pastures have arrived,” Aristide remarked, sounding almost jovial.

Curious as to what had brought about his sudden shift of humor, she followed his gaze across the dance floor. Robert stood, no longer alone but cheek to jowl with Phoebe’s old rival from her debutante days, the recently widowed and undoubtedly delectable Lady Morton.

Monitoring Phoebe from the corner of one eye, Robert made a point of dipping his head toward his companion despite finding her perfume—and person—cloying. After the past week’s chilly standoff, Phoebe’s glare felt like sunshine upon his face. By day at the Foundling Hospital, she’d treated him with icy civility. Outside of it she’d simply refused to acknowledge him. Flowers, confectionary, an abysmally written sonnet—none of his courtship tactics had found the slightest chink in her armor.
 

Desperate times called for desperate measures, or so Chelsea was fond of quoting.

The one tactic he hadn’t so far tried might prove to be the very one that worked.

Jealousy.

He turned his gaze back to the curvaceous blonde, the former Miss Leticia Blakenship, forcing himself to stare as though she were Aphrodite incarnate rather than the witch who, six years ago, had cut him socially. If he lived to be one hundred, he’d never forget her caustic comment which he’d chanced to overhear at his and Phoebe’s betrothal ball.
 

“The on dit is that it’s a love match, but I venture to say it’s her six hundred pounds a year that he holds most dear.”

“Tell me, my dear Miss Blakenship, how is it that a diamond of the first water such as you has managed to remain unattached? The men of London must be blind idiots indeed.” He deliberately dropped his gaze to her gown’s low neckline.

Predictably she preened, sailing a gloved hand through the air. “Oh, but you have it all wrong, sir. I am Lady Morton now and, sadly, a widow,” she said, not seeming sad of it at all.
 

A widow—her mauve-colored gown made sudden sense. “And yet you have come out of mourning to attend. How…stalwart of you.”

“Half mourning,” she corrected, face flushing. “I set aside my grief in support of the orphans…and Lady Phoebe, of course.”

Robert choked back a bitter laugh. “Your selflessness is an inspiration to us all, milady.”
 

She nodded solemnly. “My late husband was a great contributor to the Foundling Hospital.”

Amidst her prattling, Robert shifted sufficiently to glimpse Phoebe glaring in his distinct direction. Encouraged, he turned his brightest smile on Lady Morton. “Forgive my impertinence, but your husband must have passed on a most happy man.”

“Oh, gracious, sir, your courtly compliments have me flushing most fiercely. And may I take the opportunity to say how very happy I am that you are not indeed dead?”

Another sidelong glance confirmed that Phoebe had bit on the bait. Leaving Bouchart behind to hold up the wall, she appeared to be making her way toward him.

Bending his head to Lady Morton’s, he said, “That is by far the kindest remark that has been made to me all week.”
 

She turned so that her lips brushed the outside of his ear. “Allow me to assure you, sir, I am prepared to be a great deal kinder.”

A throat clearing had them pulling apart. Robert turned to Phoebe, who’d joined them. “Lady Morton, there you are,” she trilled, as though she hadn’t had them in her sights the entire time. “You must think me a poor hostess indeed for failing to find you earlier.”

Lady Morton sent her a baffled look. “Find me? But I have been in plain sight—”

“The bidding for the art auction is about to begin, and recalling your late lord’s generosity, I took the liberty of reserving a seat for you in the front.” She shifted her gaze to Robert. “A single seat, I’m afraid.”

Smile slipping, Lady Morton said, “But I was only—”

“No buts,” Phoebe broke in yet again. “I am resolved that the Hogarth shall go home with no other than you.” She slanted a look Robert’s way. “I shall endeavor to entertain Mr. Bellamy until your return.”

“Well, if you’re certain—”

“Quite. Now off with you or you shall lament losing your prize,” Phoebe warned, wagging a gloved finger beneath the other woman’s nose.

Defeated, Lady Morton turned back to Robert. “Shall I see you at supper, sir?”
 

“I should not miss it,” Robert swore. “Mayhap we can resume our most delightful…
conversation
then.” Though he’d as soon break bread with Bonaparte himself, the pink pooling in Phoebe’s cheeks more than repaid any sacrifice.

Left with little choice, the widow dipped a curtsey and whisked away to follow those wending toward the auction room.
 

Watching her head off, Phoebe cast Robert a sideways look. “Have you no decency? She’s in mourning.”

He smothered a laugh. “Half-mourning, and you’d do better to remind her of that. But tell me, why should you care?”

She swung about to face him “Who says that I do?”

“Your face gives you away. Your complexion has gone quite green.”

She sniffed, and her injured air sent his hopes soaring. “Are you intimating I am jealous of Lady Morton?”

Feeling on firmer footing than he had been all week, he leaned back against a Palladian pilaster. “Are you?”

“What nonsense, of course I am not. I only hate to see you play the poor woman for a fool. Given her recent loss, she is certain to be in a most vulnerable state of mind.”

Robert had never encountered a less vulnerable female than Lady Morton. She was clearly on the prowl for her next conquest. He doubted she would require much persuasion to cast off her widow’s weeds in favor of wearing his bedsheets.
 

Rather than voice such a crude if clearly correct conclusion, he settled for, “A woman such as Lady Morton is more than equipped to care for herself.” He looked out onto the dance floor where couples were queuing up for a quadrille. “Tell me, are there any other ladies present whom I should take pains to avoid?”

Phoebe’s gaze narrowed. “Myself, for one.”

He snapped his gaze back to hers. “I might point out that ’tis you who forded the floor to reach me.”

Her eyes flashed. “Do you deny you have been deliberately following me all the week? I have come to think I may not even take my sister for an ice without you spying?”

“I do love a good ice,” he answered with a wink. “And I’ve taken quite a fancy to that quaint if over-crowded little teashop. As I find myself biding nearby, I cannot promise you will not see me there again—soon.”

“So you’re staying on then?”

Wishing she might sound more pleased about it, Robert shrugged. “As I said before, I have until the month’s end to decide whether to accept new orders or resign my captaincy.”

“Don’t you mean Robert Lazarus has the month to decide?” she asked archly.

He forced a shrug. “A rose by any other name.”

She sent him a dour look. “So this week was no aberration merely to plague me. You mean to circulate in society.”

At times such as this she sounded nearly as starchy as her mother. “Mayfair has always been rather incestuous, an elite pond of familiar faces. We are bound to continue to run into one another with some frequency. Why spend those occasions in awkwardness or aiming daggers at one another? Why not strive to be civil or, better yet, friends?”