An Immoral Dilemma For The Scandalous Lady (Steamy Historical Romance) Read online

  With a sigh, she decided to reveal herself. “Here I am, Miss Bennet.”

  Miss Bennet appeared in the grove. She was in her late twenties and unmarried. She had once been a gentlewoman from a noble family that had fallen into disrepute, forcing Miss Bennet into work. Phoebe had once heard her father refer to her as a spinster. He’d said it as if it was a bad thing, but Phoebe adored Miss Bennet, even if she didn’t delight in the dull pursuit of foreign languages and stitching.

  The governess often wore blue or brown dresses covered with a pinafore from her chest down to her calves and a maid’s cap, although she had told Phoebe stories about the beautiful dresses she used to wear when she had been a noblewoman herself.

  Finding Phoebe between the trees, Miss Bennet put her hands on her hips and let out a sigh. “You’ll be the death of me, Lady Phoebe. Lessons were due to start an hour ago.”

  Phoebe looked down at her silk shoes and grimaced. “I could hear the birds singing. It’s such a shame to spend all day inside.”

  “I understand, my dear, but we all have our duties. Your duties are to become a fine, well-educated young lady so that you will grow up to live in a wonderful home with a respected husband.”

  She knelt down to offer Phoebe a kind smile. “Besides, it is your birthday, Lady Phoebe. Don’t you want to come inside and greet your visitors?”

  “Visitors?”

  “But of course. His Grace, The Duke of Bentley is here with the Marquess of Huxley and Lord Boltmon.”

  Phoebe’s eyes lit up. “Evan and Owen?”

  “You mustn’t call them by their Christian names, My Lady! How many times have I told you? It’s considered terribly rude.”

  “I always call them by their Christian names, Miss Bennet. They are my friends.”

  Miss Bennet shook her head and let out a sigh of despair. “Come now, Lady Phoebe. They are waiting for you inside.”

  The governess held out her hand to Phoebe and led her back toward the manor which appeared as prominent as ever on the horizon. It was a beast of red brick, held up by grandiose columns and reached by a set of stairs flanked by carved marble lions.

  The grounds seemed endless, at least two-thousand acres of rolling hills, hidden lakes and streams, and patches of forest. There was, of course, the main manor which also contained the servant’s quarters, as well as the stables and immaculate landscape gardens that surrounded the perimeter of Wycliff House.

  For any of the impoverished citizens of the inner city, this country manor would appear as a dream, something heavenly and unreal. To Phoebe, it was simply home.

  They entered the manor and went to the drawing room, where Lord Wycliff and the Duke of Bentley were waiting with the two young lords, Lord Huxley and Lord Boltmon.

  Evan, the Marquess of Huxley, was now ten-and-eight years of age. He was a fine young gentleman with broad shoulders, brooding eyes, and high moral values. For several years now, he had been traveling with his father’s fleets, halfway between a sailor and a lord. His hair was dark and long enough for him to be able to sweep it back, giving him the constant appearance of a gentleman who had only just stepped down from his vessel on the high seas.

  He had the poise and self-assuredness of a true aristocrat. He stood always with his back straight and his shoulders back, making him seem especially tall. He wore cream breeches with buttons down the outer thighs and a long brown tailcoat, between the lapels of which emerged the layers of his silk shirt. His riding boots reached almost to his knees. He looked ready to jump into action at any moment. He stood awaiting Phoebe’s arrival, one arm behind his back, the other poised elegantly in front of his stomach.

  Phoebe caught his eyes and smiled warmly, but then she spotted Owen and her smile turned into a childish, gleeful grin, which would have made Lady Bentley blush had she been present to see such poor decorum.

  She knew she was supposed to focus her attention on Evan—her betrothed—who had been voyaging so long, but she had oh so much to catch up on with Owen, who had stayed by her side while his brother had been at sea.

  Two years younger than Evan, the Lord Boltmon, her dear Owen, was now sixteen. Although the world saw him now as a gentleman, Phoebe still saw in him her childhood friend, the one who used to chase her with worms when nobody was looking, and the boy who taught her all the ranks in the army and navy so she could understand her father’s lengthy conversations when she was listening in.

  He was dressed in a long black tailcoat and camel-colored breeches. Phoebe noticed that the white shirt ruffles poking out beneath the sleeves of his jacket were stained with ink. She wondered if he had been sketching or writing—he enjoyed both. He caught her eye and she could swear she saw a forbidden sparkle in it.

  She remembered her manners, and although her heart was soaring to see Owen, she focused her attention on Evan, dipped at the knees in a curtsey, and greeted him in the proper manner.

  “Lord Huxley.” She vaguely recalled she should offer some other salutation; maybe something about the pleasure of seeing him or her privilege…I don’t remember a word of it. “I am happy to see you here.”

  “It is my honor to see you, Lady Phoebe. You’ve matured a great deal since last I saw you.”

  “How has it been at sea?”

  Evan’s eyes sparkled and a broad smile came to his face. He lifted a hand to gesture passionately. “An adventure, My Lady. I’ve seen more of the world than a gentleman could imagine. There are such wondrous things to behold beyond these English borders.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  Phoebe cast a glance to Miss Bennet. She felt her vocabulary failing her as she was expected to hold a conversation with a gentleman six years her senior. He was sailing around the world while she was still having her clothes chosen for her by the maids and being scolded for fiddling her hair into braids when she was supposed to be studying.

  Her father, the Earl of Wycliff, gestured to one of the ornate seats in the drawing room for her to sit. The drawing room itself was a sumptuous place to be. The hardwood floors were covered with an exquisite Parisian rug in pale red and creams. The walls were embossed with gilded architraves and decorated with beautiful, original oil paintings from some of England’s most renowned landscape artists. The chandelier hanging from the center of the high ceiling was a final touch of sophistication to an already-opulent setting.

  Phoebe sat down, smoothed out her skirts, and placed her hands carefully in her lap. She waited to be directed in what to do next. Her own judgment often failed her—she wished to throw her arms around Owen and tell him she had missed him since their last visit three months ago. She wanted to ask Evan if he had come across any pirates on his travels, or whether it was true that there were countries across the sea where women walked around without a stitch of clothing on their skin, but she could only imagine what the adults would think if she were to ask such a thing.

  The Duke cleared his throat and threw Evan a purposeful glance. “You haven’t forgotten it is Lady Phoebe’s birthday, have you, Evan?”

  “My apologies.” He quickly sat by Phoebe’s side on the hard-backed floral seat. He produced something from his pocket and turned to show it to her. “Happy birthday, My Lady.”

  His voice was sweet and hopeful. There was tenderness in the way he spoke to her, genuine affection that Phoebe was too young to even recognize.

  She took from him the little ornate box he was holding and carefully opened the lid. Inside rested a little golden locket with an embossed flower, a single ruby nestled between its petals.

  “My Lord, it’s beautiful.” Phoebe glanced toward her father who was beaming with excitement and encouraging her with a nod. “Thank you.”

  “May I?”

  “May you what?”

  While Evan chuckled, Lord Wycliff answered for him. “He wants to see you wear it, my dear.”

  “Oh.” Phoebe gathered up her long dark hair and held it up so that Evan could fasten the locket around her neck. She felt like
she’d done something terribly wrong when she felt his fingers brush against the nape of her neck. What a scandal!

  However, nobody seemed to be sitting in judgment. Perhaps because this gentleman was to be her husband. What a strange thought. When the necklace was in place, Phoebe turned to show Evan. She examined Evan while his face was close to hers. He was handsome, certainly, but he only knew about three species of birds and couldn’t draw at all. They didn’t have very much in common, although his stories about his seafaring adventures could be quite interesting to hear. Then again, what was the point in having a husband who spent most of his time on a ship?

  Phoebe didn’t much fancy the idea of living life as Lady Alone. Then again, without a husband looking over her shoulder, perhaps she could spend more time devoted to her own leisure activities—drawing, painting, reading, and finding new places to slip away to unseen.

  “A charming couple,” the Duke announced with a smile. “The perfect match.”

  * * *

  Phoebe was drained from a day of airs and graces. She had minded her etiquette all day and behaved as ladylike as she was possibly able. Now her head and body ached; in fact, the weight of her new locket irritated her to no end, but she dare not take it off. Even at her young age, she understood that this was more than just a locket. This was a symbol. A promise.

  She returned to the grove. She always felt calmest when faced with still waters and the sound of birdsong.

  As she came to the bench between the trees, she spotted a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with a bow on the seat. She looked around her for who had left it there but she saw nobody.

  Curious, she sat down and placed the gift on her lap. Slowly, she teased the ribbon loose and pulled apart the paper. Wrapped inside was a beautiful book about birds, filled with charming hand-drawn illustrations. It was penned by a famous ornithologist.

  Her heart fluttered in her chest and she gasped with joy. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to first read about the birds or study the drawings. She wanted to absorb the whole thing all at once.

  Who is it from? She turned the parcel over up and down, trying to find the name of the person who had placed it there but found no clue. She didn’t need one.

  She knew. Only Owen had ever cared about her interest in birds. He’d been the only one to ever listen to her go on for hours about the species and their habits. Only he would find a gift for her that could mean so much.

  And the lack of a name? She understood that too. Every social relationship could be viewed as a scandal if it wasn’t signed, approved, and witnessed by an appropriate guardian or relative. A meaningful gift from a young gentleman to a young lady who was not his intended would never be viewed simply as a sweet gesture of friendship. It would be misconstrued and made toxic.

  Yet Phoebe was so grateful for what Owen had done. While the adults planned her future for her and took away her independence, Owen encouraged the most unique parts of her personality. He knew her better than anyone in the world.

  Why can’t I be betrothed to Owen, instead? He’s not like the other gentlemen. He dances to his own tune; he’s a free spirit—like me.

  Chapter 3

  Owen watched Phoebe for a while before announcing his presence. She was sitting in the library of Wycliff House working intently on a drawing. He wasn’t surprised in the least to see it was a sketch of a little robin, except her skill had come a long way in the years he’d known her.

  Owen was now twenty years of age, and Phoebe was sixteen. Neither of them were children anymore, but old a fondness remained.

  Her body had become womanly all at once. A year ago she was still very much a child, with a flat chest and wild hair. Almost overnight, she had blossomed into an aristocrat.

  She wore a long ivy-green dress with bell sleeves and a bodice that drew tight under her bosom. The material flowed unhindered down to her feet, outlining the figure of a body that had become shapely and beautiful.

  Her hair seemed to have grown richer and darker in color. It was sleek and shone under the natural light that flooded in through the tall window behind her.

  There was greater reflection in her expression as she worked. She was focused and quiet; she had matured into a scholar and an artist, working out of more than curiosity, but to break new boundaries and reach the heights of her own potential.

  “Phoebe.”

  She glanced up from her work and on her face appeared that true and genuine smile that she reserved especially for him. She jumped up from her chair, then remembered her manners and curtseyed.

  “Owen! What are you doing here?” she looked around. “Where is your father? Or my father? We really shouldn’t be here unattended. Let me take you to the drawing room. I’ll instruct the staff to prepare some tea.”

  Owen held up a hand. “We are old friends, Phoebe. Soon you are to be my sister-in-law. I believe we are well-acquainted enough for a moment alone.”

  I wish for a million moments alone together. Over the years, Phoebe had grown from a playful and curious child into a studious and witty young lady. She embodied so much of what Owen considered to be attractive in a person, especially so in a female. She was someone he could easily talk with on his own level, a delight in conversation and a vision to behold.

  “Sister-in-law.” Phoebe laid her sketches down on the table beside her. “Time has passed so quickly since my father first told me of his plans.”

  “Evan will make a fine husband.”

  Phoebe offered a smile. “I’m sure of it.” She gestured toward the library doorway. “Let’s head to the drawing room, Owen. I shouldn’t want any loose tongues to wag.”

  “You never used to be so conscious.” Owen chuckled. “I remember a certain young lady pulling me into the woods to show me a rabbit warren she’d discovered when she was ten or eleven. The same lady who whispered to me that her father’s uncle was ‘incredibly dull and smelled of pig muck.’”

  Owen could see her try to hide her smile, but he caught it there, along with that mischievous sparkle in her eye that she’d spent her life trying to conceal.

  “The follies of youth, Owen.”

  “The follies of Phoebe.”

  The two walked together down the long hall toward the drawing room. Owen noticed the way in which even Phoebe’s walk had changed. There was an intoxicating sway in her hips that had never been there before.

  He felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment and shame. He felt terrible having such disrespectful thoughts toward such a fine young lady and close friend.

  “I remember another who lived outside the social customs as a boy,” Phoebe challenged him. She cast a teasing glance his way then returned her gaze frontward. The smallest look to say so much. “I never did thank you for the book you left me on my twelfth birthday.”

  “Phoebe, a secret gift to my brother’s betrothed would have been atrociously out of place. The birds themselves must have left it there for their most frequent spectator.” He paused. “Although I might reason that perhaps it would be something a sixteen-year-old who knew no better might have believed to be harmless and kind.”

  “Sometimes a gesture of friendship is just that and nothing more.”

  “Yes, sometimes.”

  Sometimes it is a token of a forbidden and unspoken desire. Sometimes a gesture of friendship speaks of far, far more.

  “What brings you to Wycliff House, Owen?”

  Phoebe and Owen arrived at the drawing room. The room spoke of formality and restriction, only more so when Lord Wycliff entered from the opposite doorway just as the pair were entering.

  “You two are wandering around the house alone, I see?”

  Phoebe laughed lightly. “Don’t be alarmed, father. Our paths simply crossed in the hall. I thought it best to bring Lord Boltmon straight to the drawing room.”

  “Forgive me, Lord Wycliff,” Owen said. “I was asked to wait in the foyer, but I thought I recalled my way to the drawing room. It seems memory didn’t s
erve me as well as I thought it might.”

  Lord Wycliff nodded and sat down in a chair with a regal flick of the tails of his tailcoat. “You’re here to discuss my recommendation for a military position for you.”

  “I am twenty years of age, My Lord. I am running out of time to be commissioned and I will need to be vouched for by a superior officer.”

  Lord Wycliff chuckled. “I haven’t been a military gentleman for many, many years, Lord Boltmon.”

  “Your reputation still precedes you. Your word would go a long way in securing me a reputable position.”

  Phoebe’s eyes widened. While Owen and her father were comfortably seated, she stayed standing.

  She turned to Owen with a look of resounding horror on her face.