“Ah bah, playing cards makes me feel like an old woman. Since I am in mourning, I may not dance, but I refuse to hide myself in a back room playing cards with the dowagers.”
Phoebe eyed the comtesse in her black silk gown trimmed with purple ribbons. “I doubt, madame, that anyone would consider you in your dotage, or that one so lovely might be hidden even in a quiet card room.”
Madeleine laughed and her fan swept Phoebe’s emerald silk gown. “You are quite lovely yourself and most flattering. I suppose I should hold it against you that you are an American since my country was bankrupted by supporting your revolution.” She shook her head. “And your dreadful republican ideas. But I confess I find you quite charming and besides, I believe one should never allow politics to spoil a perfectly agreeable evening.”
Phoebe smiled. “I must agree with you, madame. As my husband is English and I have chosen to make England my home, I have found it wise to eschew political debate.”
“Yourhusband. He is the handsome devil playing cards with my daughter and Lord Moreham?”
“You are correct madame, on both accounts.”
“That he is your husband and that he is playing cards?”
Phoebe laughed. “That he is handsome and a devil.”
“I can see by the way you two keep trading glances that you are most unfashionably fond of one another.” Madeleine tapped Phoebe with her fan. “And your friend, Moreham, do you think he is in love with my daughter?”
Phoebe studied the card players, noting how Rafe’s eyes lingered on Alix. “I think, madame, I have never seen him so captivated by a woman, nor so determined to win her. He’s not a man who takes things lightly, Rafe Harcrest.”
Madeleine sighed. “I have not always had a chance to be a good mother to my daughter, but now that she is in my care I would like to do what I can to see that she is happy.”
Phoebe nodded. “I believe that is Rafe’s desire too, madame.”
Madeleine turned and smiled at Phoebe. “That is good to hear.”
She might have said more, but Lord Rothwell appeared at her elbow and offered to take her for a walk along the gallery. Madeleine made her excuses and Phoebe watched her go, reflecting that there was something quite charming about the way Rothwell bent his craggy gray head to hear Madeleine’s conversation. The comtesse looked like a tiny dark bird that had landed on the branch of a venerable tree, she mused.
Phoebe strolled over to the card table and rested a hand on her husband’s shoulder. Cole glanced up at her and smiled.
Alix was studying her hand, her gray eyes intent; she cast a pensive look at Rafe. “I know you must have thequeen, Lord Moreham.”
Cole’s dark eyes twinkled. “The bettors at White’s have been asking nearly the same question, mademoiselle. Is his lordship holding one queen or two and which shall he discard?”
“I assure you I am holding only one queen,” Rafe said. His tone warming, he glanced at Alix. “And I also assure you, I plan on keeping her close to my chest.”
Alix laughed and slid several coins across the table to him. “Then I believe, my lord, you win.”
Rafe murmured softly. “But of course, my lady, I always play to win.”
Cole cleared his throat, “I think I shall take my wife for a stroll now.” Rising and taking Phoebe’s arm, he said, “You don’t mind do you, Moreham?”
Rafe, who was still looking at Alix, nodded.
Alix watched them go. “Have they been married long?” she asked.
“Nearly fifteen years.”
“They seem like newlyweds. Like newlyweds should be.” she amended.
Rafe placed his hand over Alix’s. “Like we will be.” He studied her face for a moment, unwilling to spoil the moment and uncertain how to begin. “Alix, I’ve been thinking... I’d like to buy you a wedding gown.”
She cast a glance at his pile of winnings, “I’m not quite so impoverished as that, my lord.”
He shook his head. “I’d like it to be my wedding gift to you.” He smiled. “Something in a shade other than gray.”
“You don’t approve of my mother’s flair for the dramatic?” Alix laughed. “I confess, yours are the only unflattering words I’ve heard about my gowns since I’ve arrived in London. Why just the other day Lord Minton sent me a sonnet entitled,To a Silver Siren.”
Rafegrimaced. “Spare me. I’ve heard Minton’s poetry before and it’s not much better than his taste in waistcoats.”
