Page 3 of Make Mine a Marquess

“But you do not love him,” Beatrice said in a low, troubled voice.

A heaviness centered in Phoebe’s chest. The goddess costume itched her skin, and she wanted to take off the quiver of arrows which suddenly seemed too tight strapped to her shoulders. “I care for him. Love is not everything.”

Beatrice’s disapproval was as loud as a trumpet blast. “Is your insistence to go along with your family’s wishes because of…of…”

“It is not.” Phoebe felt her face grow warm, and a stifling sensation clawed at her throat. A different tenseness enveloped her limbs. She refused to talk of her past. No sense would come of it now. She’d been fortunate, lucky, blessed. Her youthful mistakes were as much a part of her as the air she breathed.

She’d only been sixteen when she’d met Philip, a young stable boy in her family’s country home. She’d loved to ride, and he’d readied her mount every afternoon. Philip was two years older and handsome with a swath of blond curls. They’d flirted for a full year and, one sunny afternoon, he’d proclaimed his love in a field of sunflowers. They’d made love in the stables. She’d loved him with all her youthful heart, and they’d intended to run away and wed, so she’d packed a bag to start a new life, only to learn that he’d left without a word.

Heartache had caused despair. How could she have been such a fool? Philip had used her. Lied to her. She’d felt as if her heart had been hollowed out with a dull spoon. But things had gotten worse. Much worse. As the days passed and her menses had not started, she’d grown more and more desperate. Thirty long days and nights of worry had eaten away at her like pestilence. Sheer panic had set in.

If she’d told her mother, she’d have been sent off to the country to have the baby, only to have it given away to another family to raise. Then she’d be sent home and expected to behave as if nothing had happened. She wouldn’t have survived it. She’d heard whispers of a woman in St Giles who’d get rid of unwanted pregnancies. Some of the women didn’t survive. Before she’d had to make the difficult choice or flee, she’d bled.

A decade had passed, and she still mistrusted rogues. Especially liars. She swore never again to be fooled by a handsome face and smooth talk.

Then why was she searching the costumed men for a black-clad pirate? Maybe she had a weakness for rogues, especially handsome ones.

And he was handsome.

The half-masked pirate had bronzed skin, darker than any Englishman she knew. Hair as black as coal. Eyes as dark as she preferred her morning chocolate. And when he’d intently watched her in the gardens, a shiver had traveled down her spine. Even now, the memory was vivid. He was more than six feet tall, and he moved like an athlete, all muscle and sinew. He was different than most other men in the ballroom. Scintillating. Exciting.

The type of male the mamas of the ton would warn their daughters to avoid. The type of male she’d sworn to avoid.

“Here comes your mother. I’ll make my escape for the refreshment table. If you need me, shut your fan.” Beatrice hurried away.

Phoebe could not blame Beatrice for her quick escape. She wanted to grasp her cousin’s hand to keep her close.

Coward.

Hillary Dawson was an imposing woman with a spine of steel, the iron-clad ambition of a member of the House of Lords intent on arguing a bill, and the determination of a terrier. Her sole goal was to increase her social standing. The wife of a wealthy merchant, she had more money than many of the beau monde but lacked the requisite title and bloodline and therefore would never be fully accepted.

Her daughter, however, if she had any say, would have a prized title.

Mrs. Dawson had instructed her husband to bestow a fat dowry upon their daughter to entice the baron, Lord Willard, to offer for her. Phoebe knew that after her wedding, her mother would get social standing as mother-in-law to a titled baron, potential marquess, if rumors were true. Invitations to ton affairs would most likely follow, along with prestige for her father’s coal mining business.

“Phoebe, darling, please smile,” her mother instructed. “It’s the first day of the house party, and the guest list includes the countess of Delmont, with whom I wish to become acquainted. Lord Willard has spared no expense and ensured an exciting array of entertainment.”

Phoebe knew Lord Willard tended to throw lavish parties. He’d been rumored to be in financial trouble until his cousin, the Marquess of Landon, had been lost at sea during a business venture. By law, the baron could not inherit his cousin’s title until there was proof of death, but Willard had become the trustee of the marquess’s vast lands and rich coffers. If her parents feared the spendthrift baron would quickly spend her dowry, her father—the shrewd businessman he was—was planning on providing for an ample marriage settlement for his only daughter and child.

“Ah. Here he is now,” her mother said, a look of intense satisfaction crossing her features.

Lord Willard halted before them and bowed. “Are you enjoying yourselves, ladies?” His face was flushed from the heat of the ballroom, and beads of perspiration dotted his brow.

With his fair hair and green eyes, many ladies found him gallant and handsome. Phoebe did not find him attractive.

Which made him perfect.

Nevertheless, he’d been attentive and had courted her, bringing flowers and chocolates at her home, and had visited precisely three times, during which they were chaperoned by her maid. Thereafter, he’d asked her father’s permission for her hand. He was nothing but proper. In turn, her father had promptly approved. Her mother was joyous.

Phoebe would not let them down.

Not again. She was no longer a gullible sixteen-year-old.

“Is it true you have retained a mesmerist for the house party, my lord?” her mother asked. “It’s all the talk of the ladies.”

Lord Willard smiled. “I would not want to disappoint anyone.”

Just then the orchestra began a waltz. He turned to Phoebe and extended his hand. “Will you do me the honor of this dance, Miss Dawson?”