Page 38 of Make Mine a Marquess

Phoebe suspected he needed her dowry but that was humiliating to admit, even to Beatrice.

Just then, the women came to an open field where six straw targets had been arranged. The men had already begun with an archery competition. The unmistakable swoosh of an arrow was followed by a thud as it hit the straw. Footmen set out blankets for the ladies to watch the exhibition. The other ladies’ excited chatter caused Phoebe’s headache to come back in an instant.

Why did a peaceful country walk have to turn into a spectacle? She didn’t want to watch the men and listen to the ladies ooh and aah at the men’s athletic display. She wanted peace, for goodness’ sake. And time to think before the evening meal, and certainly before a mesmerist arrived.

Powerless, her gaze sought out one man.

Interestingly, it wasn’t her betrothed.

Across the field, Landon held a bow as he talked with Aram. He laughed at something his friend said, then turned.

His gaze met Phoebe’s across the patch of grass and a sizzling tension tingled down her spine. An unwelcome warmth rushed through her, and she couldn’t look away. He looked arresting dressed in a tailored bottle-green coat, buff breeches, and tall boots. Her cheeks grew warm just looking at his dark visage.

This wouldn’t do.

Tearing her eyes away, she saw Willard wave. Letting out a breath, she returned the gesture, all the while aware of the marquess’s continued stare across the field.

“Mr. Adian looks especially handsome today,” Beatrice said.

“What?”

“Mr. Adian has a confident bearing, yet he is quick to smile.”

“I suppose.” Phoebe could see how he might be attractive to Beatrice. The man was friendly, intelligent, and easy to converse with.

The next to compete were Lord Delmont and Roxborough. Delmont’s shot was true while the younger man missed the target entirely. His friend, Malvern, laughed.

When Landon and Willard stepped up to their targets, Phoebe’s breath caught in her throat. They notched their arrows and pulled back their bows at the same time. A split second later, the whoosh of two arrows and the thud as they hit the straw target sounded across the field. Landon’s arrow struck the center of the target. Willard’s struck the edge of the center.

And in that moment, the two cousins’ intense expressions were not ones of camaraderie. They shook hands and exchanged brittle smiles. Phoebe watched them more closely now. After Beatrice had pointed out how little time they spent together, Phoebe wondered what might have happened between the two men.

The archery competition continued for the remainder of the hour. Each time Landon stepped up to shoot, Phoebe’s gaze was riveted. The fabric of his bottle-green coat was taut across his shoulders as he pulled back the bow. The strength of his legs was clearly visible in his stance, and his boots encased strong calves.

By the time it was over, her mind was as confused and thick as molasses. Her future was set, and she needed to remember what she wanted, what she’d wanted since her youthful transgression.

To keep her heart safe. That meant marrying the baron.

She’d shove this fascination of the Marquess of Landon deep into the recesses of her mind. Anything else would be foolish.

It was not a path she wished to take.

…

Phoebe’s eyes widened when she arrived in the blue drawing room for the mesmerist that evening. Furniture had been moved against the walls and chairs had been arranged in a large circle with an opening where the mesmerist could enter to stand in the center. The ladies had already chosen chairs. Some of the men sat and others stood as they waited for the mesmerist’s arrival.

Landon stood conversing with Mr. Adian and Lord Delmont. One hand rested casually on the mantel, the other in his pocket. Phoebe chose an empty seat between one of the Madison twins and Beatrice. She was determined to ignore the marquess for the evening. This fascination with the man could lead only to trouble. But once she sat, he turned and made eye contact with her from across the room. He tilted his head in greeting and a colony of butterflies fluttered in her stomach.

When the door opened, footmen entered, carrying trays with goblets of wine. Phoebe gratefully accepted one. She sipped the wine, hoping it would ease her nerves.

The mesmerist arrived with the aplomb of royalty. A short, squat man with a walrus-shaped mustache, he wore a deep purple coat and a matching purple and gold striped waistcoat. His male assistant—carrying the mesmerist’s small trunk—was of average height and appearance with brown hair and brown eyes, blending into the background and offering no distraction. The oil lamps in the room were lowered, and the dim lighting caused shadows to flicker on the blue flocked walls. All the guests took their seats.

“My name is Mr. Hyland, and this is my assistant, Mr. Brown.” He motioned to the nondescript man. Hyland stepped inside the circle of chairs.

“Mesmerism is not new,” Hyland said. “There is evidence the Chinese practiced it more than a thousand years ago. But modern mesmerism began with the Austrian physician Franz Mesmer.”

The door opened again, but Mr. Brown took the bottle of wine from the footman and sent the man away only to refill the guests’ wineglasses himself. He refilled Phoebe’s, and she took a small sip.

“Mesmer believed in animal magnetism,” Hyland continued. “I am here tonight to demonstrate.”