Page 81 of Make Mine a Marquess

Phoebe hugged Beatrice. She was her dear friend. “Thank you. And I promise not to judge you.” Her throat closed and she wiped a tear away from her eye.

Beatrice sniffled and the two laughed together. “Good. Now tell me everything. And don’t leave out a single detail!”

…

The dining room’s crystal chandeliers glimmered from the light of dozens of candles. The French chef had outdone himself with platters of succulent lamb and fowl from the estate and fish from the lake. A footman stood behind each couple, and with a slight nod, a serving of fresh asparagus or green beans was placed upon a gold-rimmed plate, stamped with the marquessate’s crest. The footmen also ensured the wine goblets were always full.

Phoebe was seated between Beatrice and Lord Willard.

Landon sat at the table’s head, Aram to his right, and Clarice-with-the-fortune-to-be seated to his left.

Landon looked especially appealing with his dark hair shining beneath the candlelight. His olive-green coat complemented his bronzed complexion, and its meticulous tailoring emphasized his broad shoulders. She recalled running her hands up his strong biceps to clutch those shoulders. Memories of their shared night had invaded her dreams and were never far from her waking thoughts. She’d relived everything, from the moment he’d lifted her into the cradle of his strong arms, to when he’d joined her on the bed, her soft curves molding to the contours of his lean body, and then the rapture she’d experienced. Her past encounter paled in comparison. Landon had made her feel things, shivering touches and aching needs, she’d never dreamt of experiencing.

She’d mistakenly believed her desire would have ebbed after their night together.

Instead, it grew.

Even now, sitting far from him at the vast dining room table, separated by rows of fine china, silver, and crystal, her body tingled in remembrance.

“The color of your dress is appealing, my dear.”

She forced her attention back to Lord Willard beside her. “Thank you.” She smoothed the skirt of the yellow gown. In truth, it was her least favorite and she believed the color made her look sallow. Her mother had picked it that evening.

Willard nodded, then tapped his fork once against his plate. “I shall instruct your modiste to create more dresses in that color.”

He’d tell Madame Annette what to design? A woman’s dressmaker was not a male’s domain. Would he take over all aspects of her life after they married? And how would that affect her agreement with the dressmaker to produce dresses for her charity? Would he be stingy with her allowance? Her mind raced as one thought led to another.

Oblivious to her concerns, Willard instructed a footman to refill his wineglass and to top off Phoebe’s.

“You must try the fowl, my dear,” Willard said.

She didn’t like fowl. “I prefer lamb.”

“Nonsense. The fowl is especially succulent tonight.” He waved over a footman and a portion of the fowl was placed on her plate before she could protest.

Phoebe’s brows drew together as she regarded her plate. Her dislike went back to when she’d been a girl and her father and his friends had hunted grouse during a week-long country sojourn. Their chef had been rushed to prepare it and the meat had been undercooked, greasy, and stringy. When an eight-year-old Phoebe had spit out a mouthful of the meat, her father had turned beet red. He’d called her a spoiled girl and had ranted about how he’d often had to fight with his six brothers for food when he was a youth, and had gone to bed hungry sometimes. He’d made Phoebe eat the fowl that day and for the rest of the week.

She swallowed and her stomach churned as she stared at her gold-rimmed plate. She pushed aside the memory. It had been years. Maybe her tastes had changed since she was a young child.

She picked up her fork and knife and sliced off a piece, then raised it to her mouth. At the first taste of the greasy meat, she wrinkled her nose. She forced herself to chew and swallow.

She still disliked it.

Phoebe stared longingly at the lamb on Lady Delmont’s plate across the table.

Willard patted Phoebe’s hand. “See? I’m pleased at your willingness to share the foods I prefer.” How could he have missed her reaction? Or did he not care?

She picked up her napkin and dabbed at her mouth. A sickening sensation settled in her stomach that had nothing to do with the food. Another troubling thought struck her. Would she have to change her preferences, her very being, to satisfy her future husband? Would it be easier to act compliant rather than to express her true feelings and desires? The next bite of the greasy fowl was harder to swallow.

She looked up to see Landon watching her from the head of the table. His brow rose as if to inquire if all was well. She wanted to break free and run from the room. Her volatile emotions were not due to the fowl, but what it represented. What she’d wanted for so long wasn’t what she wanted now at all.

As these thoughts confounded her, Clarice brushed Landon’s arm, batting her lashes up at him. He turned to glance down at her, and Phoebe’s fingers tightened on her fork. Misery settled like a weight upon her shoulders.

What was wrong with her? She was not one to suffer melancholy, or pine after a man. She knew firsthand how damaging both were to a woman’s self-esteem. Even more troubling, she had no claim upon the marquess. And he certainly had no claim on her. The house party would end, and they would go back to London, and in the days to come, she would most likely only glimpse the marquess at a party or ball. Their afternoon backgammon sessions had been lovely but now were over. They would be memories. As for their one night together, she’d known the risks—especially to her heart.

As if he knew her thoughts, his dark gaze met hers once more. His lips curled in a smile. A second passed, then two, her heart responding with a jolt before settling in her chest.

Chapter Twenty-Two