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“Thank you for coming,” Phoebe said. “And for bringing the invitation to the ball. We shall all look forward to it very much.”

The reminder brought a smile to Marianne’s face. “It promises to be quite marvelous.”

“Indeed,” Phoebe’s mother said.

Mr. Webb bowed, his gaze lingering on Phoebe a few seconds longer than was comfortable.

“Good day, Mr. Webb,” she said.

“Good day, Miss Hadford,” he replied. “I shall look for you at the start of the ball.”

Still standing, Phoebe watched the Webb siblings leave the room. Her mother remained silent until they heard Gresham’s voice wish their guests good day in the hall and the thud of the front door pronounce their departure from the house.

“Well.” Her mother lowered herself into the nearest chair. “I hope you have a worthy explanation for your behavior this afternoon, young lady.”

“My behavior was above reproach, Mother. I do not think it remiss of me to disagree with Mr. Webb’s opinion on a matter, particularly if he is in the wrong.”

“In the wrong! Good heavens, child. What can you possibly know about Lord Dunsbourne and his sister that Mr. Webb does not?”

Phoebe was willing to guess that she could generate a fairly extensive list, but that would do nothing to placate her mother. Experience had taught her that it was best to give her mother time to say her piece.

“I cannot begin to imagine what came over you. Especially after Mr. Webb did you the honor of asking for the first dance at the ball. To contradict him so vehemently . . .” She moaned. “What must he think of you?”

If her defense of Emily had caused Mr. Webb to think any less of her, Phoebe would have to thank her new friend profusely. The gentleman was well groomed and well mannered, but every time he looked at her, she fought the urge to squirm. She had no desire whatsoever to win any further admiration or affection.

“I am sorry if I caused you distress, Mother, but I am not sorry for what I said. I have spent time with Miss Norton and consider her a friend. She does not deserve to be shunned because people think ill of her brother.”

“Like it or not, it is impossible to fully remove the stigma associated with disreputable family connections.”

“But Miss Norton has done nothing.” Phoebe clenched her fists. “Besides, we are basing our opinion of Lord Dunsbourne on nothing more than gossip.”

“What Lord Dunsbourne did or did not do before our time at Charwell Park is irrelevant. If Society has placed a blemish on his character, your personal opinion of the baron will have little or no bearing whatsoever.” Her mother eyed her worriedly. “Mr. Webb has singled you out. Do not jeopardize his good opinion over something so wholly out of your control. As women, our role is to excel within the bounds Society sets, not push through them.”

Phoebe’s chest hurt. Had she truly allowed herself to become so completely subservient to societal protocols? She had always enjoyed mingling in Society. Attending parties and dances had been her time to shine. But perhaps it had come at too high a cost. Did any one of her acquaintances see the thinking, caring individual inside the pretty gowns, or had that individual become lost in the colorful whirl of Society life?

“Thank you, Mother.” Her voice was low. “You have given me a great deal to think about.”

Her mother nodded. “I daresay our guests will put today’s incident behind them soon enough.” She sighed happily. “And if it hasn’t happened before the ball, it most certainly will once Mr. Webb catches sight of you.”

Phoebe took her seat and picked up her needlework. Lowering her head to hide her tear-filled eyes, she began to mindlessly unpick the last few stitches. For the first time in her life, she wished that her appearance were a little plainer and her wardrobe a little simpler. Perhaps then, someone would look past the outer trappings to see the person she was within.

She continued unpicking embroidered daisies until she had her emotions under control. If the rain would only abate, she could go outside. A brisk walk or a ride across the hills would do much to help her regain her equilibrium. As it was, she was trapped in the house. Jane was gone, and her father . . . Still holding the needle, Phoebe’s hand hovered over the fabric. Although she had yet to see him, her father had returned from London the night before.

A quick glance at her mother told Phoebe that she had resumed her reading and appeared engrossed. Setting her needlework on the sofa, Phoebe got to her feet and slipped out of the room. She walked down the passageway toward her father’s study. The door was closed. She hesitated. Would he be irritated by an interruption? She knew full well that after having been gone for over a week, he would have much work to catch up on, but she could not deny her overwhelming desire for his steadying presence. Now. While her thoughts were so conflicted.

Raising her hand, she knocked.

“Enter,” her father called from within.

Phoebe opened the door but remained on the threshold. “Welcome home, Father.”

He looked up from the large ledger book on the desk and smiled. “Thank you, my dear. Your Aunt Millward treats me very well when I stay with her in Town, but it is nice to be back. She sends you her love, by the way.”

Phoebe acknowledged the message with a smile of her own. “I am sure Aunt Millward enjoys having you visit. She thrives upon fussing over her guests.”

He chuckled. “I believe you are right.”

Phoebe paused, wondering how best to continue.