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DENIAL

Denial, according to the Oxford English Dictionary:

The asserting (of anything) to be untrue or untenable; contradiction of a statement or allegation as untrue or invalid; also, the denying of the existence or reality of a thing.

“T he devil if this doesn’t sound like a jealous rival,” exclaimed Aunt Lucy. “Though, I did feel he was the type who would find monogamy a trial.”

“And you’re just now saying something?” Phoebe’s mouth fell open for the second time. “Are you serious?”

“About the infidelity or the jealous rival?”

“Both!”

Aunt Lucy patted her niece’s shoulder. “I did say something, and you turned a deaf ear. He’ll give all that up once he marries me, you said. Are you worried now that he won’t?”

Phoebe glared at the fire, realizing her aunt was correct. She had waved away those concerns. “He’s a man. It’s what they do until they marry. Papa would never have had a mistress after he married Mama.”

“Of course not! But Lord Kendall is not cut from the same cloth as your father.” She dropped the note in Phoebe’s lap and resumed her seat and her tea. “Who was the chit with the raven hair and snub nose who followed him around like a lost puppy?”

“Lady Margaret?” Phoebe’s eyes narrowed as she remembered the girl. “Yes, she did pursue James with a fierce obstinance.”

“If you are angry with Lord Kendall, she will have another chance to win his favor,” said Aunt Lucy. “So I wouldn’t take much stock in the note, especially without a signature. Anonymous friend, indeed.”

Phoebe took a deep breath and counted to five. The weight lifted from her shoulders. Of course, these words were motivated by jealousy. She leaned forward and tossed the paper in the fire, watching the ends curl and turn black. “I will not give it any credence.”

“Hmph!” Aunt Lucy reached for a biscuit. “It doesn’t end the issue of whether your fiancé will be faithful. It’s an unpleasant conversation you must have—before your vows—if it’s an important issue to you.”

“Wouldn’t you expect your husband to be faithful?” Didn’t all women expect it? Perhaps not. She’d always been a romantic, seeing the brightest point of a situation.

“I don’t know if I could have been true to one man, so I never married. But the hard truth is women don’t have a say in the matter. The man will do what he wants, and the wife will accept it.” Aunt Lucy finished her cookie. “So, if you cannot tolerate your husband with other women after the nuptials, I would make sure you are both of the same mind.”

Yes, Phoebe thought, I will do that. We shall have an intimate conversation about life after the wedding. With that, she put it from her mind and enjoyed one of Cook’s delicious biscuits.

December 20

Hyde Park, London

Mr. Charles Wilkens bowed to his cousins, Evie, now Lady Brecken, and Mrs. Fenella MacNaughton. “It’s been a pleasure, ladies.”

“Just like old times,” Fenella said, her flaxen blonde hair brighter than his own light-brown, glinting in the mid-afternoon light. “We used to come to Hyde Park every week. Remember the last time we skated on the Serpentine?” His cousin had married a Scot and lived in Glasgow now.

“Oh, yes,” added Evie, who was the complete opposite of her sister. She was petite, with curves rather than willowy, and auburn hair. “You introduced your friend to us?—”

“Who turned out to be our half-brother,” finished Fenella. “He stole your lady interest, who happens to be my sister-in-law.”

“It’s a small world,” concluded Evie. “Are you coming to the house? Papa said he needed to talk to you.”

His cousin’s voice faded as Charles spied two ladies walking toward them. One was older—her mother?—but the other was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She was of a medium height, with deep chestnut curls escaping beneath her hat. She wore a simple but well-made redingote of deep-blue that matched her hat. As she drew nearer, he saw chocolate brown eyes that he thought he would gladly drown in.

To his dismay, the pair passed him without a glance. So he studied the hind view, which was almost as pleasing as the front.

“Charles, what are you looking…” Evie’s voice interrupted his perusal, bringing him back to the conversation.

“Oh, nothing,” he said quickly. Heat spilled across his cheeks, knowing Evie would call him out on the lie. “I thought I knew someone.”

“You were looking at that woman,” Fenella said with a grin. “Oh, we must find out who she is for our dear cousin.”

Charles shook his head. “Oh no. I don’t need a matchmaker.”

“Because you’re doing so well on your own.” Evie stared at him, daring him to argue. Then she focused on the two ladies who had passed them, tapping a gloved finger against her mouth. “She looks familiar.”

“If you remember, we could invite her for dinner.” Fenella batted her pale lashes at her cousin in mock innocence. “And let nature take its course.”

Charles groaned. The last thing he needed was for two of his closest family members to turn on him, insisting he let them find a match for their poor cousin. Yes, he was lonely. Yes, he was a tad jealous of Evie and Fenella. Yes, he longed for a family and children to laugh and cry and drive him mad. But he would find his own mate.

“Phoebe!” cried Evie. “Miss Phoebe Weston. I believe her father is a widow—and a viscount. Lord Weston.”

“You’re like an elephant. Papa says they never forget anything.” Fenella laughed, turning to Charles. “I’d run quickly if you truly don’t want to meet the lovely Miss Weston, for we know Evie will find a way.”

He scrubbed his face with a gloved hand and groaned. Then a little voice whispered in his ear, Does it matter how you meet her? Charles grinned. No, it didn’t.

“Very well, Cousin, if you can arrange it, I would love to meet her.” He paused, a thought smacking him in the head. “You do mean the younger lady?”

Evie laughed. “Of course, you nodcock.”

Charles escorted the ladies back to their townhouse and found their father, Sir Horace Franklin, in the library. “You wanted to see me, Uncle?”

The baronet had the same features as Fenella, tall with faded blond hair and gray eyes. He was still well built and stayed active, insisting that sitting at a desk too much would sap your strength.

“I have a favor, Charles, as my solicitor.” He motioned for Charles to join him in front of the hearth and poured them both a small amount of scotch. “Fine Scottish whisky from my son-in-law. Fenella’s done well, marrying into the MacNaughtons.”

“As did your son. Have you heard from Frank? I received a letter last October, telling me that the harvest had been a success.” Frank was the illegitimate son of the baronet, whose mother had hidden the pregnancy to marry a titled man. His uncle had only met his son after the woman died, telling Frank her secret—who his real father was.

“He’s staying up north for the holiday. I don’t think he’ll venture to London until spring. He and his new wife are still enjoying their solitude.” Horace laughed. “Speaking of going north…”

“Were we?” Charles asked, amused. It wasn’t like his uncle to hedge a subject.

“You know I’ve been trying to purchase those Welsh mines from the widowed countess.”

“Yes, for almost a year now.” Uncle Horace had been more than generous in his offers, but the lady hadn’t seemed interested.

“I received an invitation for Christmas. She is inviting those individuals who are interested in purchasing her property. Some kind of competition to decide who she will sell what to.” Sir Horace paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought you might take my place.”

“You want me to spend Christmastide with Lady Winfield and charm her into selling you the mines?” This was an interesting turn of events. “How long do I have to stay?” His mother would have an apoplexy.

“I’ll take care of my sister. She won’t give you any trouble.” His uncle chuckled. “My wife would have my head if I tried to leave when both my daughters were home. For a bit of enticement, I thought we might be partners in the venture. Build your investments a bit more before you decide to marry.

Charles liked the idea. Sir Horace Franklin was a master merchant. He began trading in imports and exports before the war and had expanded into several other areas over the years. As solicitor, Charles was often able to invest in some lucrative ventures with his uncle. He’d done quite well for himself, though he wasn’t nearly as wealthy as his uncle.

“You’re young,” his uncle said as if reading his mind. “A few more years, and your investments should be fairly impressive. I’d say you were quite the catch.”

Charles snorted. “Someone needs to tell the ladies that.”

Sir Horace stood and slapped Charles on the shoulder. “Evie says you are too nice. A lady enjoys battling with a man, winning an argument, or a bit of independence.”

“I always seem to end up a ‘friend’ rather than…” He shrugged. “I am who I am. Arguing with a female for the sport of it seems counterproductive. I don’t enjoy the silly games debutantes seem to think are part of the Season. I want a woman who is honest with her feelings and words.”

Sir Horace snorted this time. “A deuced na?ve attitude, Charles. Women love secrets and intrigue more than flummery and gewgaws. Would you like some advice?”

With a nod, Charles threw back the whisky. It was smooth with a slow burn down his throat. “Sure, why not?”

“The next one, tell her no once in a while. Being too agreeable will grate on your nerves eventually and the lady’s. Let her see you lose your temper on occasion, see the fire and passion inside. That’s what will attract the good ones.” He replaced the cork of the crystal decanter. “If you saw a bland meal set before you, would you have high hopes for the dessert?”

Charles grinned. “Not that I’m bland, of course.”

“Of course. You get my meaning?”

“Give the woman a glimpse of what’s inside rather than the proper, mannered solicitor I present to clients.” Charles ruminated on his uncle’s advice as he took a hackney to the club. Had. he been treating the opposite sex with the same courtesy he extended to his clients? Did he appear as a pleasant but lackluster solicitor who would bore his wife to death? Perhaps he’d try this new personality with the young widow. He’d heard she was quite beautiful.