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Three

A FAVOR

A favor, according to the Oxford English Dictionary:

An instance of this; something conceded, conferred, or done out of special grace or goodwill; an act of exceptional kindness, as opposed to one of duty or justice.

“Y ou won’t be in London for the holiday?” asked William Page, another solicitor Charles had grown close to. They were in Boodles, enjoying a good brandy in the library after supper. “That’s quite a favor, but also quite a boon. Those mines are productive.”

Charles sighed. “Yes, that’s why I agreed. She lives farther north than your father’s estate.”

“When are you leaving?” asked William. “I’m going home to Beecham Manor in a couple of days. We could ride together, and you could stay a night with us.”

William was the youngest son of the Earl of Beecham. Charles had studied at the Inns of Court with Will. He’d met most of the Page family. “I have to be at the widow’s sometime Christmas Day. It would be nice to be with familiar faces on Christmas Eve.”

“It’s settled then. I was supposed to bring another suitor for my sister, but he’s unable to attend.” William said, amusement in his voice. “I hate to arrive empty handed.”

“The sister with the wicked left punch?” asked Charles. “You aren’t thinking?—”

“No, no. Not that I would object to having you as a brother-in-law. There are already several eligible gentlemen invited.” Will shook his head. “We still blame ourselves for her ruin. Brothers should not teach their little sister how to box.”

“The cad should never have pinched her. He deserved it.” Charles had missed the debacle but had heard about it from Will, several broadsheets, and the gossipmongers of London.

When their decanter of brandy was empty, they made plans to meet on the 23 of December and travel together as far as Beecham Manor. Charles headed home, now excited about the journey to come. The Pages were a boisterous, fun-loving family, and he might have a Welsh mine for a Christmas present. He found himself humming “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” with a smile curving his lips.

December 22

Phoebe couldn’t understand why she hadn’t been seated next to James. They had barely been alone, and she had not been able to speak with him about the nasty note she had received. She watched him smiling at Lady Margaret who sat next to him. The lady had given Phoebe a sly side-look when Lord Kendall had whispered something in ear, making her laugh.

She sent a withering glance across the wide table, her fingers tightening around the stem of her wine glass.

“I’m certainly glad I’m not on the receiving end of that glare,” commented the man next to her. “May I distract you from whatever is causing you distress?”

Phoebe turned to look at her ignored dinner companion. “I am sorry, but I don’t remember your name.” His hair was a sandy-blond, and his amber eyes sparkled with humor. When he cast an infectious smile upon her, she liked him immediately. “I’ve been distracted this evening and usually much more attentive.”

“My name is Charles Wilkens. The host is a friend and client of my uncle.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you?—”

“Miss Phoebe Weston,” he finished for her.

“Now I’m certainly embarrassed, for you remembered my name.”

“I could never forget the name of something so beautiful,” Mr. Wilkens replied, then averted his gaze as she blushed.

Phoebe smiled. “Thank you, kind sir. I was in need of a compliment.”

“If I were your fiancé, you would need a parasol, for I would shower you with compliments.”

“Flummery, more like,” she quipped, suddenly enjoying the man and the conversation.

His hand went to his heart. Large strong hands with long slender fingers, she noted. “My heart and pride are wounded, Miss Weston.”

“I shall fetch a surgeon.” Phoebe held up her glass while he poured her more wine. He was a handsome man in a quiet, subtle way. When he grinned, she saw a little crease in one cheek. Not quite a dimple, but it made his smile all the more inviting.

As she studied him, their gaze locked, and an odd flutter tickled her chest. Mr. Wilkens made her feel beautiful and comfortable at the same time. “Do you have exciting plans for the holiday?” she asked, noting James was now watching her.

“Alas, I will be on a business trip,” Mr. Wilkens replied. “A favor for my favorite uncle.”

“Do you have many?”

“Only one.”

They both laughed, and she found her earlier frustration dissipating. This mild-mannered gentleman put her at ease, making the rest of the meal quite enjoyable. And Phoebe realized the more she interacted with her dinner partners, the less James flirted with Lady Margaret. Good! It was badly done of him to flirt with another woman in front of her. She also realized she’d drunk a bit too much wine when she heard herself giggle . Giggle!

As the women retired after dinner, James met Phoebe at the door. “Interesting game you’re playing, my dear,” he whispered in her ear. “Don’t let it go any further.”

She slapped his arm with her fan. “I’m only following your lead, my lord.” Phoebe’s smile faded as she saw the glint of anger in his eyes. His fingers curled around her arm, squeezing tightly. “You are hurting me, James,” she snapped.

“Don’t try to play my game, sweetness. You will not win.” He pinched the inside of her arm before walking away.

Phoebe blinked. What just happened? She rubbed the tender spot as she followed the other women out of the dining room. Lady Margaret appeared at her side.

“It’s never a tit for tat, you know,” she said with a chuckle. “Men will do what they want, and we must behave. It’s the way of things, though I suppose you’ve been quite spoiled by your father.”

She caught her breath. “Pardon me? I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Lord Kendall was quite perturbed with your behavior at dinner,” she said. “I told him it was not your fault. You were raised by a doting father and an outrageous aunt.”

“There is nothing wrong with my behavior.” Phoebe raked her gaze up and down Lady Margaret. “If you were raised more properly than me, then why are you flirting like a doxie with a man who is betrothed? Oh wait, I suppose you must since the anonymous letter didn’t work. You need to look elsewhere for a husband.”

Lady Margaret gasped, and Phoebe continued into the drawing room. Aunt Lucy waved at her from a cluster of ladies, and she joined them, her fan moving furiously. She’d had quite enough of the woman. “You were right, Aunt Lucy. It was definitely that woman.”

Phoebe was shaken. Her fiancé had shown a side of himself she’d never seen previously. It made her consider how little she really knew of him. His lineage, of course, was public knowledge and from an old family peerage. He was an earl—eventually becoming a marquess—and handsome with raven hair, ocean-blue eyes, a charming personality, and one of the most sought-after men of last Season.

Now she wondered how she’d never noticed the coldness in his eyes. Had she never looked past the smile? Why did a man from such a family choose the daughter of a viscount to marry? Phoebe closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Because he loves you, just as you love him. Perhaps the wine had gone to her head, and these were only thoughts from an inebriated imagination. Papa always said she was a touch dramatic.

When the men entered the room, James found her and asked if she’d like to partner in a game of whist. “I feel as though I’ve neglected you this evening, my sweet.”

“I would really appreciate some fresh air. Too much wine, I’m afraid. Could we go out on the balcony?” she asked, needing to speak with him alone.

“Certainly. Would you like me to fetch your pelisse?”

She shook her head. “No, I believe my shawl will be enough. We won’t stay long.”

When they were leaning against the rail, Phoebe filled her lungs with the crisp air. It did clear her head. They looked out over the wintry garden and dry fountain. “Did you know Lady Margaret has a tendre for you?”

James laughed. “Since she was twelve, I believe.”

“Do you not try to discourage her?” How cruel to tease her with flirtations. Guilt twisted in her gut at the unkind words she’d thrown at the woman.

“I enjoy her company well enough,” he said, then slipped an arm around her waist. “Not as much as I enjoy yours, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “I received an anonymous note I believe was written by her.”

“Oh? What did it say?” His tone turned frosty. “Something you’d like to reprimand me for?”

“You have a mistress, an actress. And you have been quite open about it.” There she’d said it. As Aunt Lucy said, they needed to be of the same mind before they married. “I-I do not approve.”

“She’s nothing to me. It’s an affair, that’s all. You will be my wife,” he said, stoking her cheek with his knuckles. “A wife always takes precedence over a mistress.”

“But I cannot allow… When we are married?—”

“Allow? I am the Earl of Kendall, and a woman does not allow me anything.” He bent his head and pressed his lips to hers. “However, I promise to be discreet. She knows I will soon be married. You must not be jealous of someone so far below you.”

Between the words and his kiss, Phoebe was mollified. “No more flirting with Lady Margaret?”

“No, not if it upsets you, my sweet.” He kissed her again, and Phoebe knew she’d been mistaken.

“Aunt Lucy said it was best to talk this out. I’m glad we straightened this out.” Now she was tired. Another effect of too much wine.

He raised an eyebrow. “Shall we join the others?”

“Actually, I’m done to a thumb. Would you mind terribly if I went home?”

“I’ll call for your carriage.”