Page 27 of An Alleged Rogue

Marianne sat beside Phoebe on the sofa and opened her reticule to withdraw a card. “You see,” she said, handing it to Phoebe with giddy delight. “We are having a ball. Mother decided that it has been far too long since there was a dance held at Banbury Hall, so she is hosting one a week on Saturday.”

“Well, that is big news.” Phoebe’s mother looked almost as pleased as Marianne. “Do you not think so, Phoebe?”

Startled, Phoebe looked up from reading the invitation. “Yes, indeed. It is very exciting.”

Her mother looked at her oddly, and Phoebe realized her mistake. She had been so focused on whether there would be time enough for Miss Selfridge to complete Emily’s gowns by then, she had neglected to show sufficient excitement over the event. She attempted to rectify the error with a wide smile. “Everyone in the county will be talking of little else until then.”

Marianne gave a happy sigh. “I know I shall not. It will be the grandest affair we’ve held at Banbury Hall for years.”

“Do you expect a large crowd, then?” her mother asked.

“If the number of invitations going out is any indication, it will be a crush worthy of the best London ballrooms,” Mr. Webb said. He turned a charming smile on Phoebe. “In fact, Miss Hadford, if I may be so bold, I shall ask you now if you would do me the honor of the first dance. I would hate to be bested by another simply because I do not cross the ballroom in time.”

Warmth filled Phoebe’s cheeks. Her mother looked inordinately pleased.

“I should be delighted,” Phoebe said.

Mr. Webb’s self-assured smile bordered on smugness, and Phoebe suppressed a shudder. She had not told the truth. Dancing with Mr. Webb would be far from delightful, but thankfully, it was only one dance. She could manage one dance. The gentleman thought so highly of himself it was unlikely that he would believe any young lady would feel otherwise.

She turned to Marianne. “Surely you are not hand-delivering all the invitations?”

Marianne laughed. “Oh no. We had thought to do our closest neighbors, but even that is not possible.” She leaned a little closer. “I would not wish to enter Dunsbourne Manor, for example.”

“Whyever not? Miss Norton would undoubtedly welcome you warmly.”

Marianne’s hazel eyes widened. “That may be, but Lord Dunsbourne might prevent me from ever leaving again.”

“I think that highly unlikely. Particularly if Mr. Webb accompanied you.” Mr. Webb sat up a little taller and straightened his cravat a fraction. Irritated that she had said something he had construed as a compliment, Phoebe tried a different tack. “I believe Lord Dunsbourne works long hours in his orchard. I daresay you could come and go at the manor without ever seeing him.”

Mr. Webb snorted. “Surely you do not believe what the baron said at the Palmers’ dinner, Miss Hadford. If the gentleman is working his land at all, it is to further his gambling addiction.”

“Mr. Webb.” Her mother’s shocked voice reminded Phoebe that her mother had not been privy to the whispers she had heard that night.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Hadford,” Mr. Webb said. “I did not mean to offend. It is simply that Lord Dunsbourne’s reputation cannot be ignored. He and his sister will be invited to the ball—his position in Society demands it—but I, for one, will not be heartbroken if he chooses to stay away.”

“I, on the other hand, will be sorry if they do.” Phoebe met Mr. Webb’s dumbfounded expression without flinching. “No matter Lord Dunsbourne’s faults, his sister deserves no censure. I hope she attends. It will undoubtedly be a marvelous affair, and it would be a shame for Miss Norton to miss it.”

There was a moment of complete silence. Phoebe glanced at her mother. Her mouth was agape. She closed it abruptly and gave Phoebe a look that Phoebe knew all too well. A lecture was in her future. One that involved a review of correct etiquette and ladylike behavior.

Behind her, the door opened, and one of the footmen walked in bearing a tea tray.

“Ah, wonderful. Here is the tea.” Her mother’s voice rang with relief. Serving tea to her guests would place her safely back in control of the situation.

“Would you care for milk or sugar, Miss Webb?”

“A little of both, if you please.”

Her mother poured. The familiar clink of teaspoons against china filled the room. Phoebe leaned forward and took the cup and saucer from her mother’s outstretched hand and passed it to Marianne. The young lady accepted it with a small smile. Their eyes met. Phoebe did not miss the confusion evident there, but now was not the time to try to explain—especially as she did not fully understand why she felt the need to stand up for Emily.

Once tea and biscuits were handed out, the conversation started anew. A discussion of the weather, Mrs. Palmer’s prize chrysanthemums, and Lord Forsnes’s newly purchased stallion were all blissfully safe topics. Phoebe had never known her mother to be so fascinated by a horse’s pedigree, but Mr. Webb was more than happy to supply her with every detail.

Only when the subject of fox hunting was completely exhausted did Mr. Webb finally set down his teacup.

“My compliments to your cook, Mrs. Hadford. The tea and biscuits were delicious.”

“Yes, indeed,” Marianne chimed in. Her cup had been empty for some time. “But I fear we should be on our way.”

Mr. Webb came to his feet. The women followed.