footmen. He set styles rather than copied them: no more anxious perusal of an endless stream of fashion magazines.
And no more anxious wondering whether she'd offended some pretentious dowager or stuffy old lord by speaking too directly or arguing a point too well. Phizz always won his arguments, making mincemeat of the stupid, stuffy, and pretentious alike. Phoebe had always needed to be on the lookout for one of her husband's rages, but Phizz had only Phizz to please.
Best of all perhaps, Phizz Marston had the newspaper to himself at breakfast.
Her eye fell to the bottom of the page, where a brief but respectful article described the minority position in Parliament. For it seemed that even though this latest Enclosure Act had passed, it had done so by a surprisingly narrow margin. The reporter attributed the close vote to "the quiet, reasoned eloquence of David Hervey, eighth earl of Linseley, who spoke modestly and masterfully of 'a decent, traditional England that pledged all due reverence to its commons and its community.' "
The article quoted a few more phrases—
nicely turned as well
, Phoebe thought—and then gave its attention to the gentleman's elegant bearing and style of address: "… a tall, powerful man, who seems to bring the countryside into the hall with him. At courteous ease with his noble peers, one imagines him more truly at home in his bounteous fields and among the yeomen whose rights he seeks to protect."
One imagines him…
For a moment Phoebe didn't look anything like Phizz Marston. For a moment only, before she caught herself and rearranged her features into their accustomed mask.
"A bit preciously wrought, that bit of reportage," she said aloud. There was no one in the room to hear her, but it wouldn't hurt to rehearse. Even though none of the dandies at White's cared about agricultural policy, they would all have noted that Lord Linseley possessed an original and dramatic style and bearing. Which Phizz would be called to pass judgement upon.
"Oh, quite elegant." Her icy dandy's voice echoed in the empty breakfast room. "Spent an hour endeavoring to tie my cravat like his this morning, without quite achieving his miraculous fluidity and simplicity of line."
And the hell of it, she thought, was that this was quite nearly the truth. For all her resolve to forget about him, it had been Lord Linseley whom she'd seen in the pier glass this morning, during a particularly long and challenging session of disguising herself as a man.
Crossing a brilliantly polished foot over a well-tailored knee, she wiped a miniscule bit of dust from the toe of her boot with her napkin. Not that it mattered—she'd be tramping through mud this afternoon anyway and would have to return home for a change of clothing before setting out to White's. Tramping through the mud… the thought brought an involuntary smile to her lips. For after three years, she still reveled in having a man's freedom of the London streets.
She had an important and delightful errand to do, in fact—one that ought to take her mind off this troublesome man. Reluctantly, she corrected herself.
This
good
and decent man
, she thought,
damn his beautiful dark blue eyes
.
"Well, you fought the good fight and that's what matters in the end." Admiral Wolfe tried to sound bluff and hearty over luncheon.
Lord Linseley put down his coffee cup and allowed himself a short, dry laugh.
"And if England had fought the good fight but lost the battle at Trafalgar?"
"Not the same thing, man, not the same at all. You'll live to fight another day. And you gained adherents to your cause. The newspapers…"
"The newspapers seemed more interested in my 'elegant bearing' than in my cause. As though I'd made that speech in order to advance myself in the marriage mart."
He was exhausted, numbed by the futility of his endeavor, and furious at the shallow senselessness of the whole event. But after all, he thought, what could he have reasonably expected from
And no more anxious wondering whether she'd offended some pretentious dowager or stuffy old lord by speaking too directly or arguing a point too well. Phizz always won his arguments, making mincemeat of the stupid, stuffy, and pretentious alike. Phoebe had always needed to be on the lookout for one of her husband's rages, but Phizz had only Phizz to please.
Best of all perhaps, Phizz Marston had the newspaper to himself at breakfast.
Her eye fell to the bottom of the page, where a brief but respectful article described the minority position in Parliament. For it seemed that even though this latest Enclosure Act had passed, it had done so by a surprisingly narrow margin. The reporter attributed the close vote to "the quiet, reasoned eloquence of David Hervey, eighth earl of Linseley, who spoke modestly and masterfully of 'a decent, traditional England that pledged all due reverence to its commons and its community.' "
The article quoted a few more phrases—
nicely turned as well
, Phoebe thought—and then gave its attention to the gentleman's elegant bearing and style of address: "… a tall, powerful man, who seems to bring the countryside into the hall with him. At courteous ease with his noble peers, one imagines him more truly at home in his bounteous fields and among the yeomen whose rights he seeks to protect."
One imagines him…
For a moment Phoebe didn't look anything like Phizz Marston. For a moment only, before she caught herself and rearranged her features into their accustomed mask.
"A bit preciously wrought, that bit of reportage," she said aloud. There was no one in the room to hear her, but it wouldn't hurt to rehearse. Even though none of the dandies at White's cared about agricultural policy, they would all have noted that Lord Linseley possessed an original and dramatic style and bearing. Which Phizz would be called to pass judgement upon.
"Oh, quite elegant." Her icy dandy's voice echoed in the empty breakfast room. "Spent an hour endeavoring to tie my cravat like his this morning, without quite achieving his miraculous fluidity and simplicity of line."
And the hell of it, she thought, was that this was quite nearly the truth. For all her resolve to forget about him, it had been Lord Linseley whom she'd seen in the pier glass this morning, during a particularly long and challenging session of disguising herself as a man.
Crossing a brilliantly polished foot over a well-tailored knee, she wiped a miniscule bit of dust from the toe of her boot with her napkin. Not that it mattered—she'd be tramping through mud this afternoon anyway and would have to return home for a change of clothing before setting out to White's. Tramping through the mud… the thought brought an involuntary smile to her lips. For after three years, she still reveled in having a man's freedom of the London streets.
She had an important and delightful errand to do, in fact—one that ought to take her mind off this troublesome man. Reluctantly, she corrected herself.
This
good
and decent man
, she thought,
damn his beautiful dark blue eyes
.
"Well, you fought the good fight and that's what matters in the end." Admiral Wolfe tried to sound bluff and hearty over luncheon.
Lord Linseley put down his coffee cup and allowed himself a short, dry laugh.
"And if England had fought the good fight but lost the battle at Trafalgar?"
"Not the same thing, man, not the same at all. You'll live to fight another day. And you gained adherents to your cause. The newspapers…"
"The newspapers seemed more interested in my 'elegant bearing' than in my cause. As though I'd made that speech in order to advance myself in the marriage mart."
He was exhausted, numbed by the futility of his endeavor, and furious at the shallow senselessness of the whole event. But after all, he thought, what could he have reasonably expected from
Similar Books
