Chapter 1

Somerset, England, May 1814

Phoebe Jamison huffed and folded her arms. Would William Mason ever see her as more than the younger sister of her brother Peter? She’d been out for nearly fourteen months, and while she’d danced with William at several dinners and the annual ball in the Assembly Rooms, he’d spent the entirety of this particular dance chastising her for allowing Mr. Baldwin to hold her too closely during the previous set. She’d thought Mr. Mason’s concern meant something. If he was worried for her reputation, surely, it meant he cared.

Her dance with Mr. Mason ended, and he escorted Phoebe from the floor. “Proper young ladies do not pout, Miss Jamison.” He looked across the room, and his dark-brown eyes lit as he spied Miss Judith Benson. “You would do well to follow Miss Benson’s example. See how her smile affects those she’s conversing with? It is rather pleasing.” He led Phoebe to Peter’s side.

Phoebe wanted to grab the lapels of Mr. Mason’s jacket and shake him. Why couldn’t he find her pleasing? For years she’d tried to be the perfect lady, conforming to everything she thought he wanted yet continually falling short.

Hannah Vane, Phoebe’s dear friend and confidante, walked to where Phoebe stood. “I’ve just heard the most delightful bit of gossip.” Hannah swayed her shoulders. “The new resident at Ravencrest has agreed to make an appearance this evening.”

Mr. Mason scoffed.

Hannah leaned close and whispered, “The supposedly handsome single gentleman from Ravencrest.” She covered her giggle with her hand.

Butterflies fluttered through Phoebe’s stomach. No matter her admiration for Mr. Mason, a new arrival was always cause for excitement.

“You ladies should discuss topics of greater import,” Mr. Mason said.

“Seeking out a handsome husband is of great import,” Hannah said, dismissing Mr. Mason’s comment. “The benefits far outweigh the effort exerted in making elaborately embroidered pillows.”

“Miss Vane speaks the truth,” Peter said. “Besides, I’ve never cared for embroidered pillows.” Phoebe shook her head at her brother’s teasing.

Mr. Mason shifted, and a section of black hair fell across his forehead. He brushed his hair aside as his gaze once again wandered to Miss Benson, and Phoebe watched a myriad of expressions wash over his face. He looked back at her, quickly scooped up her hand, and bowed over her fingers. “It is always a pleasure dancing with you, Miss Jamison.” His eyes met hers. “I do hope you’ll remember my admonition.”

Phoebe yanked her hand free from his grasp. Conversations between her and Mr. Mason always seemed to end in the same manner. She had hoped that perhaps his perception of her as a silly girl had shifted to respect or even admiration, but Mr. Mason was nothing if not consistent. He chastised her behavior, corrected or quietly rebuked her opinions, and never offered a glimmer of hope. Phoebe oft wondered why she thought their relationship could ever change. Perhaps pining for William Mason had been part of her life for so long she knew no other option.

Offering his excuses, Mr. Mason left their party and made his way toward Miss Benson. His smile grew when he greeted the beautiful brunette. The gentle turn of his lips sat in exact opposition to the disappointed glare Phoebe usually received from him.

She sighed, determined to enjoy the remainder of the evening, with or without Mr. Mason’s declaration of unyielding devotion. She did not share Hannah’s romantic ideals; she only wished for a little notice.

“I’ve promised Miss Fox the quadrille, so I shall leave you ladies to your speculation.” Peter winked at Phoebe and looked about for his partner. He was two and twenty years old and the brother closest to Phoebe’s own eighteen years. He wore his dark-brown hair long, a vast contrast to her elder two brothers. “Ah, there is Miss Fox,” Peter said. He had a lightness about him, a playful countenance. It was hard to be cross in his presence. He practically skipped away to claim his dance partner.

Once Peter had departed, Phoebe turned and clasped Hannah’s hands. “Tell me more about this new neighbor.”

Hannah giggled, delighted to share her acquired knowledge. She spread her fan open and used it to cover her mouth as she relayed the details to her friend. “Lady Granby spoke to Mother, and I happened to overhear. His name is Mr. Franklin Everly, second son to a supposedly well-to-do family in Cambridgeshire.”

“And he has claim on Ravencrest?” Phoebe asked. Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, the caretakers, and a handful of servants had been the only residents of the grand estate for as long as she could remember. “Miriam mentioned Mr. Gladstone was especially cantankerous when she last saw him in Halsham. Perhaps his irritability stems from the arrival of Mr. Everly.”

“Servants provide the best gossip. If it weren’t for the promise of seeing Mr. Everly ourselves this evening, I’d insist you ask your abigail for more details.” Hannah closed her fan and pressed the tip of it to Phoebe’s arm. Hannah had always loved a good bit of gossip.

“Oh, hush.” Phoebe reached over and pulled Hannah’s hand, fan and all, back into her own. “Now, tell me, when is Mr. Everly due to arrive?”

“I do not know.” Hannah pressed up on her tiptoes to better see over the crush. Her round cheeks flushed with excitement as her light-blue eyes searched the crowd. Loose waves of brown curls fell gracefully from the twist atop Hannah’s head. Phoebe had oft wished Miriam could manage the styles Hannah’s abigail arranged.

She secretly loved the color of her hair. Most called it red, but it didn’t match the apples in the orchard. Her long strands more closely resembled the carrots from the garden or the vibrant orange sunsets that followed an afternoon thunderstorm. Being the youngest and only daughter in a family of four children, Phoebe grasped at anything that helped her stand out, and her hair, along with her freckles, did exactly that.

Tonight she had chosen her purple satin, fully aware of way the dress made her eyes appear as alluring as emeralds. She rubbed her gloved hands down her stomach and huffed as she thought on Mr. Mason’s indifference. No matter.

“Oh my,” Hannah said from beside her.

Phoebe pushed up on her toes, but her short stature did not allow her to see whatever had caught Hannah’s attention. Phoebe had also inherited her mother’s height, or lack thereof.

Hannah grabbed Phoebe’s arm. “That must be him.”

The music continued, but a noticeable quiet replaced the lively conversation that had filled the space only moments before.

“Mr. Everly?” Phoebe stepped in front of Hannah but still could not see. “Where? Where is he?”

Hannah gasped, and her hand flew over her mouth.

“What?” Phoebe shook Hannah’s arm.

“Lord Granby is introducing Mr. Everly to Mr. Jamison.” Hannah shifted, and Phoebe almost stumbled into the man in the blue jacket standing in front of her. Phoebe caught her balance and once again smoothed the satin fabric of her dress.

She resigned herself to the inevitable fact that Hannah would have to inform her of the goings-on. “Which Mr. Jamison?” she asked as she turned to face her friend. “You know you must specify.”

Hannah huffed and folded her arms. “I cannot call him Jamison as his friends do. Nor can I call him Geoffrey. To me, your eldest brother will always be Mr. Jamison.” She grabbed Phoebe’s arm and pushed up on her toes once more. Her eyes grew wide, and she stepped back, lowered her heels, and looked directly at Phoebe. “They are headed this way.”

Phoebe turned her head in the direction Hannah had been staring. She touched her hair, hoping her pins held solid. Her locks had a propensity to fall loose if she danced too rigorously. Perhaps it was a blessing Mr. Mason had been more intent on his lecture than the actual steps of the country dance.

The bodies in front of the two ladies began to shift, and before Phoebe could steal a glimpse of the newcomer, he stood before her. The man’s hair was blond, straight, and tied back at the nape of his neck. He stood just shorter than Geoffrey’s six-foot frame, and his gray eyes reminded Phoebe of the way the clouds stirred and mixed before a thunderstorm. He had a fit figure and a narrow but angular jaw.

“Somehow, I knew you’d be near Miss Vane,” Geoffrey said, pulling Phoebe’s attention away from the stranger. Her brother bowed to Hannah, then lifted Phoebe’s hand in his own. “Mr. Everly tried to cry off dancing, as he is new to Halsham and knows not a soul.”

Mr. Everly cleared his throat. “I believe I said I have yet to make many acquaintances, as I’m newly arrived in the neighborhood.” The lightness in his eyes and the hint of a smile on his lips led Phoebe to believe he was not offended by Geoffrey’s words.

“Which is exactly why I thought to introduce you to my sister, Miss Phoebe Jamison, and her close acquaintance Miss Hannah Vane.” Geoffrey motioned to the women.

“Mr. Franklin Everly, at your service.” The handsome man executed a perfect bow.

Hannah sighed, and Phoebe quickly stuck her elbow in her friend’s side while they both dipped into a curtsy. Phoebe looked at her brother, then back at Mr. Everly, but no one said another word.

A light, restless laugh escaped from Hannah’s mouth, and she quickly raised her hand to her lips. Phoebe knew well enough that Hannah’s giggle would soon escape. Her friend had never thrived in awkward situations. Mr. Everly valiantly held his polite smile while Hannah’s snickers grew increasingly louder. Phoebe knew she should excuse herself and ask Hannah to join her for a glass of punch or a stroll around the room, but she wanted to converse with Mr. Everly.

Geoffrey’s abrupt voice came to the rescue. “Miss Vane?” He extended his hand. “Might you honor me with a dance?”

At Geoffrey’s invitation to dance, Hannah’s giggles immediately ceased and her hand fell to her side. “Are you in earnest, Mr. Jamison?” she asked.

Geoffrey’s eyes lit. “I would never ask a lady to dance in vain.”

Hannah’s cheeks reddened at his obvious wordplay on her name. She placed her fingers in his, and her blush deepened as Geoffrey led her to the floor.

Hannah oft talked nonsense about Peter and his dashing brown eyes, as their closeness in age and her friendship with Phoebe provided her the opportunity to see him often, but Geoffrey surpassed Peter’s appeal in every way. In addition to being the eldest and therefore the heir to the Jamison estate, Primly Park, Geoffrey was exquisitely handsome. He was twenty and seven years old. He wore his hair short on the top and longer on the sides, similar to their middle brother, Abraham, though Geoffrey’s side whiskers were longer. The brothers had all inherited their father’s rich brown eyes, while Phoebe’s eyes resembled her mother’s—a green that tended to vary in shade depending on the color of gown she wore.

“Oh dear,” Phoebe said.

Mr. Everly startled beside her. “Can I be of assistance, Miss Jamison?”

She turned to him and, without thinking on her words, told him her concern. “None of my brothers have ever asked Miss Vane to dance. She’ll be beside herself for the rest of the evening, and I shall no doubt be privy to hearing every detail. Geoffrey has set me up for an exhaustive retelling of the set rather than providing me the boon he wished.”

“And may I ask to what you are referring?” Mr. Everly’s lips twitched.

Phoebe tilted her head and smiled at him. “Come, now, Mr. Everly. It is quite obvious, is it not?” Mr. Everly pretended ignorance, and Phoebe waved a hand at him. “You are new to the area.” She then pointed to herself. “Geoffrey purposely introduced us . . .”

Mr. Everly cleared his throat and swallowed. “Does your brother oft introduce you to men he’s barely acquainted with?”

“I cannot say that he does,” Phoebe said. “Which means you made quite the impression on him.” She leaned a bit closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You see, all of my brothers are fiercely protective of me.”

“Then, it would be to my advantage to acquiesce to Mr. Jamison’s scheme?” Mr. Everly asked with a mischievous grin.

“As I do find myself without a partner and the dance is about to begin, I believe it would be to your benefit.” Phoebe lowered her voice once more. “Did you know I have three brothers, Mr. Everly? Three elder brothers?”

“I’d best not delay.” Mr. Everly turned to fully face Phoebe and clicked the heels of his boots together. “Miss Jamison,”—he bowed low and extended his hand—“would you do me the honor of this dance?”

Phoebe feigned shock. “How unexpected, Mr. Everly. I would be delighted.”

He chuckled and led her to the dance floor. The musicians struck the beginning notes of a minuet, and when Mr. Everly led the first steps of the dance with confidence, Phoebe decided that the praise and accolades Geoffrey would expect from her for arranging her partner might just be worth it.