A Porcelain Viscountess by Hazel Linwood
Chapter 2
“You look like a deer caught at the end of a hunter’s arrow,” Graham whispered in Phoebe’s ear with his hand firmly on her arm. “Smile, for god’s sake.”
She pinned a false smile in place and was led by him into the Argyll Rooms for the assembly. The moment they were through the door, Graham adjusted his hold on her, looping their arms together so no one would be able to see the way he’d been hurting her.
Phoebe was thankful for the new gown Louisa had picked out for her. Standing pinned to the chest of drawers with Graham’s hand around her throat, she had thought for one horrific moment that he would squeeze, but he didn’t. He’d merely released her and demanded she changed.
Now, she was wearing one of the demurest dresses she owned. It was long sleeved with a high neckline and made the heat of the assembly rooms even more insufferable than they would have been in the dress her husband destroyed. She pulled out the fan Louisa had packed for her and started fluttering her face with it, trying to cool down a little.
“Put that away,” Graham said tightly as he led her through the tightly packed crowd, toward the center of the room.
“Why?” she asked, earning a sharp gaze from him.
“Do you wish to defy me again?” he said quietly. She closed the fan instantly and let it hang around her wrist, limply. “Such things can be used to send secret messages. If you have a lover, I do not want you to be communicating with him when I cannot see it.”
A lover… Phoebe thought long and hard on the word. She couldn’t imagine ever trusting a man enough to fall in love with him. The men she had known best in the world, her father and now Graham, had showed to her how cruel men could be. I will never take a lover.
Phoebe tried to turn her attention to the room itself. The walls were plastered a pale pink and lit by a myriad of candelabras and hanging chandeliers. In alcoves set into the walls were brilliant white marble statues. In front of the statues were the guests, all dressed as ornately as possible in fine gowns and elaborate suits, with some cravats so large Phoebe wondered how they could breathe. She smiled at her own amusing thought until she caught Graham’s glare.
“There is your father,” Graham said, nodding his head through the crowd. Phoebe stiffened in response, reluctantly turning her gaze to follow her husband’s gesture.
Across the room, she could see Gerard Lewis, the Baron of Notley, in deep conversation with other gentlemen. He was drinking hard with two glasses of sparkling white wine in his hands and laughing raucously with the men around him. This did not surprise her. He avoided women as much as possible these days, ever since her mother’s death.
He avoids me most of all.
“There is a matter of business I must discuss with him,” Graham released her arm. “Perhaps it would be best if you do not join us.”
“I agree,” she said, despite her reluctance to agree with Graham on any matter, she knew he was right. Her father never liked seeing her, and she’d had enough of arguing for one night with one man. She didn’t need a second argument with another.
“Try not to cause a scene or make a nuisance of yourself,” Graham said tiredly, turning away from her. “In fact, stand in the corner. Where you won’t get in anyone’s way.”
She closed her eyes at the insult, waiting for him to walk away. Somedays, she liked to imagine she was made of the same white marble as the statues around her. She liked to think if such a thing were possible, that all Graham’s jibes and insults would bounce off her, unharming her.
As she opened her eyes, she walked away from the center of the floor, following his wish as she crossed the room toward the punch table pressed against the wall. She waited patiently and properly for the punch bowl to be free before she eagerly poured herself a glass. She downed the first one before preparing a glass that she sipped much slower.
The entire time she sipped, she rearranged the ribbon around her neck. After Graham’s attack that evening, Louisa had stared at her in horror, pointing at the purplish bruises that were appearing on Phoebe’s neck. In order to cover it up, they had selected a large ribbon and threaded a silver pendant across it to tie round her neck. She hoped coupled with the soft lighting from the candles, it would make the bruises impossible to see.
“Lady Ridlington, there you are,” a familiar voice called to her. “I’ve been looking out for you every five minutes since we arrived, and I was late myself.”
Phoebe turned away from the punch table to see Diana Elkin, the Marchioness of Dodge walking toward her with a glass of punch in her hands too. Phoebe tried to pin the fake smile in place that she always wore for her friend, but it did little use. She could already see Lady Dodge’s perceptive blue eyes widening.
“Something has happened, hasn’t it?” Lady Dodge reached out for her. Phoebe couldn’t help it. She immediately took her friend’s hand, clinging to it in need of comfort, even though she couldn’t confess the words.
“Not at all,” she lied, trying her best to make it convincing. “I am merely enjoying a glass of punch.”
“Then why is your hand shaking in mine?” Lady Dodge whispered, stepping toward her. Phoebe looked down to see her friend was right – her fingers were indeed trembling within Lady Dodge’s grasp. She tried to retract her hand once more, but her friend wouldn’t let her. “Tell me, what has happened?”
“It does not matter,” Phoebe said quickly, glancing away through the crowd. She looked toward the opposite side of the room, through the dancers where Graham and her father were talking together, laughing and enjoying themselves.
She was merely thankful Graham was no longer focusing on her.
“You do know you are one of the most dreadful liars I have ever met,” Lady Dodge said, prompting Phoebe to whip her head back round. Her friend was smiling softly.
“I am?” Phoebe asked, innocently.
“It is a good thing. It is one of the reasons I like you so much, you are pure of heart,” Lady Dodge’s praise made Phoebe hang her head and squeeze her friend’s hand tighter. They hadn’t been friends for very long, just a year since they had both married and ended up living in London, but in that time, Phoebe found herself more and more dependent on their friendship.
She trusted Lady Dodge implicitly. They were like minded, fond of the same things, and had a similar humor. What was more, she loved Lady Dodge’s effervescent personality, always talking, always finding the humor in something. She didn’t think she could love her friend more.
“Tell me the truth now,” Lady Dodge said, using their connection to slowly tow Phoebe further away from the crowd. They hung at the back of the room, near one of the alcoves of marble statues.
“I cannot,” Phoebe said. She released her friend’s hand and instinctively reached up to the ribbon around her throat, hoping to hide the bruises further. It was only as she watched Lady Dodge’s eyes widen further that she realized her mistake.
Lady Dodge glanced around her, clearly checking no one was glancing their way before she lifted a hand to the ribbon at Phoebe’s neck and pulled it down, just an inch.
“In the name of…” she trailed off, the curse clearly being far too strong to say in company. “He did this, didn’t he?”
Phoebe didn’t need to answer. She pulled the ribbon straight another time and lifted her punch glass to her lips, trying to be distracted by it.
“Lady Ridlington, you need to escape him.”
“If only it were possible,” she spoke with a small smile, allowing her mind to wander to an alternate reality for a moment. In this other life, she was free to do as she pleased, away from the ire of Graham and her father. “If only,” she said again, wishing the imagination could be true.
“It is possible,” Lady Dodge whispered hurriedly, taking her hand again. “I have heard of many ladies that do such things. They flee their husbands and then file for separation through a lawyer later.”
“My husband would never permit such a thing, not for me to leave.”
“That is why you do not tell the husband,” Lady Dodge said with another smile. Phoebe’s lips parted in amazement, realizing the audacity of her friend’s suggestion.
“I would be running away?” she asked.
“Why not? Do you not wish to do it?”
She thought long and hard about the words, with her gaze flicking around the room. She looked between many women who hung on their husband’s arms, most of them were smiling, infinitely happier than she had ever been standing beside her husband. Then her gaze landed on Graham on the other side of the room, and she remembered the pressure of his hand on her throat, and the fear of how far he could go to hurt her one day.
“More than anything,” she sighed with the words.
“Then let me help you,” Lady Dodge pulled on her hand, urging Phoebe to look back to her.
“Lady Dodge, be serious,” Phoebe almost laughed. “It is fun to talk of. It is certainly wonderful to imagine it, but in practicality it would only incur my husband’s wrath more. I am quite simply trapped.”
“Then allow me to help you out of the trap,” Lady Dodge took another step toward her with her expression completely serious. “Of course, if one were to do such a thing half-heartedly, it could be a disaster. Yet if it is well planned, if it is truly wanted, then of course you can escape him. You could escape these bruises and never have to suffer at his hand again. Is it truly wanted?”
Phoebe found herself saying the words without much more thought, for she knew the answer instinctively. She wanted to be far away from the bruises, she wanted to be free of fear.
“It is,” she said, feeling the tears that had swelled in her eyes earlier that evening threatening to take her again. She blinked them away, aware that Lady Dodge was squeezing her hand in comfort. “But I do not know what to do to achieve it,” she tried to turn her thoughts to practicalities. “My father would never offer any help, that I know for certain.”
“I am offering you help,” Lady Dodge said, bouncing on her toes with an artful smile now in place. “This evening, you could make an excuse to return home sooner than your husband, complain of a headache, or soreness from your bruises. He could hardly argue with that.” At her words, Phoebe winced, all too aware of the pain in the throat. “Urge that lovely maid of yours to pack you a bag and I shall send my carriage for the two of you. Tonight, you can stay at my house.”
“You would do that?” Phoebe abruptly felt hope swell in her stomach. Her friend was offering her a lifeline, a way out of the incessant misery she was suffering.
“Of course, I would,” Lady Dodge said, as though the matter were already decided upon. Phoebe was about to grow excited when a thought occurred to her, dampening that hope.
“Ah, there is just one problem,” she bit her lip.
“Which is?”
“The Viscount knows of our friendship,” Phoebe whispered. “I do not doubt that when he found I was missing, he would search your house.”
“Then we must think of somewhere else to hide you,” Lady Dodge said, tapping a finger on her punch glass as she screwed up her nose in thought. “Oh, I have just had an idea. It is quite brilliant! I think you’ll be impressed by how clever I am this evening.”
Phoebe couldn’t help the laughter that fell from her lips, delighted by her friend’s mannerisms.
“First, I must speak to another about this,” Lady Dodge went to walk away when Phoebe tightened her hand on her friend.
“We cannot speak to anyone else about this,” she said quickly. “If this is to work, no one else must know.”
“Trust me,” Lady Dodge said with a whisper. “Someone else must know. Now, wait here. I will be back very soon.” As she hurried off through the crowd of guests, darting her head back and forth, Phoebe nearly followed her instruction. For a minute, she stayed perfectly still, until she noticed her punch glass was empty with just a few scarlet red dregs left in the cup.
Well, that just won’t do. She made up her mind quickly and crossed the room again, hurrying toward the punch table. She poured herself another cup and was about to turn away from the table when she bumped into something. No, not something. Someone!
The punch went everywhere, all over not only her dress, but the clothes of the person beside her too. Phoebe gasped and looked up with fear when she found a pair of blue eyes staring down at her, rather like Lady Dodge’s eyes, only more startling and set within a handsome face.
The jawline was strong and the features rather narrow, though a smile played upon those lips. The black hair over his forehead curled softly, tantalizingly so. The suit was a fine one too, as black as his hair with a midnight blue waistcoat, a few shades darker than the color of his eyes.
Who is that?
