Page 9 of An Alleged Rogue

“Yes. Although I hope we will have more warm days before winter sets in,” Miss Norton said.

“As do I.” Phoebe pressed her hand to her stomach. She needed to say something more, if only to ameliorate her earlier faux pas. “Do you have any favorite authors, Miss Norton? Or a poet, perhaps? I am always anxious for a good recommendation.”

Miss Norton glanced anxiously at her brother. He gave her a small nod. Did she require his permission to speak, then?

“I do not necessarily favor one author above another,” she said. “But my favorite books are the ones that teach me more about the world. Whether it be plants or animals, foreign lands or people, there is so much to be learned, and I find it all most fascinating.”

Not wanting to commit another social blunder, Phoebe worked hard to hide her surprise. She doubted there were very many young ladies so academically inclined—or at least, there were few who would willingly admit to it.

“You make me feel quite a dunce, Miss Norton. I spend most of my free time with a needle and thread and am not nearly so well-read as I should be.”

“Oh, but I am sure your needlework is beautiful.”

“It is, indeed,” Phoebe’s mother said, and Phoebe tried not to cringe. Her mother never let an opportunity pass to talk about Phoebe’s one laudable talent. “I am constantly amazed at what Phoebe can do with a needle.”

“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen.” The butler’s voice from the doorway drew everyone’s attention and, thankfully, put an end to her mother’s verbal approbation. “Dinner is served.”

Immediately, the Palmers’ guests relocated around the room. Ever mindful of rank, Lord Forsnes approached Miss Norton to escort her to the dining room. An emotion that looked remarkably like fear flickered in Miss Norton’s eyes as Lord Forsnes led her out of the room and Lord Dunsbourne stepped away to offer his arm to Georgiana. Phoebe’s heart went out to Miss Norton. She wished she could somehow reassure the young lady that she was among friends. Surely her brother was not so awful that he would treat her cruelly in public.

“May I have the honor, Miss Hadford?”

With a start, Phoebe turned to see Mr. Derrick Webb standing beside her, his arm extended, a self-assured smile on his handsome face.

“Thank you, Mr. Webb,” she said, setting her hand on his arm. “I would be delighted.”

As they followed the couples ahead of them out of the drawing room, Phoebe kept her eyes on Miss Norton. The baron’s sister was moving slowly, her head held high and her back stiff. Such awkwardness was to be expected while wearing such a cumbersome gown. Phoebe sincerely hoped there was nothing—or no one—else causing her further discomfort.

“It is quite something, is it not?” Mr. Webb said.

Phoebe dragged her attention back to the man at her side. “Forgive me,” she said. “What is it that you find so surprising?”

“That Dunsbourne would come out of hiding to attend the Palmers’ dinner party and bring his sister so shoddily dressed.”

“Miss Norton’s gown is hardly shoddy. It is made of the finest silk.”

“Come now, Miss Hadford. Your impeccable taste in clothing and up-to-the-minute fashion sense is legendary. I find it hard to believe that you would ever attend a social function dressed in such a monstrosity, or with your hair coiffured so poorly.”

Phoebe had always loved shopping for clothes and took great delight in wearing beautiful gowns, but her sister, Jane, cared little for them and always looked beyond such things. If there was one thing Jane had taught her, it was that there were far more important things than appearing as the belle of the ball.

“You are right, Mr. Webb,” Phoebe said as they entered the dining room together. “I likely would have chosen to wear something different, but that does not signify that I admire Miss Norton any less. I cannot claim to know her well, but in disposition, she reminds me very much of my sister, the new Lady Bloxley. And if that is true, I hope we shall soon be fast friends.”

They had reached their seats, but Mr. Webb remained uncharacteristically quiet. Phoebe allowed herself a small smile. Perhaps if she were really lucky, his shocked silence would last through dinner.

Adam had forgotten how much he hated wearing a wig. That fact alone was enough to make him think twice about attending any more social events. Unless, of course, it was no longer a requirement. He had been removed from Society too long to be up on the current fashions, but it had not escaped his attention that only he and the older gentlemen were wearing the itchy headwear. A quick glance around the table confirmed that most of the ladies and the dapper Mr. Webb wore hair powder, while Miss Hadford’s and his sister’s hair were free from any covering.

Sweet Emily. Adam’s heart sank in unison with her drooping coiffeur. Mrs. Foster had done her best with his sister’s thick curls, but she was a housekeeper, not a lady’s maid, and the hairstyle was not holding up well. He hoped Emily was unaware of what was happening atop her head as she valiantly attempted to maintain a conversation with Lord Forsnes.

Mr. Webb was seated at Emily’s other side, but the man’s attention was focused exclusively on Miss Hadford, and given how attractive his dinner partner was, it was likely to remain that way. Adam spared a glance at the lady. She really was stunning: blonde curls framing a delicate face and blue eyes. Her lavender-colored floral gown set off her figure perfectly, and she was obviously as at home in this setting as Emily was uncomfortable. He looked away. He may have been gone from Society for a time, but he was all too familiar with ladies like Miss Hadford. They were butterflies: undeniably beautiful and predictably transient. She would tire of her dinner companion soon enough, and then her attention would flit to someone else.

“Tell me, Dunsbourne, what have you been up to these many months?” Colonel Palmer’s booming voice instantly brought Adam back to his own situation and drew the eyes of all seated at the table.

He hesitated for only a moment. “I have been developing a specialty cider.”

His response would likely be met with astonishment—perhaps even disdain. But it was the truth. And of the two things that had consumed him for the last few years, Adam would rather discuss his new venture than his unsuccessful search for Freddie Payne.

“By Jove, have you really?”

The colonel appeared mildly impressed, and it suddenly struck Adam that he had been offered a perfect opportunity to promote his product. He was confident that if he could find buyers, the cider would be well received.