The Heart of a Scoundrel (The Heart of a Duke #6)(4)

They followed her stare to Lord Allswood who brazenly eyed Phoebe, even over the head of his golden dance partner.

Phoebe swallowed a groan. “Oh, blast.” Gillian patted her hand. “It is because you are so lovely.”

“It is because he is so loathsome,” she muttered. She shifted in her seat, presenting the scoundrel with her shoulder. “My father likely owes him a debt.” After all, her father owed most gentlemen, and some not so gentlemanly men, one form of debt or another. The vile wastrel.

“I daresay you require something such as Honoria’s hideous shawl to detract from your beauty.”

Honoria touched the edges of the fabric. “I like this particular piece,” she said, defending the garment. She bristled with indignation. “Furthermore, we all conceal our…” she colored. “Er, attributes.”

Phoebe reached over and gave the piece a bold tug. “Well, I, for one, think it is a silly habit for a young lady to fall into. Such protective garments should only be donned by aging ladies or ladies desperate to avoid attention.” She stuck her finger up. “Nor should a lady hide who she truly is.”

Honoria pursed her lips. “I, for one, do not care for a gentleman who’d be so captivated by…by…” Her cheeks reddened.

“Your charms,” Gillian supplied, her gaze still surveying the crowd.

Though, it would be scandalous for any of them to say as much, they all knew what Gillian implied—Phoebe, too, needed to conceal her large bosom. Frustration ran through her at a world where women were seen for the connections they could make and their physical attributes and not the power of their minds or the beauty of their soul.

A beleaguered sigh escaped Gillian. “Even honorable gentlemen are interested in…in…” She motioned to Phoebe. “That,” she substituted for which Phoebe was immensely grateful. It would hardly benefit any of their reputations to be discussing their…charms in the midst of Lady Delenworth’s crowded ballroom.

“Regardless,” Honoria pursed her lips. “Well, we shall not allow him to approach you.”

Phoebe stole a sideways peek at the still leering lord. He was nothing if not persistent in his intentions, intentions that were anything but proper.

“No, you deserve an honorable and good gentleman,” Gillian said with a loyalty that pulled at Phoebe’s heart.

An inelegant snort burst from Honoria. “There is no such thing.”

She gave silent thanks when the strands of the waltz drew to a finish and the couples upon the dance floor glided back to their respective places in a flurry of satin skirts and brightly colored breeches. Phoebe worried the flesh of her lower lip. The tediousness of this whole husband-hunting thing was well and truly grating. She didn’t doubt she must make a match. It was inevitable. After all, there were few options for an unwed lady and one of scandalous origins, no less. Still, she held to firm ideals in the gentleman who would ultimately become her husband. Honorable. Respectable. Good-hearted. In short, a man nothing like her father.

She studied the fashionable noblemen escorting their ladies out to the dance floor for the next set. The orchestra struck up a lively country reel and the couples whirred past in an explosion of vibrant satin skirts. Surely, there was a decent, honorable fellow among the lot. She cast a sideways glance down the row at her friends. Or rather, three. They required three gentlemen, more specifically. “Not all gentlemen are rogues,” Phoebe felt inclined to point out.

Honoria let out a beleaguered sigh. “You are a hopeless romantic, Phoebe.”

She frowned, not caring to be painted with their black and white brush. “Perhaps I am romantic,” she said, tilting her chin back. “But I’ll not judge everyone and anyone because of several dissolute men.” At her careless words, she bit the inside of her cheek.

A pall of silence descended over their trio. Gillian, with her pale blonde hair and piercing green eyes was by far the most striking of the friends, and yet a scandal involving her sister jilted at the altar by a “rogue” had marked her as less than marriageable material. They took care not to speak of the scandal in her past—unless Gillian herself cared to discuss it. Which invariably, she did not.

The country reel came to a rousing finish met by an explosion of applause.

“Which dance is next?” Gillian arched her neck, in an attempt to see the orchestra as though in doing so she might find the answer to her question.

“Consult your card,” Honoria said on a sigh. “Never mind,” she added and scanned her empty card. “A quadrille.”

A gentleman, one of the roguish sorts with unfashionably long locks and a lascivious glint in his eyes, started toward Gillian.

The three women fixed matching glares on him and sent him scurrying away.

“He’d approach you without even a formal introduction.” Honoria jerked her chin toward the fast-fleeing rogue. “I told you. Nigh impossible to find the honorable gentleman you speak of.”

Phoebe certainly hoped her friend was wrong in this regard, and she’d wager, if she were the wagering sort, which she assuredly was not, that both Honoria and Gillian hoped she was wrong, too. Gillian did not rise to Honoria’s baiting. “I know such a man exists.” Her eyes grew distant, hinting at secrets there. Widening her eyes, Phoebe stared at her friend. By the saints in heaven, some gentleman had captured Gillian’s attention? A blush stained the other lady’s cheeks and she rushed to speak. “Have you found such a gentleman?” Hope filled her almost lyrical words. From her pale whitish-blonde hair to the soft clarity of her voice, there was an almost otherworldly quality to the woman.