bonnet, but he held fast. “Do you mean a…a given name?” she asked suspiciously.
His smile widened. “Are you always so contrary? A name, Madame Dupree. A given name, a nickname…a name by which your sister might call you.”
“Phoebe.”
“Phoebe,” he said, and nodded. “It suits you.”
What suited her was some distance between them. She was standing so close she could count the whiskers in his sideburns, could feel the heat of his body. She tugged at the bonnet again, but he stubbornly held on, his lips curved in a cocky, wicked smile.
“I confess, Phoebe, it is difficult to appreciate your work without seeing it on a feminine form.”
His eyes, Phoebe noticed, had turned a very warm green. She gripped the ribbons of the bonnet and gave it a harder tug. “Lady Alice’s dress is on a feminine form just behind you, sir.”
“That is not the dress I care to see,” he said, and stepped closer to her.
“All right,” Phoebe said. “If you will just give me my bonnet, my lord,” she said, pulling hard, “I shall fetch Lady Jane and you may see the gown on her.”
“Not Jane,” he said, clearly enjoying their little tug-of-war. “You.”
Phoebe almost let go. “But…but that gown is made to fit Lady Jane. Not me.”
“You seem similar in size to me,” he said, his gaze boldly wandering over her body.
“I assure you we are not, my lord. There are many differences.”
“You are undoubtedly the most obstinate servant to ever inhabit Wentworth Hall. You are close enough in size and I assure you, Phoebe, that I will appreciate that gown on you far more than I can ever hope to appreciate it on my sister Jane. Do please don the thing so that I may judge its suitability.”
Phoebe froze as fingers of indignation crawled up her spine. “Suitability?” she said, almost choking on the word. “It is made in the fashion of the latest styles from London—”
“I hardly care.” He shifted closer, smiling down at her in a way that made her feel like she was slowly roasting on the inside, and said softly, “I want to see you in that gown. Put it on.” He spoke like a man who was accustomed to ordering people about.
Phoebe glanced at the gown.
“Now.”
As accustomed as he was to issuing orders, Phoebe was unaccustomed to receiving them. “And if I don’t?” she asked boldly.
Summerfield cocked a brow. “Perhaps you want me to put it on you.”
Oh Lord! The suggestion made her heart leap. “You wouldn’t.”
He shrugged a little. “I’ve done worse.”
Her heart leapt again.
“You will put it on if you value your position here,” he added.
A million retorts skated through her mind—so many that she momentarily forgot she was a servant in this house, that she had no choice but to obey him. She forcibly swallowed down the words on the tip of her tongue and looked again at the gown.
Summerfield let go of the bonnet and stepped aside so that she could pick it up. Phoebe tossed the bonnet onto the table, and with a heated look for Summerfield, she snatched up the gown and went to the thin silk privacy screen one of the footmen had brought up yesterday and stepped behind it. She could hear him moving about the room as she unbuttoned her gown with shaking hands, slipped out of it, and laid it across a chair.
He paused somewhere nearby and asked, “From where do you hail, Phoebe?”
“Lon—Ah…Northumberland,” she responded, distracted.
“Any particular village?”
Phoebe paused and stared at the screen. A village? Blast Greer for her silly idea of the moors—Phoebe was hard-pressed at the moment to name one village in all of England! She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember the atlas she, Greer, and Ava had studied when they had concocted her false identity. “Berwick-upon-Tweed,” she said brightly as that name suddenly came to her.
“Berwick-upon-Tweed?” He sounded surprised. “Then your father was a…a fisherman, I suppose?”
Lord, a fisherman?
His smile widened. “Are you always so contrary? A name, Madame Dupree. A given name, a nickname…a name by which your sister might call you.”
“Phoebe.”
“Phoebe,” he said, and nodded. “It suits you.”
What suited her was some distance between them. She was standing so close she could count the whiskers in his sideburns, could feel the heat of his body. She tugged at the bonnet again, but he stubbornly held on, his lips curved in a cocky, wicked smile.
“I confess, Phoebe, it is difficult to appreciate your work without seeing it on a feminine form.”
His eyes, Phoebe noticed, had turned a very warm green. She gripped the ribbons of the bonnet and gave it a harder tug. “Lady Alice’s dress is on a feminine form just behind you, sir.”
“That is not the dress I care to see,” he said, and stepped closer to her.
“All right,” Phoebe said. “If you will just give me my bonnet, my lord,” she said, pulling hard, “I shall fetch Lady Jane and you may see the gown on her.”
“Not Jane,” he said, clearly enjoying their little tug-of-war. “You.”
Phoebe almost let go. “But…but that gown is made to fit Lady Jane. Not me.”
“You seem similar in size to me,” he said, his gaze boldly wandering over her body.
“I assure you we are not, my lord. There are many differences.”
“You are undoubtedly the most obstinate servant to ever inhabit Wentworth Hall. You are close enough in size and I assure you, Phoebe, that I will appreciate that gown on you far more than I can ever hope to appreciate it on my sister Jane. Do please don the thing so that I may judge its suitability.”
Phoebe froze as fingers of indignation crawled up her spine. “Suitability?” she said, almost choking on the word. “It is made in the fashion of the latest styles from London—”
“I hardly care.” He shifted closer, smiling down at her in a way that made her feel like she was slowly roasting on the inside, and said softly, “I want to see you in that gown. Put it on.” He spoke like a man who was accustomed to ordering people about.
Phoebe glanced at the gown.
“Now.”
As accustomed as he was to issuing orders, Phoebe was unaccustomed to receiving them. “And if I don’t?” she asked boldly.
Summerfield cocked a brow. “Perhaps you want me to put it on you.”
Oh Lord! The suggestion made her heart leap. “You wouldn’t.”
He shrugged a little. “I’ve done worse.”
Her heart leapt again.
“You will put it on if you value your position here,” he added.
A million retorts skated through her mind—so many that she momentarily forgot she was a servant in this house, that she had no choice but to obey him. She forcibly swallowed down the words on the tip of her tongue and looked again at the gown.
Summerfield let go of the bonnet and stepped aside so that she could pick it up. Phoebe tossed the bonnet onto the table, and with a heated look for Summerfield, she snatched up the gown and went to the thin silk privacy screen one of the footmen had brought up yesterday and stepped behind it. She could hear him moving about the room as she unbuttoned her gown with shaking hands, slipped out of it, and laid it across a chair.
He paused somewhere nearby and asked, “From where do you hail, Phoebe?”
“Lon—Ah…Northumberland,” she responded, distracted.
“Any particular village?”
Phoebe paused and stared at the screen. A village? Blast Greer for her silly idea of the moors—Phoebe was hard-pressed at the moment to name one village in all of England! She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember the atlas she, Greer, and Ava had studied when they had concocted her false identity. “Berwick-upon-Tweed,” she said brightly as that name suddenly came to her.
“Berwick-upon-Tweed?” He sounded surprised. “Then your father was a…a fisherman, I suppose?”
Lord, a fisherman?
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