She smiled at that. Whatever displeasure she’d found in her marriage, she and Alfred had raised two wonderful sons together. Henry’s brother, Charles, who studied at Oxford, was due to arrive any day now so they could spend Christmas together.
“Excuse me, Lady Rothburne?”
Phoebe turned in response to her title and found a plump woman who looked to be the same age as she, gazing at her as if she were some sort of long lost artifact just unearthed. In a way, Phoebe supposed she was.
Recognition stirred. She tried to place the woman but couldn’t quite manage the feat. “Yes?”
“It is I. Matilda Adams from Hanover Square. That is to say, I used to be Matilda Earnshaw until I married but–”
“Goodness gracious.” Phoebe stared at the woman who’d once been among her dearest friends. She’d been so petite when they’d made their debuts together, and the youthful facial features Phoebe recalled had matured over the years. “It has been an age. Please, allow me to introduce my elder son, Henry Jennings, Viscount Rothburne.”
“An absolute pleasure,” Matilda said with a wide smile while Henry offered a gallant bow. “So handsome. I’m sure the young ladies must swoon in your presence.”
Phoebe glanced at Henry and instantly noted the blush in his cheeks. A bashful smile curved his lips, which he attempted to hide by sipping his drink. Warmth filled Phoebe’s heart. Her sons had not yet told her of any particular ladies for whom they’d developed a tendre, but she had decided that she would encourage love matches so they could be saved from the painful existence she’d had to suffer.
“I did write to you,” Phoebe told her friend, “but you never responded.”
Matilda stared at her. “How strange, for I wrote to you too though I never received a single one of your letters.”
Beside her, Phoebe sensed Henry stiffen. “Do you know if other friends of Mama’s also wrote?”
“Of course,” Matilda said. “We all did, to begin with that is. Mr. Blackstone even requested I send a letter on his behalf since he feared his own were being intercepted.”
Unhappiness clawed at Phoebe’s heart. It took every effort she possessed to maintain her composure as the ugly truth regarding her marriage crashed through her. Alfred had kept her away from London, from Society, and from her friends. But worse, he’d taken deliberate strides to make her think no one cared about her – that she’d been forgotten or was being ignored.
The knowledge had crushed her at the time, but then she’d had Henry and Charles and her days had been filled with joy while the rest simply drifted away.
“He’s here, you know,” Matilda added, prompting Phoebe’s attention to sharpen. Her friend glanced sideways. “Right over there.”
Phoebe’s gaze followed Matilda’s line of sight until she saw him. Everything in her stilled before suddenly roaring back to life as the years disappeared, transporting her to the last ball she’d attended. Like now, she’d spotted him from across the room after her arrival. No words had been required. The pull they’d shared had simply drawn them toward the dance floor where he’d swept her into a waltz.
Phoebe sucked in a breath. There was no going back, no undoing the past, and the sense of loss this notion brought with it was unbearably overwhelming.
“Mama?” Henry moved closer to her side. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I… I’m sorry.” Tears welled at the corners of her eyes. She could not move. All she could do was stand there, trapped by Oliver’s gaze.
“I trust Mr. Blackstone’s another old acquaintance of yours?”
“Indeed. You could say that.” Phoebe tore her gaze away from Oliver’s so she could look Henry squarely in the eye. “He and I were engaged to be married once. For an hour or two. Until my parents put an end to that plan.”
Henry’s jaw dropped. “I’ve always known you were unhappy in your marriage, but it never occurred to me how much you were forced to give up.”
“My marriage gave me you and your brother. I’d not trade that for all the love matches in the world.”
He shook his head. “As gracious as that is of you, you deserved better, Mama. But your life is not over yet. You’re not even fifty years old, so perhaps there’s a chance you can still have the happiness you were forced to surrender.”
“Henry…”
“Mrs. Adams, would you by any chance happen to know if Mr. Blackstone is otherwise engaged?” Henry asked.
“I can assure you he is not,” Matilda said while heat swept the length of Phoebe’s spine. Every nerve in her body started to tingle. “His heart has only ever belonged to your mother.”
“In that case, I must ask you to excuse us, Mrs. Adams.” Henry took Phoebe’s arm and linked it with his own. “Come, Mama. It’s time for you to reach for the stars.”
Oliver could not have looked away from Phoebe even if a carriage had crashed through the assembly hall at that exact moment. When he’d first spotted her he’d been transfixed, for even though it had taken his brain a few seconds to realize it was in fact she, his heart had not been in doubt.
For nearly twenty–five years he’d attended this Yuletide dance. It had been the venue for their first introduction. And while he’d had no illusions, no hope of Phoebe actually showing up after moving away, these rooms had served like a pocket in time – a place where she still belonged to him and where the future they’d once dreamed of sharing remained intact.
Every muscle within him stretched taut as he watched her approach. Though her features were not as smooth as they’d once been and her dark hair not as lustrous, he still saw the young girl he’d once romanced. She lived on, behind the years of experience etched upon her face.
He knew he himself had long ago shed his youth. His once black hair was now flecked by strands of grey, and there were more creases around his eyes than when she’d last seen him.
“Phoebe.” Her name sounded like a whispered blessing to his own ears. He cleared his throat while his heart leapt into a wilder rhythm. She was before him now, no more than two feet away, and it was as if his every prayer had been answered. Finally. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”
“It was my son’s idea.” The confession filled her eyes with immediate hesitation, as though she worried she’d said the wrong thing. She forced a smile. “Allow me to introduce you. Oliver, Mr. Blackstone, that is, I present to you Henry Jennings, Viscount Rothburne.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord,” Oliver said, admiring the striking resemblance the young man shared with his mother. “My condolences on the loss of your father.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rothburne said. A brief silence followed. He turned to Phoebe. “Mama, if you do not mind, I would like to go and greet a few friends.”
He waited for her response while Oliver held his breath. She could suggest accompanying her son or…
“Go ahead. I’m sure Mr. Blackstone and I have a great deal of catching up to do.” She cast a quick glance in Oliver’s direction. “If you agree?”
Oliver answered with a broad smile. “Indeed.”