Salvation of Ignorance

Chapter 19: Things She Couldn't Tell

A terrible thing had occurred.

Phoebe Mae Barrettmore had agreed to the suggestion of viewing an opera with her Nana. Not that she despised the quality time with her family member. And she especially enjoyed that the event encouraged minimal conversation with strangers. No, it was terrible due to it being an opera with five acts of French singing. Reading and writing French was a mediocre success on her part, if excluding her limited vocabulary. Listening and comprehending, however, succeeded in wrinkling her forehead.

An effort was made to catch what words she could. Though, by time she translated a fraction of one sentence, they had moved on to the next seven. And it didn't help that their efforts for musical craft encouraged them to abandon good dictation, thus proving her task more rigorous.

To stand in for where her ears failed, her eyes glued themselves to the maneuvers of the performers. Perhaps their exaggerated expressions could mime out the piece's meaning. The idea proved fruitful on occasions, but--the majority of the time--they were more occupied with the notes than the acting. Thus, resulting in drawing her attention to their mouths. Encouraging her to marvel at her gift of a new glossary on lip-maneuvers.

A large supply of air filled her lungs.

The sudden induction--and its quantity--concerned her of accidental vocalization. Her eyes went to her left and right. Fortunately, her Nana and the stranger were more interested in the play than Phoebe's breathing habits. Phoebe sat back into the seat and brought her arms in from the arm-rails to keep from making contact with them. One touch might enlighten them of the scene that inconveniently interrupted her thoughts.

Habitually.

Delightfully.

Her abdomen writhed in pain and her hands grasped at it for aid. Niall--Lord Claremont--was a philanderer who had conceitedly made an advance on her. Expecting it to be a successful endeavor. Believing her a loose skirt. And here she was cooing in remembrance. Practically sensing where he had explored as if he had never ceased and was presently devouring her in public. The pain subsided and was replaced with massaging contractions. She had never been kissed so fervently. Well, never in general, but she doubted anyone could devour her in a fraction of the same manor.

And the pain returned.

She couldn't bear to glance at Peter for the remainder of last night's party and had only managed enough conversation to convince him to return her home early. In fear that Lord Claremont's next attack would be more public. Or that one glance at Niall would open her like a book and the company would read the vivid details, of what had transpired, in her manners.

Peter had spoken politely and repeatedly inquired after the status of her health. Showing no indication of knowing the defilement by his 'loyal' friend. And of Phoebe's broken promise and own betrayal of loyalty.

But could Niall's claim be true? Of her Nana and Peter? Niall may be many unsavory synonyms, but 'liar' did not seem to be one of them. Granted, he may contrive a convoluted plot that placed her sanctity at peril rather than being frank from the start, but he had not lied to her.

Yet.

In fact, when she had frankly addressed his philandering and taste of exploits, he made no attempt to deny them. And, although he should never have offered any dances, he never did deny being intended. He merely neglected to state it and she had never considered to ask.

However, he had also proved to jump to conclusions. Quite drastic ones. Like Phoebe seeking the company of men non-platonically. Which was a slander if she had ever heard one. So it was possible this was another example of his over-imagination at work.