“Phoebe? But she’s?—”
Unlike the Duke, Lord Turner was perpetually as transparent as the finest glass. Phoebe watched every single one of the thoughts behind his eyes as he stopped himself from saying what he had started to say.
In one fell swoop, he could get rid of Phoebeandget a duke in the family? Christmas really had come early for Lord Matthew Turner.
“Phoebe,” he said, turning to the Duke with a smile that would likely have alarmed a less sturdy man, “will make awonderfulbride. She will be even better than Hannah, I’m sure. She’s—” He glanced over at his daughter, briefly puzzled as he tried to come up with one solitary way that she was superior to her sister. It took an insultingly long time. “—taller,” he finally finished.
When neither Phoebe nor the Duke responded to this proclamation, the Viscount continued to natter on.
“And of course, both my girls are of the highest pedigree—” Like a dog, Phoebe thought, grinding her back teeth together to avoid grimacing. “—so Phoebe will offer a worthy bloodline for your heirs.”
Ah, not like a dog, then. Like a broodmare. How charming.
“Not to mention that she’s very accomplished at—at—at?—”
It was very clear that the Viscount had no idea how he was going to end that sentence, so it was frankly a mercy for all of them when the Duke cut him off.
“Enough,” he said, standing swiftly. “I will return tomorrow to let you know what I have decided. Good evening.”
He offered a nod to Phoebe and not even that to her father, and then he left.
Lord Turner gawked after the Duke’s departing figure, then turned to glare at Phoebe.
“What does he mean, ‘what he decides?’ Did you not manage to convince him? Phoebe? Phoebe!”
Phoebe balled her fists in her skirts when her father physically moved to block her from leaving the drawing room. It was either that or hit him right in the nose.
Today had been stressful, irritating, and humiliating. And above all those other things, it had beenlong.
Phoebe had just thrown herself on her sword to save her sister, only for the Duke to tell her, as she bled onto the ground, “Sorry, I’ve not yet decided if that sacrifice is sufficient. Would you mind terribly just staying there, impaled, until I’ve thought the matter over?”
She was frustrated beyond measure, insulted beyond belief, and she simply couldn’tbearher father’s recrimination, not just now.
She knew it wasn’t the proper spirit of charity to do good things in the hopes of being thanked, but, God—would it hurt her family to thank her? Just once?
But they never did. For her father, everything Phoebe did was never enough. For Hannah, it was always expected.
So, Phoebe whirled, letting her temper off its leash.
“What would you have had me do, Father?” she snapped. “Ought I have stripped out of my gown right there so that he could see the merchandise he was purchasing? So he could see mypedigreeand whether I’ve hips enough to produce him the passel of babies you just promised him?”
Her father looked shocked and affronted, as if Phoebe’s behavior was coming absolutely out of nowhere. Of course, he was. He always did think everyone else was to blame but himself.
“I did what I could,” she went on. “Tomorrow, we will see if it worked—if you’ve successfully sold me off to better your position in Society. For tonight, I intend to sleep in my own bed—undisturbed—while I still can.”
She stormed past her shocked father, up the stairs, and to her bedchamber. She knew it wouldn’t have any effect on him. He would never look to himself when wondering how this betrothal had become such a mess, and he would never blame Hannah, not when Phoebe was right there. She knew he wouldn’t change. He would likely never change.
And yet it still felt extremely good when she slammed the door to her room so hard that it rattled in the frame.
CHAPTER 10
“Do my eyes deceive me? Is that really—my God, I daresay itis—Admiral Aaron Warson, late of His Majesty’s Navy?”
“Oh, do shut up, Dowling,” Aaron said, regarding his closest friend, Jacob Grand, the Earl of Dowling, as he strode into Aaron’s drawing room.
“Do you know,” Jacob said jovially, crossing to Aaron’s liquor cabinet and pouring himself a few fingers of whisky, “I don’t have to listen to you any longer. You’re not my commanding officer.”
“More’s the bloody shame,” Aaron growled, though there was no real heat in it. He lacked the words to truly express it, but he was pleased to see Jacob. They were brothers, bound by blood and battle—hell, Aaron felt far closer to Jacob than he had ever felt to his own late brother, Peter. Aaron had been terrified when Jacob had been injured in battle and relieved beyond measure when he had acted swiftly enough to save his friend’s life.
