“You will not ask anyimpoliticquestions,” he revised acidly.
“Are we joining the man for dinner or for a war?” she asked sarcastically. She was fed up to hereyeswith this nonsense, but at least they were finally pulling up in front of the house. She wondered if this was how inmates felt as the end of their sentence at the gaol approached.
“That is precisely the kind of thing youare not going to sayto the Duke.” Her father was practically spitting the words. “Now.” The carriage rolled to a halt.Finally.“You will not sayanythingor doanythingor even bloodythink anythingthat will compromise this betrothal, do you hear me?”
Phoebe used the cover of darkness to roll her eyes, but she said nothing.
“Thank you for coming, Lord Turner,” said a man who had to be a butler as the three new arrivals mounted the front steps. Phoebe and Hannah each had their cloaks held tight around them against the swirling snow. The wind was picking up now, too. It seemed as though a proper storm was brewing.
“If you would accompany me to the drawing room,” the butler said in sepulchral tones, “His Grace will be along shortly.”
Hannah huddled close to Phoebe, and Phoebe let her, all discord from the carriage forgotten. Such was the joy of sisterhood—their love would always overcome any petty disagreements. Besides, Phoebe could stand to steal a little comfort, too. The butler gave off an aura that suggested that he hadn’t smiled this century.
Beyond which, the house was strangely… empty. Most old houses like this were cluttered with the various acquisitions of the last dozen generations or so.
Even the Turner house—both their city townhouse, where they spent most of their time, and the country house where they’d spent the last years of Lady Turner’s life—had those markings of long history, and their family title was only a viscountcy. A dukedom should have been positively overflowing with things.
But this house was bare. It was extraordinarily strange.
“Rather chilly in here, don’t you think?” Phoebe muttered to her sister when they were in the drawing room, which had furniture and nothing else. No pillows. No art on the walls. Nocurtains.
She said it to make Hannah laugh as her younger sister was so tense that Phoebe worried that she might shatter like an icicle, but it was not Phoebe who responded.
“The fires are all lit in anticipation of the future duchess’ arrival,” said a voice from behind her that was twice as icy as the weather outside. “This is as warm as the house gets.”
Oh, Phoebe’s father was going tomurderher.
Phoebe very carefully rearranged her face into a polite smile, not so much to appease her father but because it was unforgivably rude to come into someone’s house and start insulting the place.She might not be overly attached to Society’s rules of propriety, but she did have her own code.
Phoebe pasted a smile on her face before she turned.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Your Grace, that isn’t at all what I?—”
But that was as far as she got. She turned, but this strange, bare room with its floors devoid of carpeting was not kind on her wet half-boots. The melted snow made her slip. She wheeled her arms, trying to regain her balance, but it was to no avail.
She landed in an ungainly heap on the floor. It was not at all comfortable, but worse, it was humiliating in the extreme.
“Can you not show even a moment’s decorum?” her father scolded, not extending so much as a hand to help her.
Phoebe ignored him because if she didn’t, she would say something she oughtn’t. Instead, she looked up at the Duke.
He looked down at her, distinctly unimpressed.
He was a handsome enough man, though far too rough to be called beautiful. He was broad, built heavily with more muscle than was fashionable for a gentleman, but which seemed well suited for a soldier. For all his comments aboutanticipating the future duchess’ arrival, he hadn’t bothered to shave; his jaw was coated in a fine layer of stubble that blended upward into his dark brown hair. And his eyes were completely impassive.
“Is this the kind of display that I am meant to enjoy for the rest of my life?” he asked, a slight curl to his lip that quickly vanished into impassiveness.
Something about that barely-there sneer made Phoebe’s humiliation rise to new heights. She scrambled awkwardly back to her feet.
“I’m sorry,” she said, tripping over her words. She wanted to rub at her sore, bruised behind, but that really would be a step too far. “The floor was slippery; I swear, that I am not usuallyquiteso clumsy?—”
She broke off as the rest of his words registered.
“Wait,” she said. “You aren’t marryingme.”
There was an excruciating silence.
The Duke looked at her for a long moment, then, with purposeful slowness, turned to look at Hannah. Hannah froze like a rabbit being stalked by a wolf. Without comment, the Duke turned his eyes back to Phoebe.
