Gosh, Phoebe would love to be in bed right now. She would accept any place where people wouldn’t try to make her solve their problems, actually.
But she’d never been able to resist fighting for Hannah.
“She’s upset,” she said levelly to her father, even though she felt far from level and he deserved her temper more than her calm. “I’m sure she just needs a moment to gather her thoughts.”
“Unacceptable!” her father hissed through his teeth. “Retrieve her at once, Phoebe!”
There really wasn’t any arguing with him. There never had been. This was, after all, the man who had made them all attend a funeral the day after Christmas, who had told his daughters that crying for more than a day was unbecoming. He was a man who had very likely never loved anything except for himself. She didn’t think he knew how.
Besides, she really was worried about her sister.
“Very well,” she said sharply. He’d no doubt have something to say about that later, but Phoebe couldn’t worry about it for now. “I’ll find her.”
Phoebe was the third person to flee from the room in as many minutes, and she doubted that her tenuous grip on her temper could withstand even one minute more of her father’s total lack of care for either of his children.
Phoebe was sufficiently focused on her storming that she managed to turn a corner and plow directly into a wall.
She almost fell directly on her poor bumagain, except the wall—reached out and grabbed her?
Phoebe blinked and found herself looking up—again—at the Duke of Redcliff.
And he was scowling.
Again.
History ought not be allowed to repeat itself in such short order,she thought sourly.
“Miss Turner,” the Duke said sternly, “do you need constant supervision? Do you need some sort of aide to follow you and ensure that you don’t go tumbling over every obstacle in your path?”
His hands were still on her arms, even as he insulted her. Theaudacity.
Phoebe added a small mental note to her previous assessment of the Duke’s appearance. No, he still wasn’t beautiful, but he wasstriking. Looking at him felt almost risky, like she was doing something she oughtn’t. The mere idea made Phoebe straighten her spine and look even harder. She didn’t care how many wars he had survived. She wasn’t going to be cowed by a stern gaze with a title.
“You crashed intome,” Phoebe insisted, even though she was all but certain that this was not at all the case. Sometimes, bravado was all that was needed in these circumstances, however. So often, men relied on women just bowing to their dictates. Phoebe had learned long ago that confidence was a useful tool in dealing with gentlemen.
Ornotgentlemen, as the people she encountered on her adventures often were far removed.
Indeed, the Duke reared back his head, as if he’d been struck. This brought him up short against the limits of his reach; he glared at his hands like they belonged to someone else, then dropped Phoebe like she was on fire.
Phoebe pressed her lips together against a smile. It was satisfying to regain the upper hand at last.
“I did not,” he retorted, then shook his head. “And you ought not be roaming around the house. I told you, there was a footman to escort you to the dining room.”
“I’m not going to the dining room,” she said, trying to step around him. He neatly sidestepped, too, blocking her. “Excuse me.”
“You are a guest,” he said. “You aren’t supposed to be wandering wherever you please.”
Phoebe stepped aside again. He blocked her again.
“We are meant to be here for several days, aren’t we?” she countered. “Do you mean to tell me that I’m to be chaperoned for every step?”
“You do seem to need it,” he returned far too easily. Phoebe did not like that he was as adept in verbal sparring as his reputation said he was with real weapons.
She stepped; he stepped.
“Would you—would you stop that?” she snapped. It had been the most trying evening. “I’m trying to find Hannah.”
His lips moved in what, on a less serious man, might have been a smile.
