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Very good, George, she encouraged silently. A mention of others knowing of their attachment would cause a scandal if they were not allowed to marry.
A silence that seemed fraught with peril blanketed the library. She waited, her nerves jagged and raw, twisting her fingers together.
“I believe I will take pleasure in burying you for your unmitigated gall,” her father said with lethal softness. “The second son of a viscount, requesting the hand of the daughter of a duke. How laughably ridiculous. Your family is not fit to lick my bloody boot heels!”
George paled and cast a desperate glance at the door. Unable to bear him facing her father alone, she pushed aside the curtain and hurried forward. “Papa, forgive me for barging in, but I dared to because this matter is of the utmost importance!”
George seemed ready to faint, his eyes downcast and his cheeks reddened. And her father’s mien was coldly furious and unforgiving.
Phoebe was quiet for a moment. “Papa,” she said, hating that her voice shook. “Please—”
“Be silent! There will be disagreeable consequences as a result of your willful ways!”
She flinched at the sharpness of his tone but resolutely lifted her chin. “I fear I cannot be silent, Papa, and I must speak about my hope for a future with…G…with Mr. Hastings.”
“Why would you conceive to even ask this of me and your mother when you know the expectations we have of you?” the duke demanded, leveling his icy glare at her. “A marriage between you both is quite unthinkable by our family’s standard.”
Because we are best friends, and because of a night of celebration that led to too many shared intimacies. To her mortification, she hardly remembered that night when they had secretly met in the alcove in the garden, laughing like loons because George had received a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Music. It had been her idea to take down the sherry and the two glasses from her father’s study and meet him when the household had gone to bed.
They had drunk and drunk…and it had been some mad wildness and rebellion in her which had encouraged her to lean forward and kiss George on the mouth. Phoebe recalled the awkward kissing, the sweet, shy way they had undressed each other while giggling, the warmth which had unfurled in her chest when he promised to care for her always. There had been some fumbling, a mild discomfort, and then George stammering that on their wedding night it would be much better. Phoebe had been bemused and terribly disappointed that the passion poets wrote about was so unmemorable. Despite being a bit addled by the sherry, Phoebe believed that deep in her heart she had wanted such an outcome, for then the aging earl would no longer be a marriage prospect. And then she would be allowed to live a life that would most certainly bring happiness to her heart and home.
“Mr. Hastings loves me, and I also hold deep affections for him. We must be married, Papa,” she said bravely, hating how furiously her heart pounded.
The duke stiffened, disbelief widening his dark golden eyes. “You are ruined?”
Phoebe closed her eyes, a flush mounting on her cheeks. “Papa, please, I—”
A loud crash jerked her eyes open. A carafe rested in broken pieces on the carpet, and liquid dribbled down the wall by the fireplace. The icy fury on the duke’s face was one she had never seen. A thud sounded, and she glanced down to see that George had fainted. Her heart pounded, and her throat went tight with pain and worry.
The door opened, and her mother sailed inside to pause in dismay. “Winston!” she cried, her hand fluttering to her chest. “What is happening?”
“Close the door,” her father said in a very disagreeable manner.
The duchess complied then sauntered toward them. She stared at George for a moment then at Phoebe and the shattered glass on the ground. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Your daughter…our willful, stupid daughter, has allowed herself to be ruined by…” Her father closed his eyes.
The duchess sucked in a sharp breath. “Ruined?”
Phoebe clasped her fingers tightly together around her middle. She thought she had prepared for her parents’ reaction to the news. She felt terribly frightened.
The duchess rounded on her. “You will refute your father’s scandalous supposition this instant!”
“Mr. Hastings and I…we…we…” How difficult it was to say with her parents looking on. “We’ve kissed…and…and…” The sensibilities she had thought long abandoned reared their heads, and she blushed.
The duchess straightened her shoulders. “Whatever foolish thing you did will not be discussed or considered going forward! You will wed Lord Dumont, and you have simply proven that we should have forced this marriage weeks ago instead of allowing you to enjoy the season!”
An awful sensation lodged itself in the vicinity of Phoebe’s heart. Her parents had not been so benevolent as to allow her to enjoy the season, but that the earl still had a few weeks to come out of mourning. They were very considerate about what was proper and would never condone announcing an engagement while his second wife had gone on to her rewards less than a year ago. Phoebe had been living with such anxiety and dread, counting down the months then weeks to when her engagement would be announced. The days of living with such anxiety and fear had taken a toll, and Phoebe desperately wanted something…anything to be different.
“Mama, are you so determined to marry me to Lord Dumont that you will overlook that Mr. Hastings and I…that we are compromised? How can you be so indifferent to the future state of my happiness?”
The duchess directed a quelling look at her. “You will be allowed to marry wherever you wish when the earl is dead. If fate is kind to you, he will go on to his rewards in a few years’ time. There is a rumor that he has a weak heart.”
Her mother’s cruel and icy words pierced Phoebe’s heart deeply. “Do I mean so little to you, Mama? I am simply a tool to be bartered to support our wealth and holdings? What of my happiness and contentment in life?”
Her mother walked over to her, and before Phoebe realized her intention, a harsh slap landed on her face. Fire exploded in her cheek, and with a gasp, she pressed her hand to the left side of her face.
She didn’t dare breathe. “Mama?”
