“Thank you.” Once she felt Puck climb onto his perch on the back of the carriage, the wheels engaged, and they were off. Exhaling in relief that she had made it out of the house with only the cook seeing her, she leaned back against the squabs. “This is it,” she whispered, “the night I met the gentleman who could potentially become my husband.” Her hands flew to her stomach. “Relax. If you cast up your accounts, he’ll run away.” So much was riding on this meeting that she didn’t know how to process the emotions bombarding her. Life had not always been easy for her and her mother, but it had been simple. Since arriving at Greenwich House, nothing had been simple. And tonight was certainly anything but.
The carriage wheels slowed to a stop, and she gave herself a talking-to, “You can do this. Remain calm, be brave, and trust your instincts and Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
The door opened, and she took Puck’s offered hand, stepping out of the carriage directly in front of the main doors. Puck led her to the side of the building, where she learned the other night the ladies’ entrance was. They entered through the side door and climbed the stairs to the main floor of the Lyon’s Den. She knew he was taking her to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private office. He knocked once on the door and opened it wide to let her inside. She inhaled to steady herself and walked inside to find the proprietor of the Lyon’s Den relaxing on a settee, sipping tea. There was no one else in the room. She didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
“Come in, Miss Windham, and have a seat.”
“Thank you.” She took a chair facing the settee.
“Would you care for tea?” her host asked.
“No, thank you.”
“Then we will get on with business. The gentleman I wish you to meet is already in the building. However, I wanted to meet with you first to make sure all is well at Greenwich House.”
“Yes.”
“That is a relief to hear after you spoke of poison. I also want to make sure this matchmaking is what you desire. All the ladies who have come to me in the past were ruined, involved in scandals, or on the brink of ruin, and needed me to find them a suitable husband quickly. This is not the case for you. Society doesn’t even know you exist, even though you are the granddaughter and niece of an earl. Are you positive you want me to make this match for you?”
Phoebe didn’t have to think twice. “Yes. This is what I want and need. You see, my aunt won’t let me go anywhere in the house except my room and the kitchen. How will I ever meet someone to marry? She has three daughters to marry off. She thinks of me as a nuisance. The best I can hope for otherwise is that when Lady Emma marries, she will take me with herand I’ll become a governess to her children. That would not be terrible, but I would prefer to have my own husband and my own children. I’ve never asked for anything in my life until I came to you. Please don’t send me away.” Tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to escape. If only she could see Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s face to gauge her reaction.
“I will never send a lady away who needs my help. And it appears you do. There is one more thing. The gentleman I have in mind for you is frequently the subject of gossip, which means you would become fodder for the gossipmongers. Is this something you’ll be able to deal with?”
“Since I’m a nobody and know no one in theton, I can’t think why gossip would bother me.”
“Good.”
She rose from the settee, set her teacup on the sideboard, and opened the door. “Come in, Your Grace.”
Since Phoebe’s back faced the doorway, she twisted around in her seat and gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle the sound, but it was too late. The duke’s lips quirked. She stood, turned and curtsied. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”
“Nothing to forgive,” he replied.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon gave Phoebe a hard stare right before she said, “May I present Oliver Barnes, the Duke of Weston? Your Grace, this is Miss Phoebe Windham.”
Once again, she curtsied. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace.”
He bowed most gallantly, with an amused grin that confirmed to her he recognized her. “Miss Windham.”
“Let us sit,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, taking a chair and waving toward the settee. Phoebe and the duke sat side by side on the settee. When his knee brushed hers briefly, her entire body tingled.
“Something makes me think you two are acquainted.”
“No,” Phoebe said. It wasn’t necessarily a lie. Of all the gentlemen she could be matched with, it was him. The face she dreamed about.
“What she means to say is that I visited Greenwich House a fortnight ago for afternoon tea,” he turned to face her. “Please forgive me if this embarrasses you. I saw Miss Windham on two brief occasions, sneaking around and peeking through doorways.”
“I was not sneaking,” she huffed, sitting up straight and turning toward him, their knees bumping. She ignored the tingling. “I wanted to see what the Duke of Doom looked like.” She covered her mouth again and groaned. “Now I must ask for your forgiveness for my rudeness again.”
He chuckled, “Nothing to forgive. I’ve grown quite used to the nickname.”
“Well,” she huffed, ignoring how his deep chuckle warmed her insides, “that is a horrible thing to call you.”
“I did bury three wives.”
Without thinking, she reached for his hand, but she came to her senses before she touched him. “I’m sorry for your losses.”
“Thank you. There is also the matter of people thinking I’m cursed.”
