She squeezed her hand again. “I’m sorry, Phoebe. Deep down, he was a good man, but a weak one.”
“I know,” she wiped at her wet cheeks. “This is so very fascinating. Learning about my parents and how they came to be married. Finding out they loved each other deeply and went against their parents. I only wonder why my mother never told me.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that.”
“Can you tell me why I was taken? Why did Lady Greenwich have me brought to you?”
“That is something I don’t know.”
Sighing, Phoebe reflected on what had changed. Lady Greenwich had gone from opposing Emma’s match with the duke to offering him any of her daughters. Pain pierced her heart. The duke wanted to marry her. Lady Greenwich wanted him to marry one of her daughters. If Phoebe were no longer in the picture, would the duke marry Emma or one of her other cousins and give her aunt what she wanted? Phoebe believed deep down that it wasn’t necessarily that she wanted one of her daughters to marry the duke. It was that she didn’t want him to marry her. Phoebe would be a duchess, and her aunt could not abide it.
The pain in her heart intensified. Would he marry one of her cousins? No. Maybe. Oh, she didn’t know. But she did know that her aunt had her taken away to remove her from the duke. No doubt to force Weston into marriage through some trick or another.“The Duke of Weston wants to marry me. Lady Greenwich, though she initially turned down his proposal for Lady Emma, has had a change of heart.”
Hennie gasped. “Why on earth did she turn down a duke’s offer in the first place?”
“Because he’s buried three wives, and most people think he’s cursed. They call him the Duke of Doom.”
“My goodness. How old is this duke?”
“Somewhere in his thirties, I think.”
“Ah. And handsome, I would suspect.”
Her lips curved up into a smile. “Yes. Very handsome.”
“Do you love him?”
“I hardly know him.” She paused and thought long and hard about that question. “I don’t know if you can call it love, but my heart flutters when I’m with him, and we seem connected on some elemental level.”
“Ah, so it’s love. Does he feel the same?”
“I can’t say, but he is kind to me and, as I said, we connect somehow.”
Hennie sighed wistfully. “I was in love once. But as you know, I was punished for it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You have a kind heart, child. And if my niece’s daughters take after her, it’s no wonder she wanted you out of the way.”
“Actually, the younger two daughters do take after Lady Greenwich. However, the eldest, Lady Emma, befriended me. She is the reason the duke wants to marry me,” Phoebe explained everything Emma did for her and then told her about Mrs. Dove-Lyon and how she was a matchmaker for theton.
“How scandalously exciting. I could’ve used her help when I was nineteen.”
“No doubt she was around that age herself at the time and not the Black Widow of Whitehall.”
“There is that. Now. We must plan how to bring you and your duke together. I have no horse or any means of getting you to London. The mail coach is due in three days. I would put you on the coach, but I’m afraid for your safety traveling alone, and I don’t think I can make the trip. We will just have to make the best of our time together while we wait for your duke.”
And they did. Hennie showed Phoebe her vegetable and herb gardens and taught her how to care for the tender plants that were a lifeline for Hennie. They formed a bond similar tothe one Hennie had long ago with her mother.It made Phoebe both sad and happy to spend this time with Hennie. The stories Hennie shared about her mother made her feel closer to her own mother. She couldn’t wait to see Weston, but she was sad that her time with Hennie would soon come to an end.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Oliver went straight home after leaving the Lyon’s Den and his meeting with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. He shut himself in his study, insisting on not being disturbed until Mr. Burns arrived. He sat behind his desk, his nerves a tangled mess and his stomach no better as he sipped a glass of brandy, hoping to calm down. It wasn’t working. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and took deep, steady breaths. Someone once told him it helped with anxiety. He hoped they were right because he felt like he was about to explode like a fireworks display gone awry on the River Thames during a summer celebration.
He had begun to feel marginally better when there was a knock on the door, and Edwards opened it. “Mr. Burns to see you, Your Grace,” he said, then bowed, left the room, and closed the door behind him.
Oliver took one last deep breath and said, “Please have a seat.”
Mr. Burns bowed and said, “Thank you, Your Grace.” He sat in a comfortable chair facing the desk. The Runner was a large man, much like the doormen at the Lyon’s Den. And, best Oliver could tell, he was in his late thirties.
