Chapter 9
“You have everything arranged, then?” Lord Turner asked crossly, his expression contrarian as he looked at Phoebe across the drawing room of their London home.
“Of course, I have everything arranged,” said Phoebe, who had nothing arranged. She’d repeated this same lie so many times during their journey back to Town from their country estate that she almost believed it.
She was lucky that her father wasn’t the kind of man to ask for details when he could just sit around and wait for someone else to do the work for him.
Really, it was a miracle that he had managed to arrange a betrothal for Hannah, all things considered.
A miracle that was currently the source of every single problem in Phoebe’s life, granted, but a miracle nonetheless.
Phoebe had wracked her brain for the last several days, but the best plan she’d been able to come up with was begging the Duke to forget he had ever been betrothed to Hannah in the first place.
This plan would have felt as though it had a greater chance of success if she hadn’t already met the Duke of Redcliff. Phoebe had probably met a more stubborn person in her life, but nobody came to mind at the moment.
The moment she had returned to London, Phoebe had dashed off a note to her friend Ariadne, hoping to gain something—anything—useful about Ariadne’s cousin.
But the newly-minted Duchess of Wilds was off doing something, well, wild with her husband and was not expected, the footman who had delivered Phoebe’s note reported, for a few days at least.
“The butler said that Their Graces often keep an unpredictable schedule,” he had told her apologetically.
Phoebe, who had already known as much, gave the man an understanding smile.
“Thank you for your help,” she’d said, hoping that her tension didn’t show in her smile.
Ariadne had been her one hope for information about what made the mysterious and aloof—and bloody stubborn as a mule—Duke of Redcliff do the things that he did.
But that hope had been snuffed out like a candle flame in a puff of wind. And she was out of time to bluff.
So begging. That was the plan. She didn’t like it, but she didn’t see another way around it.
“It will be just fine,” she reassured her father and sister, who both looked at her expectantly. She didn’t give a damn about letting her father down, but she couldn’t bear to disappoint Hannah.
Not when Hannah’s would-be lover seemed determined to do just that.
Hannah kept insisting that he just had to arrange “one last thing” before they became betrothed, though she wouldn’t clarify what that one thing actually was.
Phoebe assumed this was because it was not a very good reason to abandon—even temporarily—a woman whom he had gotten with child.
She did not, she admitted, have the highest opinion of Lord Lyle of late.
There was a rap at the door.
“Your Lordship, Madams,” said the maid standing there, giving a nervous, quick curtsey. “His Grace, the Duke of Redcliff is here.”
And indeed, he was.
It was unlikely that the man had somehow gotten broader shoulders in the past three or so days, but he seemed even more imposing than Phoebe remembered.
Maybe that was just because previously, she’d only had her own secrets to protect. Now, she had Hannah’s.
“Your Grace!” Lord Turner leapt to his feet, nearly losing his balance in his exuberance. “So good of you to come. So good. Too good!”
Rolling her eyes at her father did give Phoebe some way to release a bit of the tension that had been building inside her these past few days.
“Your Grace,” she said, in a far calmer manner, “it’s good to see you again.”
He looked at her like he didn’t believe her. This, she decided, was fair. She only half meant it, and she didn’t want to mean it even that much. Stupid, lousy, handsome duke.
“Miss Turner,” he said. She could read nothing in his expression. It was as though they were meeting for the first time.
It was as though they’d never kissed.
Too right, Phoebe told herself. They were pretending that hadn’t happened. And if she pretended hard enough, no doubt it would start to feel true.
Even if pretending grated at her.
Still. It would help that—pending the efficacy of the begging—she would likely never see the Duke of Redcliff again after today.
And that was a good thing. She’d repeat that until it felt true, too.
“Miss Hannah,” he said, his voice growing icier. Again, Phoebe rolled her eyes. She probably should have tried to hide that particular expression of distaste on her face, given the whole bit with the begging, but she couldn’t help it. Had he heard nothing of what she had said?
Phoebe had once had a governess who had continually told her that it cost a young lady nothing to spread a bit of pleasantness in the world.
Phoebe had fundamentally disagreed with this statement—it cost her a great deal to always pretend to be sweet and biddable and abominably brainless—and Phoebe had hated hearing the words.
Still, she wanted to say them to the Duke now. Largely because he would hate hearing it.
But she supposed it wouldn’t do to irritate the Duke.
More was the pity.
“I take it, since you are all here,” the Duke said in that same frigid voice, “that I shall not once again find myself facing a runaway bride?”
Hannah’s smile looked liable to break under the slightest pressure.
“Hannah, sweetheart, would you mind going to ask the housekeeper for some refreshments?” Phoebe asked sweetly. It was a transparent excuse to get her sister out of the room since, normally, they would simply ring for tea and biscuits. From the Duke’s impatient look, he knew what she was doing.
From Hannah’s grateful look, she knew what Phoebe was doing.
Lord Turner looked at his elder daughter like she’d taken leave of her senses.
“Just pull the bell, Phoebe. Honestly,” he huffed.
Phoebe prayed for patience.
“I’m afraid it’s not working, Father,” she said, pinning him with a meaningful look.
Lord Turner startled in his seat. “Not working? Since when?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the Duke.
“I do beg your pardon, Your Grace. I am perfectly able to keep my house in working order; don’t ever doubt it.
Phoebe, why didn’t you tell me this wasn’t working? You should have had it fixed at once!”
Phoebe lamented, for the hundred thousandth time in her life, that this was the man who had been given total, legal control over her life and that of her sister. Was it really any wonder that Phoebe had never felt any real interest in getting married? Really. Honestly.
“I’m sure it will be fixed soon, Father,” she said through gritted teeth.
“I shall see to it!” he said, standing swiftly. It was a remarkable bit of theater, watching her father pretend to be capable. “I shall see to it immediately.”
He nodded decisively at the Duke, who was watching this all with absolute impassivity.
“Never fear, Your Grace,” he said smartly, seeming to really believe that a man who had battled alongside Admiral Nelson might be genuinely appalled by a broken bellpull.
He strode from the room with purpose.
Phoebe watched him go, not certain if she should be exasperated or pleased.
On one hand, she wanted him out of the room because it was much easier to lay aside her pride when her father wasn’t there to witness it.
On the other hand, he was leaving for a reason that was so unbearably stupid that any person who appreciated good sense would struggle to stand idly by.
Plus, she would have to give the poor housekeeper a bribe out of her pin money for the indignity of having to solve an imaginary problem for her employer.
“I’ll just—ah—help him?” Hannah said, offering Phoebe an awkward, apologetic wince as she scurried after her father.
She paused only to bob a hasty curtsey to the Duke as she passed him.
“I was wrong,” he muttered dryly when he and Phoebe were alone in the room. “I did have another runaway bride. I am distinctly unamused.”
All of Phoebe’s good intentions about not annoying him evaporated.
“Are you?” she asked. “Because I’m almost certain that was a joke. It’s hard to tell, coming from you, but I really suspect that I am right.”
He looked torn between amusement and annoyance. Phoebe would take it.
“Please,” she said, gesturing to the seat across from her, “would you join me?”
He looked as though he intended to refuse, though he ultimately hesitated only a moment before taking the place she’d indicated. He wore a calculating expression, like he was preparing for war.
“Do they always leave you with the dirty work, Miss Turner?” he asked, and she flinched. This was no shot over the bow, no mere warning.
War it was, indeed.
She didn’t bother pretending. She would have to keep those reserves when she was asking for favors, after all.
“I practically chased them from the room,” she returned. “Well, with my father, it was more of a happy accident, but I’m hardly sorry for the chance to speak with you alone.” She tried to look calm and in control as she continued. “Things have changed.”
“Hm.”
Ooh, he was good at this game, wasn’t he? That one syllable was designed to give her just enough rope to hang herself… or at least to give him time to figure out what was happening. It was possible that she was getting too wrapped up in this whole ‘war hero’ bit.
She was remarkably tired of playing games.
“Listen,” she said, leaning forward in her seat, “I’m going to speak plainly.
My sister is no longer available. I know this is not what you expected, but I nevertheless expect that it will not be too big a blow for you as you have only exchanged—what would you say it is, eight words with her?
I daresay any bruising to your heart will fade quickly enough. ”
She nodded to punctuate this, then sat back decisively against the settee.
The Duke looked far less moved by this speech than she might have hoped. Phoebe supposed she had rather fallen short of the begging that she’d planned.