Chapter 9 #2
“You do rather mistake me, Miss Turner,” he said after a long moment. “I have not arranged to marry your sister because of anything to do with my heart. I made a deal. Your father agreed. I needed to marry. He offered a bride. It was as simple as that.”
“If you merely need a bride,” Phoebe countered, “then you should not be too troubled to find another. You’re a duke. I’m sure you can manage it.”
“As flattered as I am regarding your estimation of my charms,” he said, tone of voice completely flat, “I do not think myself poised to secure another bride in the two days between now and the wedding.”
“Two days?” A cooler head, Phoebe realized a moment too late, might have tried to make it seem as though she already knew about this deadline, but she was too surprised.
The Duke’s lips twitched.
“Your father didn’t mention that, did he? What was it you were saying about your family not abandoning you to the hard tasks?”
“You are,” Phoebe said, “extremely difficult to like.”
The Duke spread his hands, apparently unaffected by the insult.
“You see my position, then,” he said. “I might have a title and a fortune, but I am nevertheless not considered a catch by the ton. I seek to repair my… rough reputation. To do so, I must marry. I will not have a cancelled wedding contributing to the way people speak about me and my family.”
There was something in this explanation that Phoebe was missing. She knew it, just as she could tell, somehow, that he was being straight with her. His story was what he said it was—it just wasn’t only what he said it was.
She didn’t like her odds, but she tried anyway.
“And why do you care about repairing your reputation?” she asked.
A muscle in his cheek twitched, but there was the faintest hint of humor in the set of his mouth. Good try, that expression seemed to say.
“That, Miss Turner, is far beyond your purview. Here is everything that you need to know.” He folded his hands in his lap, and Phoebe wondered if this was what men felt like when they were bartering over business interests.
“I am going to be married in two days. If your family is the reason that this does not happen, you will have made an enemy of me. And as I’m sure you know, making an enemy of me is to make an enemy of one of the most powerful and far-reaching families in England.
Your sister’s name will be inexorably linked with scandal.
Yours, too, I would imagine. Make of that what you will. ”
He settled into his own chair and gave her time to think.
Phoebe peered at his face for any hint that he might be bluffing and found none. She supposed that came from having all the power in a situation. Why would he need bluster or bravado when he had authority, money, and a legendary name standing at his back?
So, she considered what would happen if she just told him to go to hell anyway, but discarded the idea as quickly as it came.
And this was about her sister. It was! Except for the parts that were, perhaps just a little bit, about…
No. She couldn’t think about the kiss, except that telling herself not to think about the kiss immediately made her think about the hot press of the Duke’s lips on hers and the way that touching him had made her light up in ways that she’d never felt before—in ways that she’d only ever witnessed in the ribald theatrical performances she’d attended.
She regretted that for the very first time in her life now because if she hadn’t, she would have no idea where things could go next.
But she had spent years watching performances that ranged from the suggestive to the outright scandalous, and it was all too easy to see herself in the role of one of the performers—with the Duke as her costar.
It was too easy to wonder what it would feel like if they had gone farther, if they’d had more time, if she hadn’t had the good sense—or the idiotic impulse—to pull away.
What if he had pulled her skirts up around her waist, like she’d seen on stage so many times? What if he’d gone to his knees before her? What if she—
No. She made herself stop. She had to stop. This way led to disaster.
Whatever issues Hannah’s wayward paramour was handling, they would no doubt be worsened by a scandal. And yes, the scandal of a broken engagement would eventually fade, but Hannah didn’t have time to wait—not in her present condition.
And Phoebe couldn’t insist that her sister go through with the wedding.
Even if she didn’t think it was appalling to try to saddle the Duke with a cuckoo in the nest, even if it wasn’t hideously unfair to Hannah and even Lyle as well, it simply wouldn’t work.
If Hannah was certain that she was increasing—and her sister had tearfully assured Phoebe that she was sure; she hadn’t had her courses in three full months—then the timing wouldn’t work.
Babes often came early in marriages, and Society generally turned a blind eye, it was true, but the Duke wouldn’t do so. And then three lives would be ruined. Possibly four, depending on how the duke treated a child that was not his but for whom he was legally obliged to provide.
Which left Phoebe with only one option. It was the worst option of the lot. It was the one she hoped she would not need.
“Very well,” she said. “I will marry you.”
His eyes widened slightly. It was the most reaction she’d ever gotten from him, but her heart was lodged too firmly in her throat for her to enjoy it properly.
“You,” he said with just enough doubt in his tone to remain on this side of insulting.
“Yes, me,” she said back, a little snappishly. She didn’t have the same ability to withstand insult as he did, apparently.
His eyes darkened, his pupils going wide in a way that made Phoebe’s breath hitch in her chest.
“Do you realize what you’re offering?” he asked, something low and dangerous in his tone. His eyes flicked over Phoebe as he asked.
He looked… appreciative. And hungry.
It was a kind of look that made her uncertain if she should shrink away from his gaze or bask in it. It was a look that sent flares of heat through her wherever his eyes met her.
She squared her shoulders because this was not the time for—for missish fluttering. She’d never been accused of being missish in her life, and she wasn’t about to start now.
“I am not in the habit of making offers that I do not understand,” she huffed. And then, because she had never met a bad decision she didn’t like, she added snidely, “Unlike some people who agreed to marry girls they had never met.”
“You have a curious way of making your case, you utter hellion,” he observed in a coolly neutral tone that sent another shiver through her. It was utterly unfair that he could affect her in so many wretched temperatures.
She lifted her chin defiantly. “You were the one who was going on and on about ‘oh the eldest ought to marry first.’ Well. You’re getting your old-fashioned wish now if you accept.”
“If he accepts what?”
Phoebe had to hand it to her father—he had spectacular timing, or at least he did if his goal was to make things difficult for everyone. As Phoebe had long suspected that this was her father’s chief joy in life, she really had to applaud him.
The Duke arched an eyebrow at Phoebe. It shouldn’t be allowed for a man to be both as opaque as the Duke could be when he wanted—and as expressive as he apparently could manage when the mood struck him, for this mere quirk of an eyebrow spoke volumes.
So, your father was not part of this little plan of yours, Miss Turner?
She could practically hear it in that annoying, low, growly voice of his.
“Miss Turner,” he said with icy solemnity as he faced her father, all traces of playfulness now gone, “has explained that since Miss Hannah is no longer available, she would like to offer herself as a potential bride.”
“Phoebe? But she’s—”
Unlike the Duke, Lord Turner was perpetually as transparent as the finest glass. Phoebe watched every single one of the thoughts behind his eyes as he stopped himself from saying what he had started to say.
In one fell swoop, he could get rid of Phoebe and get a duke in the family? Christmas really had come early for Lord Matthew Turner.
“Phoebe,” he said, turning to the Duke with a smile that would likely have alarmed a less sturdy man, “will make a wonderful bride. She will be even better than Hannah, I’m sure.
She’s—” He glanced over at his daughter, briefly puzzled as he tried to come up with one solitary way that she was superior to her sister.
It took an insultingly long time. “—taller,” he finally finished.
When neither Phoebe nor the Duke responded to this proclamation, the Viscount continued to natter on.
“And of course, both my girls are of the highest pedigree—” Like a dog, Phoebe thought, grinding her back teeth together to avoid grimacing. “—so Phoebe will offer a worthy bloodline for your heirs.”
Ah, not like a dog, then. Like a broodmare. How charming.
“Not to mention that she’s very accomplished at—at—at—”
It was very clear that the Viscount had no idea how he was going to end that sentence, so it was frankly a mercy for all of them when the Duke cut him off.
“Enough,” he said, standing swiftly. “I will return tomorrow to let you know what I have decided. Good evening.”
He offered a nod to Phoebe and not even that to her father, and then he left.
Lord Turner gawked after the Duke’s departing figure, then turned to glare at Phoebe.
“What does he mean, ‘what he decides?’ Did you not manage to convince him? Phoebe? Phoebe!”
Phoebe balled her fists in her skirts when her father physically moved to block her from leaving the drawing room. It was either that or hit him right in the nose.
Today had been stressful, irritating, and humiliating. And above all those other things, it had been long.
Phoebe had just thrown herself on her sword to save her sister, only for the Duke to tell her, as she bled onto the ground, “Sorry, I’ve not yet decided if that sacrifice is sufficient. Would you mind terribly just staying there, impaled, until I’ve thought the matter over?”
She was frustrated beyond measure, insulted beyond belief, and she simply couldn’t bear her father’s recrimination, not just now.
She knew it wasn’t the proper spirit of charity to do good things in the hopes of being thanked, but, God—would it hurt her family to thank her? Just once?
But they never did. For her father, everything Phoebe did was never enough. For Hannah, it was always expected.
So, Phoebe whirled, letting her temper off its leash.
“What would you have had me do, Father?” she snapped. “Ought I have stripped out of my gown right there so that he could see the merchandise he was purchasing? So he could see my pedigree and whether I’ve hips enough to produce him the passel of babies you just promised him?”
Her father looked shocked and affronted, as if Phoebe’s behavior was coming absolutely out of nowhere. Of course, he was. He always did think everyone else was to blame but himself.
“I did what I could,” she went on. “Tomorrow, we will see if it worked—if you’ve successfully sold me off to better your position in Society. For tonight, I intend to sleep in my own bed—undisturbed—while I still can.”
She stormed past her shocked father, up the stairs, and to her bedchamber.
She knew it wouldn’t have any effect on him.
He would never look to himself when wondering how this betrothal had become such a mess, and he would never blame Hannah, not when Phoebe was right there.
She knew he wouldn’t change. He would likely never change.
And yet it still felt extremely good when she slammed the door to her room so hard that it rattled in the frame.