Her belly flipping alarmingly, Phoebe carefully poured the hot chocolate, praying her face was composed. Mr. George Hastings, one of her dearest friends, was two hours early, and an almost sick feeling tightened low in her stomach. He was to ask her father to marry her. They had carefully planned every word he was to utter today. Her happiness…their happiness depended on every word he would say to her father.
The duchess glanced at her sharply. “Do you know what this is about, Phoebe?”
“I couldn’t say,” she murmured, taking a sip of the delicious brew. “My lessons begin today at ten. Mr. Hastings did not mention yesterday that he would arrive early.”
Somewhat the truth. She did not like fibbing to her mother, but it was entirely necessary.
“Mr. Hastings is waiting on His Grace in the drawing room,” the butler said, and Phoebe knew it was directed at her. Mr. Martin had seen her and George in an intimate embrace a few weeks prior, and to her shock, he had not reported them to the duke and duchess.
“If you’ll excuse me, Mama. I’ll visit the music room and practice a sonata I’ve wanted Mr. Hastings to hear.”
The duchess’s lips flattened. “I cannot fathom why your father does not dismiss that boy. You’ve outshined him on the pianoforte for years now, and he is no longer fit to be called the master and you the student. I saw the manner in which he dared to smile at you when I passed by the music room at your last lesson.”
Phoebe’s breath caught. The door to the music room was always held ajar, and a footman would stand just outside that open door. They had been careful to observe the proprieties since that night a few weeks ago. “Mama…”
“Mr. Hastings is not the sort of man a young lady of your connections and propriety should extend the smallest encouragement! I will speak with your father about terminating his services. Today will be his last lesson.” Her mother sniffed before inclining her head in agreement to Phoebe’s departure.
She hurried toward her father’s library as if Dante’s hounds of hells chased her, needing to know what George would say to her father. Phoebe planned to shamelessly eavesdrop! She knocked, and when his voice did not answer, Phoebe opened the door and slipped inside. Hurrying over to the floor to ceiling windows, she slipped behind the partially drawn drapes just as the door opened once more.
Closing her eyes tightly, she whispered, “Thank you!” to the heavens.
Within the murmuring, she discerned her father’s and George’s voices. Courage, my dear George, courage.
Phoebe held her breath as a terrible anticipation coursed through her. She was pressed up against the wide windows facing the palatial gardens of her father’s estate, and massive dark green drapes hid her from the tableau unfolding in the library.
“What is it, man? Speak up!” her father snapped quite impatiently, a manner to which Phoebe was long accustomed.
How she wished she could peek and see where they stood, though she could imagine her father behind his large oak desk, his arms folded across his chest, his handsome yet stern face creased with annoyance.
“If you would oblige me…I…have something of utmost importance to discuss with you, Your Grace.”
“So your note said,” her father replied, his voice low and hard. “I granted you this audience because you used words such as ‘dire’ and ‘ruinous’ along with my daughter’s name!”
Deftly slipping her fingers through the slit in the drapes, she parted it and peered at the man whom she’d promise to wed and her father, the Duke of Salop. George flushed, tugged at his cravat as if it constrained his breathing. She was certain she heard his gulp of dread from where she stood. Warmth passed through her, and she wished she could stand beside him, lace their fingers together, and assure him all would be well.
“I…I would like permission to request your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Phoebe held her breath. George had not done it right. First, he should have laid out the advantage of such a match, though there was little in the minds of her parents, then make his offer with a heavy hint or threat that they must wed. The implication of intimacy would be enough for her very proper, albeit ruthless, father to give his consent.
“I beg your pardon?”
Phoebe clenched her fists tight. Whenever her father’s tone lowered in such a manner, even her mother, a woman who was sure of her place in this world and quite arrogant, hesitated. However, George bravely plowed ahead.
“Lady Phoebe and I have been the best of friends for more than ten years. We love each other…and I would like your blessings to marry her. I am the son of a viscount, and I am not without connections, Your Grace. I informed my father…my father yesterday of our attachment, and he is very pleased with this match.”
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.