They had drunk and drunk…and it had been some mad wildness and rebellion in her which had encouraged her to lean forward and kiss George on the mouth. Phoebe recalled the awkward kissing, the sweet, shy way they had undressed each other while giggling, the warmth which had unfurled in her chest when he promised to care for her always. There had been some fumbling, a mild discomfort, and then George stammering that on their wedding night it would be much better. Phoebe had been bemused and terribly disappointed that the passion poets wrote about was so unmemorable. Despite being a bit addled by the sherry, Phoebe believed that deep in her heart she had wanted such an outcome, for then the aging earl would no longer be a marriage prospect. And then she would be allowed to live a life that would most certainly bring happiness to her heart and home.
“Mr. Hastings loves me, and I also hold deep affections for him. We must be married, Papa,” she said bravely, hating how furiously her heart pounded.
The duke stiffened, disbelief widening his dark golden eyes. “You are ruined?”
Phoebe closed her eyes, a flush mounting on her cheeks. “Papa, please, I—”
A loud crash jerked her eyes open. A carafe rested in broken pieces on the carpet, and liquid dribbled down the wall by the fireplace. The icy fury on the duke’s face was one she had never seen. A thud sounded, and she glanced down to see that George had fainted. Her heart pounded, and her throat went tight with pain and worry.
The door opened, and her mother sailed inside to pause in dismay. “Winston!” she cried, her hand fluttering to her chest. “What is happening?”
“Close the door,” her father said in a very disagreeable manner.
The duchess complied then sauntered toward them. She stared at George for a moment then at Phoebe and the shattered glass on the ground. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Your daughter…our willful, stupid daughter, has allowed herself to be ruined by…” Her father closed his eyes.
The duchess sucked in a sharp breath. “Ruined?”
Phoebe clasped her fingers tightly together around her middle. She thought she had prepared for her parents’ reaction to the news. She felt terribly frightened.
The duchess rounded on her. “You will refute your father’s scandalous supposition this instant!”
“Mr. Hastings and I…we…we…” How difficult it was to say with her parents looking on. “We’ve kissed…and…and…” The sensibilities she had thought long abandoned reared their heads, and she blushed.
The duchess straightened her shoulders. “Whatever foolish thing you did will not be discussed or considered going forward! You will wed Lord Dumont, and you have simply proven that we should have forced this marriage weeks ago instead of allowing you to enjoy the season!”
An awful sensation lodged itself in the vicinity of Phoebe’s heart. Her parents had not been so benevolent as to allow her to enjoy the season, but that the earl still had a few weeks to come out of mourning. They were very considerate about what was proper and would never condone announcing an engagement while his second wife had gone on to her rewards less than a year ago. Phoebe had been living with such anxiety and dread, counting down the months then weeks to when her engagement would be announced. The days of living with such anxiety and fear had taken a toll, and Phoebe desperately wanted something…anything to be different.
“Mama, are you so determined to marry me to Lord Dumont that you will overlook that Mr. Hastings and I…that we are compromised? How can you be so indifferent to the future state of my happiness?”
The duchess directed a quelling look at her. “You will be allowed to marry wherever you wish when the earl is dead. If fate is kind to you, he will go on to his rewards in a few years’ time. There is a rumor that he has a weak heart.”
Her mother’s cruel and icy words pierced Phoebe’s heart deeply. “Do I mean so little to you, Mama? I am simply a tool to be bartered to support our wealth and holdings? What of my happiness and contentment in life?”
Her mother walked over to her, and before Phoebe realized her intention, a harsh slap landed on her face. Fire exploded in her cheek, and with a gasp, she pressed her hand to the left side of her face.
She didn’t dare breathe. “Mama?”
“I’ve always thought you too close with this boy, and you were willful enough to behave in such a wanton manner. We will not allow this marriage to take place.”
The duchess went to the oak desk, retrieved a decanter with amber liquid, walked over to George, and rudely splashed some of its contents in his face. His lashes fluttered open, and it was with some confusion that he swiped a hand across his cheek. He fumbled to his feet and tugged at his cravat. “Your Graces…I…”
“Mr. Hastings, you will accept a draft of five thousand pounds, and you will never darken our doorstep again or dare to speak with our daughter. Is that understood?”
A fortune for a second son who only ever had the hope of entering the clergy or the Royal Academy of Music. Phoebe wanted to weep at the pain and disappointment she saw in his dark eyes.
“Your Grace,” he began softly. “I implore you—”
“Eight thousand pounds, Mr. Hastings,” the duchess interjected with chilling incivility.
His eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. “I sincerely love Lady Phoebe—”
“Ten thousand pounds!”
The words fell like acid against her skin. “Mama, please!” Phoebe cried, humiliation crawling through her. “Please stop.” Because there was a slowly burgeoning fear in her heart that her mother’s outlook on the world, that money was the solution to every problem, could find root today in the library. Immediate guilt seared her for having so little faith in George.
He drew himself up as if he were affronted, and her heart lightened. Once he was resolute, she would fight with him, for days, weeks, if necessary.
He raked his fingers through his sandy hair and expelled an ungentlemanly sigh of frustration. “Your Graces—”
“Come, man, name your price!” her father snapped, his voice a whip. “And let us be done with this crass haggling; it is unbecoming and distasteful!”
George flushed and quickly glanced away from Phoebe. The daring words to rebuke her father hovering on her tongue died at that flash of guilt. “George?”
He did not regard her, only stared at the scrubbed tip of his well-polished boot. A cold chill of warning sliced through her.
“Twenty thousand pounds,” he said so softly, she wondered if she had heard correctly. But then he squared his shoulders and looked beyond her father’s shoulder to a spot on the green and gold drapes. “Twenty thousand pounds, Your Grace.”