by Stacy Reid
“Pish! Love is not ‘warm!’”
Phoebe frowned and shifted on the carriage seat. “Then what is it like, since you’ve experienced it?”
Sarah flushed, pink blossoming on her cheeks, and glanced away momentarily. “That hardly matters. Mr. Hastings is only the second son of a viscount! You know of the duchess’s grand aspirations, so why do you persist in vexing her, milady?”
Phoebe brushed aside the carriage curtains and peered at the rolling landscape dotted with snow. It was proving extremely difficult to convince her mama she did not wish to marry the Earl of Dumont. It only mattered that Dumont was powerful, wealthy, and the connections of their family would be considered by society to be very well matched. Over these six weeks spent on a prolonged holiday with her parents, Phoebe had tried not to think of her impending marriage announcement but only how to escape that predicament. Phoebe was dreadfully tired of pretending to be the obedient, unthinking social butterfly her mother insisted she should be at all times.
She might have only seen eighteen years of life, but there was a desperate need inside Phoebe to enjoy a fulfilling life. And that was not done by merrily walking into the dastardly traps the duke and duchess had set for her.
I shall find a way to escape it…I shall!
Chapter One
Five months and three days later…
Mulberry Park, Derbyshire
A man advertising in a newssheet for a wife was decidedly unexpected, shocking, and alarming under any circumstances, yet to Lady Phoebe’s mind, this one had a bit of peculiar humor added to its sheer outrageousness.
A gentleman of distinction and wealth hereby seeks a woman of good sense, with an amiable and proper temperament, for marriage. This person must be a lady of quality, be familiar with the intricate workings of the haute ton, and be able to introduce others within society confidently. This lady will be required to host many balls, charitable and political dinners, and other events. While attractiveness would be a boon, it is not a stiff requirement. This lady must be the sensible, practical sort and not prone to dramatics or the swooning type. She is to be from a respectable family with no scandal attached to her name. Respectable/influential and dependable connections are an asset; however, wealth is not necessary.
Those interested may reply to the address below, and further instructions will follow. Please note that each response will be thoroughly vetted before an offer is made.
Kind regards.
“Why, I cannot credit it! The gall of this supposed gentleman is too much,” Phoebe gasped, laughing at the sheer audacity and scandalous nature of seeking a wife in this manner instead of wading through the marriage mart. And how relieved she was that such levity could enter her heart when dread had been a constant occupant these last few months.
She hurriedly scanned the pages of the newssheet to see if this was the only one of its kind. This man was unpardonable. Advertising for a wife for all of society to see and speculate upon? The poor woman, whomever she might prove to be, would have a hard time recovering from the wagging tongues of her peers. How hard would it be for one to uncover the true identity of this gentleman of distinction and wealth? His very actions invited scrutiny and scandal, yet he would dare demand his future wife to have no scandal attached to her name.
You hypocrite!
Phoebe bit into the bilberry tart and, with some amusement, noted the return address in the advert. This gentleman, if she could think of him as such, truly expected a well-born lady to respond to his outrageousness. He deserved a scathing set down! The idea made her laugh once more.
“Phoebe!” her mother scolded, lifting her attention from the picture she was diligently embroidering. It was gaudy and not very well designed, but at least it looked like she was doing something correctly feminine.
“I’ve told you several times that such an unfettered laugh is quite unbecoming—”
“Of the daughter of a duke,” Phoebe ended, mentally rolling her eyes while carefully lowering the newssheet. She wondered if he was English or Scottish. The latter would explain his lack of tact and propriety. Her mama often lamented while in Scotland how lacking the people’s refinement and manners when compared to the English. Phoebe often yearned for such relaxation in the social niceties, thinking their forthright manner very welcoming.
Feeling the fiery burn of her mother’s glare, she said, “I understand, Mama. I read the most diverting piece in this week’s Gazette’s advert and momentarily forgot your graceful teachings.”
Her slender shoulder stiffened. “Is it about your brother?”
“No, Mama…” Phoebe said softly. “Not every scandal is about Richard. And I daresay the sheets that mention him usually have the wrong of it.”
Though Richard was the future duke of Salop and the current Marquess Westfall, he was not welcomed in her father’s residences and was currently shunned socially by society. Society’s hypocrisy knew no bounds, because Phoebe was aware that when her father died, they would rush to Richard’s side as the new duke to fawn and flatter him.
“A gentleman of wealth and distinction advertises for a wife! Have you ever heard something so notorious in the ton? Surely he must know the scandal it will incite, especially if his identity is uncovered?”
Her mother pursed her lips but did not deign a reply. Presumably, such matters were far too below her to warrant the duchess’s comments. Phoebe suppressed her smile and eagerly lowered her attention to the newssheet, searching for any more scandalous mentions. Her mouth dried, and tension wound through her as she spied a mention of her brother, the Marquess of Westfall.
Phoebe sighed with relief when she noted it was only a mention that he had appeared at a ball with his ravishing marchioness and that he had scandalously danced with his wife three times.
“How shocking,” she muttered drolly, once again finding the antics of the ton tolerably amusing. It was with that unexpected humor lingering in her heart that she called for a quill, the inkwell, and papers to be set up on a smaller table. Once she was seated before the small desk, she dipped the quill into the inkpot and wrote to the scoundrel who thought it acceptable to advertise for a wife. It would give her a measure of satisfaction to take him to task for his outrageousness, given that she doubted highly another lady might do so.
Dear A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth,
For reasons that must be evident to a man of your stature, I’ll not reveal my identity. Though I confess a part of me doubts your capacity for reasoning, given the situation that has prompted me to pen this letter to you. Please, do know I am a lady of quality, and I find the notion of your advert seeking a wife to be insupportable and truly worthy of a cad! I cannot apologize for my boldness, for surely you would grasp that I am insincere about it. Nor do I flatter myself to think you would care about the opinions of a lady with whom you are not intimately acquainted, but I am still encouraged to reply.
I daresay, though we ladies are expected to be prim, proper, respectable at all times, and in possession of all our teeth and also to be pretty enough, you will find that we are more than the biddable creatures society expects us to be. A lady of quality and good sense would require at least a few poems, flowers, artful conversations, and long walks in the park for a man to be deemed worthy of marriage. Clearly, you’ve lacked any sort of respect or affections for the gentler sex. I would be astonished if you should receive handsome feedback, or should I be more astonished if there was silence, since you have vaunted your wealth? Dare I ask why a man of your distinction would not display the required civility and proprieties and court the lady you wish to affiance? What about love? And friendship? Are those not the true foundations upon which one should desire to build a marriage?
Sincerely,
A Curious Lady.
Phoebe left no forwarding address and gave instruction to the footman to have the letter delivered post-haste and that he s
hould await a reply if said gentleman desired to send one.
To her discredit, she could not help but anticipate hearing from the rude man.
…
A few days later, Phoebe was astonished when the butler delivered a letter to her upon a silver slaver in the palatial library of her home. The book she’d been reading, Ivanhoe Walter Scott, was quickly forgotten when Mr. Martin indicated the man had paid her rider to bear his letter to her and even awaited her reply.
Though she’d hoped, Phoebe hadn’t much expected an answer to her scathing letter.
Dear Curious Lady,
I’ll not thank you for your aggrieved letter or waste my time with polite sallies. I can conceive of nothing more tiresome than inane pleasantries, especially those of the hypocritical variety. I find I am similarly compelled to reply to your…boldness. A wife is a helpmate, who will run her husband’s household well, educate any children on propriety befitting their station in life, and should endeavor to keep her husband company loyally. Love has little to do with it. If not for the most pressing circumstances, I believe I would have tried my hand at wooing, though I cannot say I would have done so by long walks and reciting poetry. I am not sure what that would reveal other than that I have sturdy legs and can read.
By the by, given your lack of returned address, I’ve prevailed upon your servant to deliver my letter to you and return your replies to me should you have any. I shall pay him handsomely for his efforts.
Yours,
A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth.
His reply was the precursor to several exchanges over the next few weeks. Phoebe’s hand trembled, with a sense of thrill, when she had replied,
Dear A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth,
Loyalty is not a substitute for warmth and affection. Would you not find having a wife who only esteemed you for your wealth and connections insupportable?
Dear Curious Lady,
I would find such a wife sincere in her requirements. But is this not the way of society? To marry for connections and status? What else should be on my criteria?
Sincerely, A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth.
Dear A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth,
Love and friendship. How can one exist within marriage without joy and happiness?
Sincerely, A Curious Lady.
Dear Curious Lady,
Love, you astonished me. The bold and brave manner in which you scolded me erroneously encouraged me to believe you a creature of logic and pragmatism. I was evidently quite mistaken, for I formed the opinion that you could be a lady who is beyond certain whimsy. I see I was wrong. You are fanciful…a person who believes in the romantic notion of love and courtship. I confess I neither believe nor disbelieve in such sentiments. I frankly admit I am indifferent to emotion and believe it has no place in a marriage. One does not really marry for affection. Marriages are a business and political unions. They are made for practical reasons, and I hope for a wife with similar leanings.
Sincerely, A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth.
Phoebe folded the most recent letter she’d received from the man seeking a wife and attended to the scrumptious fare. Cook had outdone herself by baking one of Phoebe’s favorite cakes for the breakfast table this morning. It astonished her the degree to which she anticipated receiving a letter from the mysterious gentleman. She often found her thoughts distracted with questions as to his identity and why he was away from society. She did not believe him to be a man with a title. Perhaps a merchant, a tradesman, or a wealthy landowner.
Yet why was he so indifferent to love?
Who are you, and why am I so curious about you?
She pondered her reply and was pouring hot chocolate into a teacup when the door opened, and their butler entered.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Martin said to her mother after dipping into a slight bow. “His Grace sends his apologies on not being able to keep his promise of breaking his fast with you and Lady Phoebe this morning. Mr. Hastings requested a most urgent meeting, and it cannot be ignored.”
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 r
equest 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!”
