“You were smart enough to bring a book,” Phoebe said to her sister the next afternoon. “I didn’t think to because there were other things occupying my mind. Now I wish I had.” Phoebe sighed and flopped back onto the bed in the room she and Lydia were sharing in what was undoubtedly the most elegant home she’d ever been in in her entire life.

When she was four or five years old, she and her mama had traveled to Lord Acomb’s home to return Wally from his summer visit with them in London. At the time, she thought Acomb Manor a beautiful home. Seeing it again shortly after Wally’s death, she still thought it beautiful, but also a stately home, in a stuffy way. But this home, Caversham House, was much larger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, and was furnished and decorated in a most dramatic and romantic way. It was filled with light and warmth, making anyone entering this grand foyer welcome.

She’d read through some books that Aunt Frances had on dress patterns, and one book in particular had some patterns for designs for furniture coverings. There was a section on the oriental style that had been popular for many years now. Phoebe was amazed when she recognized that influence in some of the public rooms that she’s been in. The room she and Lydia stayed in, though, was decorated in romantic feminine shades of pale pink and deep rose with gold accents. It was incredibly beautiful and one that made a girl believe she was living a fairytale.

And, it was not likely she’d ever experience staying in a home this grand ever again. Especially if she was going to be forced to repay Donovan by working in his brothel. Before she cried about it, she focused on Lydia.

“I wish you would read it to me,” she mused as she rolled onto her side and faced Lydie, “but we both know you cannot do so yet. You will in time though, I’m certain. We just need to get past this business with that money-lender, and we will be free. We will then return to Cleadon and work with Francie and not have to look behind us to see if anyone is following. Imagine what a relief that would be.”

Lydie nodded, then wrote on her slate. She told Phoebe she could always ask to borrow a book from the library here. “Surely there is one,” Phoebe mused, “for I cannot imagine a magnificent home such as this without one. Why, it wouldn’t be a home worth living in, if it didn’t have a fabulous library!”

She sat up and straightened her favorite purple and white dress—an outfit that Francie gave her at Christmas—then checked her hair in the mirror. She’d not made too much of a mess out of the hard work Lydie put in to braiding her curls into submission. Wrapping her mother’s lavender woolen shawl around her, she turned for approval of her appearance from her sister. Lydie smiled and nodded.

“Then I shall return when I either have a book to read, or am chased back to my quarters for being presumptuous.”

Her sister shook her head, then wrote, Just ask footman or maid if it’s allowed.

Phoebe grinned at her sister and hoped it was that easy. She opened the door and once in the hallway, she saw a maid coming toward her carrying freshly pressed white linen. Sheets likely, she thought. Smiling at the girl, not much older than herself, she asked, “Miss, whom do I ask for permission to select a book in the library? I find myself quite bored and would like something to read, or do. I’m very good with a needle if there is anything I can help with.”

“Oh no, m’lady,” the girl said. “You needn’t do that. If you wait just one moment, I’ll be right back and show you where the library is.”

Phoebe didn’t have a chance to correct the girl before she walked away to deliver her laundry. While she did, Phoebe noticed the maid’s dress, mop cap, and shoes were all finer than anything Phoebe even owned. Phoebe grinned inwardly at just the thought that someone considered her a lady.

The maid returned and showed her to the library. After entering the enormous room, for the longest minute Phoebe just breathed in the scent and stared at the wall of books. She wandered slowly down the length of the library, touching the dust-free leather spines and reading the titles. She could make out most of the subjects—these were books on law and economics. Moving further down, she discovered ships logs, books on mythology, different cultures, and finally novels, plays, and poetry.

Her love of books came from her mother. Phoebe’s maternal grandfather was a Presbyterian minister. Her grandmother thought it important that daughters were educated. She taught Phoebe’s mother and Aunt Frances to read, write, do maths, play music, sing, and stitch. All of this her mother handed down to her two daughters. When they lived here in London, there were used book carts that came down the road every now and again. Phoebe and Lydia both waited for one vendor in particular who knew them and brought children’s books specifically for them. When they heard the single bell ringing on his old mare’s harness coming down the street she and Lydia got excited. One of them would run and fetch their mama, while the other flagged the man down. Mama was always in the kitchen starting the day’s meals, because their papa was usually still sleeping. Mama would always buy one used book a piece each month, and they would sell back the books they’d finished reading. This continued even after their mama died, and up until they fled London.

Since arriving in Cleadon, they could only borrow books from the reverend’s library. This limited their reading subjects, as the reverend and his wife had no romantic novels or anything current.

She opened a leather-bound book and without even reading the spine, she smelled it. She loved the scent of leather, parchment, wax string, and glue. Reading had been her favorite thing to do then, as much as now.

But nothing she’d ever seen in her entire life was this amazing.

She sat on a rung of the library ladder near a corner that looked like it was an entrance into a servant’s passageway. Phoebe began to read the dedication the author had written in the beginning of his work, when she heard voices through the wall that was really a door. On the other side, she could make out two men talking, and remembering that Harry was going to ask the duke’s advice, she was curious what he might say about her. What if he advised Harry not to bother with someone who was of such low birth, or that he’d get one of his staff to settle it? What if he told Harry that she wasn’t worth his time?

Phoebe had to know if they were discussing her, she told herself, so that she would better know how to react when Harry pawned her and her problem off on one of the duke’s clerical staff, which was most likely what would happen. She cupped her ear with her hand and leaned close enough that her hand touched the door.

The men, their voices clear, were not servants. It was definitely Harry, she recognized the timbre of his voice, and his very proper enunciation of words. The other man, sounding much older, was very likely the duke. Oh, heaven help her she was going straight to hell for this. But they were discussing her and Lydie. And… they were discussing sending her and Lydia to the duke’s country estate…. While Harry tried to do something… Negotiate? No!

Anger and betrayal surged within her. He was not supposed to go without her. That wasn’t the plan. It wasn’t why she came to town with him. The plan was for him to take her to Mr. Donovan, and for her to offer the man installments to reimburse him. Not to have Harry buy him off. He couldn’t afford to do that because he was about to start his medical training in Edinburgh. He needed his money to live on while finishing the education he began all those years earlier.

Harry would want to pay for this because of his love for his friend. And Phoebe would always know that he did this from some misplaced sense of obligation. It was her father’s debt and she needed to be the one to settle it.

She would just have to go take care of it herself, Phoebe decided. But she’d have to be smart about it and tell Lydia where she was going so someone would know where she went and why. Then she had to allow sufficient time to discuss with Donovan her circumstances and the amount she could pay him each month. And perhaps if she came into some windfall one day, she’d see the account paid in full.

Of course all this was presuming the man would be amenable to negotiations. If he was not and he tried to take her into his custody right there, then Lydia would be able to tell Harry where she’d gone and why. In all of this, the most important thing Phoebe had to remember, was to protect Lydia.

Again she thought of him going there without her… How could Harry do that to her? Phoebe might be a woman, but she had honor and was proud. She would never welch on a debt like her father, and she would have to make that clear to Mr. Donovan.

Phoebe was going to have to go to the man herself. She heard Harry say Donovan had made The King’s Head his now and he had an office there. But how would she get there? She’d rather not use the two pounds she had on her, but it would be the safest and fastest way to Whitechapel and back.

Harry had also promised to take Lydie to the tavern today, but now it appeared he wasn’t going to do that either. Her sister was looking forward to seeing the area, because she truly wanted to recover whatever memories she could, and hopefully get past whatever was keeping her from talking. Now the men in the next room were discussing taking them both away from London. Except she couldn’t leave yet. She had to seal an agreement with this moneylender before she did.

While she might be angry with his high-handedness in this, Phoebe wasn’t ungrateful for Harry’s help because she never could have made it to London so quickly without it. But Harry wasn’t doing what they’d agreed upon. He was leaving her wishes out of the plan, and going back on their agreement. Just like her father had. And Phoebe would never allow that to happen to her again. She’d grown up with a father who dictated, who told her where to go and what to do, who lied to her constantly about his taking money from the cash box for his habit, leaving Phoebe how to figure out who got paid which week. For the past year and a half, since he’d dropped her and Lydie off with Aunt Frances and Francie, she’d discovered she rather liked being a woman who made her own decisions. Phoebe was never going to allow a man to control her as her mother had.

It felt as though Harry had just walked into the shop one day, and because her brother willed it before his death, he thought he had a right to decide how this was going to be resolved for them. She loved and missed her brother, but Wally hadn’t lived the last eighteen years of his life with Jack Grenard. And his friends couldn’t just flit into their lives and make these decisions without her input. She was not going to go hide in the country. Phoebe would face the man and resolve this problem. She was done cowering.

The main door to the library opened and Phoebe leaped away from the wall that hid a door, pretending interest in her book. From the quick glance she got of the library’s new occupant, she knew it wasn’t Harry, or a servant. But he was likely related, because he too was a tall, handsome blonde-haired young man. She snapped her focus back to the open book in her hands and refused to look up at him until he was right upon her.

He had golden blonde curls, wind-blown and messy, but so appealing. His blue-gray eyes were filled with mischief, and his smile appeared genuine and playful. The stranger was dressed at the height of fashion, and his clothing was likely worth more than she would ever have at any time in her entire future. It served to remind her yet again that she was not of this class, and never would be.

“What naughty thing have you been reading to make you blush so? Is it a salacious and titillating story with lots of nasty bits?” He came to stand next to her and made her entire body shiver with a sensation very unlike the one she got when she was around Harry. “Those are my favorite bedtime stories,” he said.

He took the book from her hands and read the title, “Ancient Scottish Folklore? Really?” Handing it back to her, he added, “How… droll.”

“Please excuse me,” Phoebe said, “I must go back to my room.” Leaving the book with him, she tried to step out of his reach.

He blocked her. “Don’t go.”

“We haven’t been introduced, and I…” She willed her feet to move, run from this place. If she pushed past him he’d think her ill-mannered. If she cried out, he would just say she lied and would automatically be believed because he was obviously the duke’s son. She’d heard he had one.

His eyes were blue, but not warm. They were as cold as the ocean she just saw two days earlier. Something was missing in him, and it wasn’t missing in Harry.

“Whitby,” he said with a dramatic flourishing bow directly in front of her. Phoebe found it incredibly shocking when he stepped forward as he swept downward. If she hadn’t moved back his head would have brushed down her bosom. It was quite appalling behavior, and not anything she was accustomed to. “Lord Thomas Whitby, at your service, Lady…”

“Miss,” she corrected.

“Miss?” The man’s expectant smile was forced, not genuine, and didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Miss Grenard.” She could never give a man who caused this unsettling feeling her christian name. Phoebe knew doing this would keep him at a distance, and that is exactly what she wanted.

He turned his head at an angle as though thinking. “I’m not familiar with the name.”

“You wouldn’t be,” she said. “And I really need to be going back to my room. My sister will wonder what has happened to me.”

“If I’m reading you correctly,” Lord Whitby said, “your sister will assume you have gotten lost in a good book. Am I right?”

She felt the heat rise to her cheeks because she was such a bad liar, and he was correct in his assumption about Lydie. “I really must go.” Phoebe tried to go around him, but he countered her and blocked her path again.

“Don’t move,” he said. And for some reason feared running, because she instinctively knew he would come after her. “We need to find you a better book than boring folklore.” He climbed up the ladder to reach the top shelf of the bookcase nearest them and brought down a book. “Years ago my cousin showed me this book. It’s titillating and seductive.” Without showing her the title, or showing her the spine at all, he began to flip the pages, and stopped when he arrived at a plate and stared at it, turning the book to the side. “This is probably too advanced for you.” He glanced up at her as though assessing her intelligence. “How old are you?”

She stood in silent defiance, refusing to answer him.

“Well, you certainly look old enough to—”

The door opened again, and this time Harry entered the library. “There you are,” he began. Taking in the fact that she was alone in the room with another man, he gave Lord Whitby a tense grin. “Harold Manners-Sutton,” he said holding out his hand.

Phoebe was never more happy to see anyone before. Her gaze met his, and every fiber of her wanted to run to Harry and plead for him to protect her from this forward and ill-mannered rake who reminded her of Lucifer himself come to life. Said to be fair and handsome, he was God’s favorite until his downfall.

But was he any better than Harry, who wanted to send her into hiding because he felt it his responsibility to handle Mr. Donovan.

“Whitby,” the intruder to her solitude said, refusing to acknowledge the hand extended to him.

Harry noticed this. Phoebe wondered how two men could be in the same family and yet be so vastly different? That was a conundrum worth of consideration. Later.

“I see you two know each other already.” Whitby set the book down on the ladder rung without bothering to put it back from where he’d taken it. Phoebe nodded. “Well, in that case, I’ll leave you two alone for some privacy.” He gave Phoebe a stiff bow, nothing near the grand entrance he made a few minutes earlier. “And Miss Grenard, remember, I am at your service, always.”

After the door closed behind him, Phoebe leaned back on the ladder, knocking the book over. Harry picked it up and tried to make out the title on the old leather-bound book.

“I am so glad you arrived when you did,” she whispered, “being in here with the duke’s son made me very uncomfortable.”

“That man is not the duke’s son,” Harry said. “The Marquess of Glencairn, or Ren as we know him, has been out of the country for months. And when you meet him, you never forget him. His presence is commanding, as is his father’s.”

Harry then opened to the text in his hands within, and watched as his handsome features froze. She had no idea what Harry was so upset about. She didn’t select the book and had never even set her hand on it. So why was he angry with her?

“Did he show you this?” This was the most she’d seen Harry upset since they’d met a few days ago. He showed the spine to Phoebe, but she was unable to make out the title because he moved it so quickly. “Do you know what this is?”

“Not at all,” Phoebe said. “He selected that. This is mine. He made fun of my choice of reading material.”

“Where did he get this book from, or did he come into the room with it?”

“No, it was up on the top shelf,” she pointed up to a space between two books. “See where the gap is? He just pulled the book down not one minute before you walked through the door. So do not think to be angry with me. I didn’t choose it.”

“This is not a book for young misses such as yourself,” he said.

“Why is that?” Phoebe was a grown woman. She would be twenty summers this year. There were already many young ladies her age who were married and had children—some several children. She didn’t need for him to protect any modesty. She knew how children were conceived, and how they were born. She’d watched her mother give birth to Lydia so she knew it was a very painful process.

“Because it is an ancient Hindu manual on—” He flipped through the text, then considered his words. “On love, pleasure, and—” Their eyes met. “—lovemaking. It’s called the Kama Sutra, and it predates our bible by several hundred years. This appears to be a very old, likely rare, copy. Caversham doesn’t impress me as a man who would have anything if it wasn’t of immense value to him.”

After setting her book on Scottish folklore on the ladder rung, she came forward wanting a peek out of curiosity. Harry held the inside of the book close to his chest, preventing her from glimpsing any images. “May I?” Phoebe held out a hand.

“I’m not certain I should—” He held the book close to his chest.

“I will be twenty years old in a few months.” She took the book from him, and before opening it, added, “I already know most of this anyway. I am not completely naïve.” Besides, she thought, the information might come in handy if she was forced to— to— do these things to pay back her father’s debt; and that only if negotiating with Donovan didn’t yield the result she wanted.

Phoebe scanned the first few pages and thought it a rather benign text on married life and living a relationship that was pleasurable for both partners. Bored with those pages, she flipped to the center, and the first of several painted, color plates, each page here protected by the sheerest page of a different texture. Carefully turning the protective page she came to the first plate in the section. It was a man with his head between a woman’s legs, his mouth where a mouth shouldn’t be.

At first she snapped the book closed without reading the caption beneath it. She felt her face flame in embarrassment. But only for a moment. Then curiosity got the better of her. She needed to know this she told herself, and she opened to the center again, and saw another plate. This time with a woman’s mouth over the man’s shaft. Surely that drawing was an exaggeration! She’d seen little toddler boys running around without a cloth, and Phoebe couldn’t imagine that the tiny thing between their legs could grow that large. Why, it would be impossible to dress or walk around.

Another plate, another over-emphasis of the man’s privates. The thing was almost as long as the woman was tall. Putting that inside a woman could kill her!

Just the thought of doing this was frightening. Well, with anyone else, but not with Harry. Somehow Phoebe knew that sex with Harry could never be so perverse. He was an honorable and seemingly understanding gentleman, if a bit high handed when it came to keeping to the arrangement they agreed to before coming to London to begin with.

The drawings and plates in this book was enough to keep a woman from ever wanting this. Oddly though, she kept seeing where the text near the plates said women actually enjoy these positions and acts.

Really?

She turned to another page and another color plate showing a man forcing the woman’s legs in odd positions, thus giving him a better view of her pleasure and deeper penetration.

Phoebe could never… Not with a stranger.

Then she had to quash a giggle, and Harry noticed.

“Know it all already, do you?” He chuckled. With his arms crossed before him resting on his chest and leaning against the bookcase behind him, he smiled at her. “From the kiss we shared the other night,” he whispered, “I beg to differ.”

Phoebe forced her laughter to wait. “I realize now that I… might not…” A giggle escaped her. “But surely these are gross exaggerations of size. Why that thing would come out of the woman’s mouth… if he put the whole thing in… down there.”

Every ounce of mirth she’d had bottled up inside her erupted into the silence of the library, filling the room. When he overcame his shock at proper Phoebe voicing those vulgar thoughts, he too laughed. She apologized as she continued laughing, unable to stop herself, but the images were not realistic in the least.

Then thoughts of doing the acts depicted in those drawings and color plates to strangers every day for the next unforeseeable future sobered her instantly. Her eyes welled with tears and she swatted them away.

Phoebe needed to go. Run from this room. From this man. She could never live her dreams as other girls had. She had a father who cared more for the outcome of a fight, or roll of the dice, than his own daughters. And it was no use—none at all—to think there was anything possible between her and this handsome man she was so incredibly attracted to. They weren’t even of the same class!

She had to go think about this trip to The King’s Head, and her meeting with the moneylender. There were demands that she had before she agreed to any punishment he might dictate. Phoebe wanted to see her Papa’s mark, and the revenue stamp with the date. Only if that were a true and valid debt would she then negotiate with the man. If there were no revenue stamp, Donovan could go to a court, but he’d be less likely to be awarded a verdict in his favor.

Drying her eyes one last time, she lifted the book on Scottish Folklore. “If you will excuse me.” Phoebe moved to step around him.

“No,” he whispered. He placed a finger under her chin and tipped it up so he could see her face, and Phoebe squeezed her eyes tight afraid of what she’d see there. “I cannot excuse you.”

Suddenly she felt his lips on hers, a feather-light touch that shocked her at first because she wasn’t expecting it. But like striking a tuning fork, the hum resonated through her entire body causing a stirring low in her belly. She’d felt the same stirrings in her the other night when he’d held her close and kept her warm, and when they kissed so passionately she felt desired for the first time in her life.

His tongue skillfully parted her lips and Phoebe opened for him, welcoming those same feelings of desire, and of never wanting the kisses to end. She wanted more, but only from him, not from anyone else.

A young lady wasn’t supposed to be doing any of this outside of wedlock, this she knew. In one of the last conversations she’d had with her mother, Mama had reminded Phoebe that a woman was to remain virtuous until she wed. She wasn’t supposed to allow a man to tempt her into the acts that were reserved for a husband and wife.

But what if she never got the opportunity to wed? What if she was forced to spend the next few years in Donovan’s brothel? Did she still have to remain virtuous? Did it matter to anyone if she shared her body with a man she desired, if she was never going to wed? Because what she felt with Harry, in his presence and in his arms, was something dangerous. It gave her heart false hope for a future that didn’t exist for them.

She wanted to experience everything sexual with this man, to enjoy tasting the forbidden with him. She wanted Harry to touch her as the men in the color plates touched the naked women, because Phoebe craved touching him in the same way. She wanted him inside her, and she wanted him to know she desired him.

Phoebe wanted all this with Harry. No one else. Especially if she was going to be locked away from the world for some unknown amount of time. If that was her future, then she wanted this with him.

Harry’s arms tightened around her, and his hands spread across her buttocks and pulled her lower body closer to his—so close she felt his manhood straining against his breeches. Phoebe raised up on her toes and leaned into his body and put her mouth on his. He tickled the inside of her lips with the tip of his tongue and she opened for him, giving him access to the depths of her mouth for him to claim for his own. His fingers began to move as he held her bottom, and when she felt the cool air on her leg, she realized he was lifting her skirts. She should have pulled away from him, but she couldn’t. From somewhere in the fog of her mind, she heard herself moan and say one word. “Yes.”

Without breaking his kiss, he turned them and sat on the library chair, bringing her down to straddle his lap. She continued kissing him as though another day for them didn’t exist and this one was all they had.

Because it might very well be all she had.

She gasped as his fingers found and lightly stroked the sensitive skin above her stockings while they kissed, and Phoebe moaned into his mouth, letting him know she enjoyed their erotic play. She clung to him, her arms around his neck, stroking the tendrils that fell over his collar. Something inside of her clenched involuntarily and her lower belly ached with a need that she suspected he alone could fill. And an overwhelming craving for him to touch her higher made her rock back on her hips, and open for him, giving his fingers easier access to her core, where she was already wet.

He broke the kiss and Phoebe struggled for breath as he began to trail wet, hot kisses down the column of her neck, causing her to tremble and making it difficult for her to inhale. She moaned softly again and her head fell back, giving him access to the flesh above her bodice. When his teeth lightly raked against the swell of her breasts, that aching, clenching sensation deep within her lower belly tightened again.

“Harry, please,” Phoebe moaned, “I need—”

She was about to tell him that she wanted him to satisfy the throbbing need inside her when they heard voices. Two male voices were raised in the room next door, the same one Harry had come from. It forced them both to remember where they were.

Phoebe removed Harry’s hands from her thighs, and scrambled to stand. His legs were so long her toes barely touched the ground. Harry stretched out his legs, giving her solid footing so she stood and turned away instantly, her face burning with shame. She forced down the intense desire to cry out for being so foolish as to almost do something so scandalous and wicked in her hostess’s library. She hurriedly rearranged her skirt and petticoat, and when the voices spoke again, she recognized the voice of the young man who’d been in here just minutes earlier. Lord something.

“It’s just an advance, uncle,” he said.

“You have advanced yourself two years into the future,” he duke said calmly. “Did you know that?”

“I’m in a bind and there are people looking for me!” The young lordling sounded desperate to Phoebe and apparently Harry, too, for their gazes met and they simultaneously lifted a brow in surprise at the tone of the younger man’s voice.

“In order to teach you to moderate your spending and gambling, I am cutting you off. Your living expenses will continue to be paid, but only if I get an itemized statement from the tradesmen and those funds will go directly to those men. You have more than acceptable rooms in the same lodgings as Ren, food and drink in abundance, membership to that club you boys belong to, a phaeton and a carriage, access to our stables… Thomas, I can no longer in good conscience fund your gambling and whoring. Your father would be disappointed in me as your guardian.”

The younger man, Lord Whomever, said something she couldn’t hear clearly, and the older man answered, “Then I suggest you either get better at gambling, or find something meaningful to do with your life. The season is about to start, consider finding a wife. You should be able to land one with a decent enough dowry, after all, you inherited a respectable title.”

The younger man swore aloud. “I’m too young to wed, and shouldn’t have to in order to live.”

“I gave you my advice,” the duke said forcefully. “Now go.”

The clipped staccato of the younger man’s heels on the marble flooring and then a door closing rang through the foyer and down the hallway to where Phoebe and Harry stood in the library. Turning away from Harry, she continued to straighten her bodice and skirts. She took several deep breaths to slow the racing of her heart. And she remembered her sister. How could she have forgotten her? Phoebe was embarrassed that she hadn’t had one thought of Lydie while she was melting in Harry’s arms.

This—whatever this was between them—wasn’t likely going to end up in a marriage, and she would do well to keep that in mind. She might once have thought it a slight possibility, when they were on the ship and she thought he was just the doctor friend of her brother, or even just a doctor. But things were different now. Now she knew he was the brother of a duchess, meaning he came from noble bloodlines.

Phoebe pushed her shoulders back and turned, picking up the book on Scottish folklore from the floor. She didn’t remember it falling from her hands. Clutching it to her breast, she turned her gaze up to Harry.

He touched her cheek with the knuckles of one hand, caressing her so tenderly that a knot formed in her throat. Something in his eyes told her he was as shaken by what they had just shared as she was.

“We will…,” he cleared throat softly, “have to discuss this later, because—”

“We can discuss this if you wish, but you know my situation. There can never—”

“We can do this, and we will.” He kissed her forehead.

“I’ll never become your mistress,” she stated. “Even if by some miraculous turn of events I am free of Donovan, I will still have a sister to raise. One who deserves a big sister she can look up to and respect.”

He gave her a grin, then another kiss, this time on her cheek. “Trust me, Phoebe. Please.”

She didn’t trust in him since she’d overheard him make plans with the duke, without consulting her. How could she? If she told him so, he would know she’d been eavesdropping. So Phoebe closed her eyes and gave him a curt nod, just once, then attempted to go around him because he blocked her path. He let her get two steps before stopping her with a hand resting gently on her forearm.

“We are invited to dine with my sister, her husband, and my uncle and aunt, this evening, here.”

“I cannot possibly, Harry—” She began to stutter, something she hadn’t done since she was a child and frightened of her father’s temper. “I—I— This is the best dress I have, and it’s not near appropriate for dinner with you, much less with a duke and duchess! Please do not force me to do this. I will be embarrassed to meet your relatives dressed so shabbily.”

“That won’t be a problem, Miss Grenard,” her grace said. “I hope I wasn’t bothering you.”

Harry’s sister, very much a radiant beauty with her dark blonde hair piled atop her head, pink cheeks and perfectly pouty lips, walked toward them. “I went upstairs to invite you to dinner, and Lydia said you were looking for a book to read.”

“I… Yes,” Phoebe held out the book of Scottish folklore to prove it. “Harry entered and—and—” She felt her face turn every shade of red in the rainbow, and recognized just how close she’d come to getting caught doing what no virtuous lady would do. “We cannot, your grace. Neither myself nor Lydia is prepared for— We had no idea that we were coming— Harry never told us…”

“Don’t worry about anything. If it’s dresses you need, I have so many new dresses that I can no longer wear. You see I am,” Her Grace rubbed her belly, “a little too big for them right now. But you should certainly make use of them. Lydia should be able to wear one of Elise’s dresses without any problem. They’re about the same size and age.”

Her grace cast a greenish-grey gaze on Phoebe. “Please say you’ll dine with us. I want to know the sisters of my brother’s friend.”

“It might be uncomfortable for Lydia,” she said, praying that would serve as a good enough excuse to avoid the dinner. Phoebe had never in her entire life eaten a meal at a table with a real duke and his wife. She had no idea what fork, spoon or knife to use, and she would be the laughing stock of the party.

“Lydia is looking forward to it,” Her Grace said. “At least that is what she wrote on her slate.”

The sound of a herd of galloping horses in the hallway above them had Phoebe looking up at the ceiling. “Oh, I had Sarah with me when I stopped at your room—she’s walking everywhere now. She was pushing her doll’s perambulator, filled with her animal toys, and well, Sarah and Lydia hit it off so well, I left Sarah with her. They were playing in the hallway.”

“Are you sure the baby is safe…” Harry said, his brow furrowed with concern.

Harry didn’t know how much Lydia loved children. She cared for the little ones in the village quite frequently.

“Of course she is,” the duchess said. “Sarah won’t go as far as the steps, because her nurse is there, and there’s a footman at the top to catch her if she gets past Rebecca. Several months ago we removed anything breakable from that long stretch of hallway because Sarah loves to run up and down it. On days when the weather is not agreeable outdoors, that is her ‘ray tack’ as she calls it.”

“Ah… I see her big sister’s already teaching her about horses,” Harry said through his grin. “Will Lady Elise be joining us for dinner?”

“She’s made a new friend and is staying with her for a few days,” Harry’s sister replied, “until I return to the country next week. Her father is a diplomat and a friend of my husband’s.”

The duchess might have been speaking with her brother, but to Phoebe the other woman sounded as welcoming and practical as any of her friends. It gave her hope that the duke wasn’t as stuffy as the man she’d heard speaking on the other side of the door, to Harry first, then to the young lordling who was over his allowance in debt.

The duchess gave her an expectant look and Phoebe knew she was going to ask again.

“Dinner?”

Phoebe nodded, unable to refuse since Lydie had already said she would go.

“Excellent,” Harry’s sister said. “Let’s select a gown for you and have my maid steam it. If it needs any altering she can do that as well.”

As Phoebe walked past Harry, he gave her a wink. She didn’t want to think that Harry asked his sister for this invitation, and she couldn’t help but wonder why the other woman was inviting her. Maybe the duchess really was interested in her brother’s friends.

They parted ways with Harry and climbed the steps up to the family rooms, and Phoebe wondered what the other woman would think if she knew Phoebe was planning to go to her father’s money monger herself to negotiate her way out of her father’s debts.

Phoebe wasn’t naive, she knew exactly what she was walking into, but this was something Phoebe had to do. For Lydie, for Francie, and for their future. There was likely nothing in common between she and the duchess, and yet Phoebe found herself wanting the duchess to like her. And wanting her brother to like her as something more than just a warm body to temporarily avail himself upon.

“Did you?” her hostess asked, penetrating Phoebe’s wandering thoughts.

Phoebe’s attention snapped to Her Grace, who was looking at her expectantly from a few steps above. Could she possibly look more lack witted in front of the duchess? “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was woolgathering. Did you ask me a question?”

“I understand.” She gave Phoebe a sympathetic look, then continued up the steps once Phoebe was alongside her. “I asked if you slept well last night.”

“Oh, yes, Your Grace, I did,” Phoebe replied. “And so did Lydia.”

They reached the landing to their floor, and when she didn’t see Lydia or the toddler, Sarah, Phoebe thought to drop off the book in the room she and Lydie slept in and go on to follow the duchess. But, as they grew closer to the door, they heard singing. She knew well the voice. In fact, the last time Phoebe heard Lydia singing was right after their father died, when she’d found Lydia in the churchyard cemetery singing a hymn over his grave. And the time before that was when Papa ordered Phoebe and Lydia to pack one box each for their move to Cleadon. Phoebe had gone downstairs, to the kitchen in the tavern, to look for her mother’s favorite apron, and when she returned to their room Lydia had been softly singing a nursery rhyme. Before that the last time she could remember hearing her sister sing was before Wally had been abducted.

Lydia had a very sweet and melodic voice for one so young, and listening to her at that moment brought up that knot in her throat that told her she was going to cry.

The duchess looked at her and Phoebe couldn’t hide the tears of joy in her eyes.

“She speaks?” the duchess asked, surprised.

Phoebe nodded, as she put her hand on the door knob. “She chooses not to for some reason, and she’s only sung a few times that I’ve heard.”

“I wonder why?”

“I think it’s because she was in the tiny yard behind the tavern and witnessed the abduction of Wally, Harry, and Reggie. I also think she witnessed the deaths of the two young men who were killed. That’s likely shocked and frightened her to the point where she hasn’t spoken since.”

“The poor dear.”

“She will speak again one day,” Phoebe said, “I’m sure of it. When she learned that I was coming to London with Har…, er, Mr. Manners-Sutton, to speak to the moneylender, she asked to come with us because she wants to visit the tavern. I think she is hoping to trigger, or recover, some memory of that night, and that it might help her find her voice again.”

“If my brother gave you leave to use his Christian name, you may do so with me. I am not a stickler for formality. Just ask Marcus.”

Phoebe gave Her Grace a curious look.

“My husband,” the lady said. “I told him that I love the man, not the title, nor the position. My respect is his because of his actions, not his birth.”

“That is radical thinking, for certain.” Phoebe could not imagine others of such high rank holding similar opinions.

“Yes, well, I am not the average woman. I have thoughts and feelings and make them very clear to my husband.”

Phoebe was liking the duchess more by the minute. She was straightforward and honest, didn’t stand on pomp, or archaic traditions.

“Now then, taking your sister to visit the scene of the crime, so to speak, might be helpful, but it also might frighten her even more and it could make her situation worse,” the duchess said. “If you understand this and still wish to go, I support that.” The look on Her Grace’s face was expectant, not hesitant—as though she understood there was no other choice but to go to the garden behind the tavern. “When do you plan to go?”

“I will have to arrange that with Harry,” Phoebe lied. She didn’t want this lady who’d been so kind to her thinking Phoebe was about to do something so ungrateful as to go behind Harry’s back.

Upon opening the door, they discovered the child’s nurse sitting in a chair across from Lydia who held the little one close. Her sister grinned back at Phoebe, happiness in her eyes. Phoebe returned Lydie’s smile, happy that Lydia was comfortable enough to sing in front of the child’s maid.

“She loves the little ones at church,” Phoebe said of her sister, “and is able to keep them quiet during services. Reverend Fordyce has mentioned on many occasions how appreciative he is of Lydia’s skills with children.”

“You will be a wonderful mother one day,” her grace whispered to Lydie as she reached for the little one. “I shall put her in her crib and return momentarily. Then we will get you both proper attire for tonight’s dinner.”

Once the nurse and the duchess were gone, Phoebe gave her sister a hug. “The duchess has invited us for dinner with their family this evening.”

Lydie nodded. Taking her slate and slate pencil, she wrote, Did you ask when go to tavern?

“No, I didn’t have the chance to ask Harry,” Phoebe turned away from her sister because she knew Lydie could tell when she was lying, and Lydia always knew when Phoebe lied. “I only saw him for a moment, as he was in a meeting with the duke when I was looking for a book.”

She checked her appearance in the mirror to make sure her lies weren’t written across her face, and saw that her coiled braids had been a little mussed on one side. The red patch on her neck under her ear lobe brought back the memories of Harry kissing her there and nuzzling her with his face. He’d held her head with one hand, and kept the other around her waist, bringing her even closer so she didn’t move as he nuzzled lower. Being held that way by Harry and having him touch her flesh with his bare hands made her entire body burn with a heightened sensitivity, and stir up a quivering, fluttering sensation in her belly.

Remembering what had happened in the library just minutes earlier, caused Phoebe’s body to unwittingly relive the all-over, heightened sensitivity and tingling. The memory of his touch was almost as stimulating as being in the moment, for it created the same craving inside for more, and leaving her wet and aching between her legs.

Her sister behind her made sounds of writing on her slate. Before turning around Phoebe rubbed the spot on her neck.

What is that? Lydie asked.

“An irritation from something in the library,” Phoebe said. “I’m not sure what, but it itches.”

Leave alone. Will go away, her sister replied.

Phoebe nodded. At least her sister didn’t have any idea what caused the irritation. Thank God for that. She would be humiliated beyond measure if she did. There was no way she could explain meeting Harry just a few days ago and feeling this intense desire for him.

The duchess returned minutes later and took Phoebe and Lydia into her dressing room, where she then had her maid fetch a couple of Elise’s gowns for Lydie to try on. Her sister was quickly settled with an appropriate lavender and white dinner gown, thanks to the assistance of the duchess’ maid. When it was Phoebe’s turn, she fell in love with the very first gown she tried on, a buttery yellow silk creation with chiffon overlay skirt. The dress had sheer puff sleeves made of the chiffon, which then narrowed above the elbow and fit glove-like down to the top of her wrists. But the stunning part of this dress were the thousands of tiny glass beads sewn onto the hem of the overlay in an ornate scalloped pattern. The dress had a short train tailing behind, and like the hem in front, it was embellished with tiny glass beads in a larger, more detailed pattern. It made the dress heavier than anything she’d ever worn before, and said as much.

“It’s the crystal beading,” the duchess said. “You’ll get used to it.”

Phoebe nodded, unable to say anything, when she really wanted to say, ‘Oh, I doubt I’d have an opportunity like this ever again.’ Especially if she was forced to spend the rest of her days in a brothel. She just had to pray Mr. Donovan was a reasonable man. Though from what she overheard of Harry’s conversation with the duke, it didn’t sound like it. But Donovan had never met anyone like Phoebe. She was a stubborn young woman, and she was determined to save Lydia if not herself.

“There are matching slippers in here somewhere,” the duchess said. “Darla, can you find them, please? And let’s see if they’ll fit you,” she added. “My feet have gotten wider since my first child, and now with this one… well, nothing fits anymore.”

Hours later, after hot baths in scented water where their hair was washed then dried in front of the fire and styled by a battery of maids, both Phoebe and Lydia were dressed in gowns that were finer than anything they had ever owned or ever would own. And at eight o’clock exactly, a knock on their door told them both it was time to meet the family in the drawing room below.

Phoebe opened it, expecting to see a footman to tell them it was time to go downstairs. Only it wasn’t a footman on the other side. Rather, it was a very handsome, freshly bathed and shaven Harry who stood in the corridor. He didn’t look anything like the casually-dressed, shaggy-haired, scruffy-faced naval doctor who’d walked into her shop just one week earlier. Her breath stilled in her breast, and her heart beat faster. Seeing him now, for the first time since their heated kisses in the library, made Phoebe’s entire body instantly burn with desire again.

His hair was still damp and slicked back. It’d been a little longer earlier that day. Someone clipped it short. And most importantly, his face was now free of the stubble that had abraded her neck earlier. His chin, cheek, and jaw looked so smooth she wanted to touch it, and him. Again. She wanted to touch him again. Even kiss him. Again. Or even better, have him nuzzle her her neck. Again.

She wanted him to hold her close, wanted to feel his desire for her, feel his hands on her flesh. Again. And again, and again, even though she knew there could never be anything permanent between them.

Her cheeks grew warm and she knew she was blushing. She couldn’t seem to control it around Mr. Manners-Sutton. She pressed her trembling hands down to her sides to keep from reaching out to him. And while Phoebe might have succeeded in preventing herself from touching him, she couldn’t tear her gaze from him.

Phoebe wondered what on earth a man so handsome as to rival Adonis could see in her. He was so high above her in birth that she wondered why he would waste time kissing her and leading her to think he was interested in her—Phoebe Grenard—the girl whose father had been a tavern owner and drunken gambler. She’d already told him that she would never be his mistress. There was Lydia and Francine to think of. By becoming his, or any man’s mistress, she might as well tell her family that she didn’t care for their future and what became of them. No gentleman would want to marry Lydia or Francie. And she could never do that.

Harry bowed. “Are you ladies ready to go below?”

Phoebe glanced at her sister who nodded.

“I told Lydia it was not acceptable to bring her slate to dinner,” Phoebe said. “I would appreciate if you could politely notify the other guests to understand that Lydia hears just fine, but to please ask yes or no questions. It would help her feel as though she is participating in the dialog.”

Lydia nodded her agreement, and Phoebe hoped Harry would agree.

“I will help in any way I can, Miss Lydia,” Harry replied. “My sister is very understanding. Also I would like for you to know that I’m only meeting this uncle for the second time tonight, and his wife for the first time. While I do not know them well, my sister says they are happy to have us in the family.”

In the hallway, he offered them each an arm, and escorted them to the grand staircase that curved down to the main level of the home. As they went down the stairs—slowly, so Phoebe could hold the train and not trip over the hem of the skirt—Harry explained his familial situation.

“Our family had been split apart for many years because of bitter words and painful wounds,” he said. “But all is well now I think. We’ve moved past it since my sister married my uncle Thomas’ oldest and dearest friend. And this dinner was probably already scheduled for tonight. Amelia wouldn’t have done this because we were here, because no one knew we’d be here until we arrived.”

Her grace, Harry’s sister, was incredibly kind to first invite her and Lydia to their table, and then to allow them to borrow these magnificent gowns. Wearing this gown, with its tiny crystal beads reflecting light as tiny rainbows, made Phoebe wish she was a part of this world—just so she could have a future with Harry if he wanted. But wishes were rainbows. They weren’t tangible. And a future with Harry was impossible.

“Half-pence for your thoughts?” her handsome escort asked minutes later when she stood with Lydia off to the side while the duchess spoke with Lady Manners, and the duke, Lord Manners, and Harry were discussing something about Napoleon.

She and Lydia were introduced to the duke, and to Harry’s aunt and uncle. Except for Harry’s aunt acting exactly as a member of the nobility would, his sister and the duke were very welcoming. Lord Manners, while not as restrained in his greeting, was somewhat more cordial than his wife. Most of the conversation was about things related to people they knew, and Phoebe felt a bit awkward listening. It felt like eavesdropping. And while she’d already done that once today, that was a conversation about her, and this wasn’t. She didn’t know any of the people they were talking about.

“I’m just amazed at all this,” she said softly. It was the truth, if not the truth of what had been in her mind at that moment. “It’s beyond my wildest imaginations.” She wasn’t lying to him, technically. Phoebe just couldn’t tell him all the things she felt and desired.

He had agreed to bring her to London so she could negotiate with Mr. Donovan, not for him to offer to buy her debt from Donovan. She would then be indebted to Harry, instead of to Mr. Donovan, and she had a very good idea of what Harry intended. He would want to make her his mistress.

While that was preferable to a brothel, Phoebe believed that if Donovan was a businessman of any repute at all, then he would agree to her terms—monthly installments plus interest, with the penalty for missing a payment freely working for Donovan in his brothel. Phoebe was a proud woman. She wanted an opportunity to prove herself the opposite of her father. It was a point of honor for her.

Now that she knew where to go, and what she would say, she figured it wouldn’t take but a few hours to go there, speak with the man, and return. With her mind made up, she decided she was going to enjoy this dinner with Harry and his family, and her sister, too, because they were not likely to ever be invited to share this table again after she did whatever necessary to discharge her father’s debt.