Phoebe sat in the cushioned window seat overlooking the garden in the room she was sharing with Lydia at Caversham House. She watched the dawn break with streaks of pink and gold creeping across the horizon just as the sun slowly rose. The storms from the night before had blown away the gray fog from the day before, and this morning was promising to be more spring-like and far less dismal. Phoebe glanced over at her sister, still sleeping soundly, unaware that Phoebe had crawled out of bed.

She couldn’t spend another day in their room. She could only claim so much fatigue from the fright of the other night. Harry hadn’t scolded her on the ride back. He also hadn’t said anything negative to her in front of Lydia or his brother-in-law. Phoebe spent the day yesterday sleeping and crying, never leaving the room. The maid brought her a tray when she woke up, then another for dinner, and in between she brought a hot bath for her. Phoebe had spent the night and most of the early morning here in the window seat, wrapped in a blanket and listening to the sound of the ticking clock on the mantle above the hearth in the room. The sound was reassuring, soothing, reminding her that she was here under the same roof as Harry and Lydia, and not tied to a chair and gagged in the tiny room that used to be her and her sister’s bedroom. Donovan had kept her closed in that room with a boarded up window. The same window she and Lydia would read by until the sun set when they were younger.

She should have known that Donovan would never have allowed her to repay the loans of her father—plus the usurious late fee he charged—on her terms. Who was Phoebe to think she had the skill to deal with a man who had armed guards with him at all times? She’d underestimated her own confidence, and most importantly, she’d underestimated her opponent’s deceit. Harry was right to insist he go with her, after he’d investigated the man and his business practices first. But Phoebe had wanted to go there and be done with it. She wanted to go home to Cleadon. Phoebe hoped that after she presented their case to Francine, that her cousin would agree to a move to a more populated area for the good of their business. Which would make repayment to Harry for any expenses he'd incurred on their behalf easier than if they would remain in Cleadon.

Now she needed to thank Harry, and the duke, for rescuing her. And she didn’t know how she was going to do that. She needed to apologize to him first, and apologize to His Grace, as well, for their assistance that night.

She’d suspected that Harry had wanted to ask her to become his mistress. If he did so—which was highly unlikely after Saturday night’s fiasco—she would have to consider accepting the position. It might be for a short term, or it could be a longer one, but Phoebe could do far worse than to repay her debt to Harry by giving her body up to him for his pleasure. She suspected she’d find pleasure in his lovemaking—after all, she’d experienced pleasure thus far under the expert touch of his hands, lips, and tongue. The feel of his body against hers was something she’d already fantasized about, and she imagined the passion between them would be intense and special.

Her sister began to stir in the bed because the sky grew lighter.

After finding her voice last night, Lydia couldn’t seem to stop talking. The first thing she told her when they were alone, was that their father had threatened to cut her tongue out of her mouth if she ever spoke a word of what she’d seen that night in the alley. Lydia desperately wanted to tell their mother what had happened to Wally and his friends. Especially when she and Phoebe witnessed their mother’s inconsolable tears for her son. But Lydia had feared their father, as she’d had every right to. Because Lydia was so much younger than Phoebe, she didn’t remember the days before London, when they lived in Newcastle.

It was in London where papa had discovered gin, and the thrill of betting. Papa was a weak-willed person, her mother said. When tempted by the vices of gambling and drinking, he had succumbed. “We should pray for him,” her mama, the daughter of a minister, would say. “Let’s pray that God will save him, and forgive him for his trespasses against us, as we are forgiving him.”

“I do not forgive him,” Phoebe remembered telling her mother. “I will never forgive him for striking us, or yelling at us, blaming us for all his problems.

“One day you will, sweetheart,” her mother said. “One day you’ll get married and you’ll understand.”

She understood nothing. Even now that she knew about her father’s love of gin and desire to gamble, all she could muster for him was pity. After seeing what her mother went through, Phoebe didn’t wish to marry. At nineteen, she had thus far successfully avoided any romantic entanglements. Mainly because she hadn’t yet met a man worth the trouble. Until now.

Phoebe thought about Harry’s tender kisses and gentle touch, and told herself it wasn’t possible that he could be anything like her father. But he, too, could change, the voice in her head said. He’d already kept secrets from her, starting with not telling her that his sister was married to a duke. Then he’d gone behind her back to visit Donovan without her, which was not what they’d discussed.

He would eventually come to resent her independent mind, and the desire to continue working. She enjoyed making clothing, and so did Francie.

And realistically, she doubted he would even want her as a mistress now. Especially after what she’d done the other night.

Her sister stirred under the covers and rolled over to face Phoebe, though her eyes didn’t open.

Lydia. She loved her sister dearly. Phoebe had never known that Lydie had lived in such terrible fear for so long. She blamed herself now for not figuring it out. For four years she hadn’t spoken, and it wasn’t from traumatic memory loss—which is what she’d led them to believe. In truth, Lydia feared speaking. She feared their father.

Thinking back, the signs had been there from the moment Wally disappeared. How Lydia had hated to be alone with their father. She was always with their mother or Phoebe. Phoebe thought it was because they’d always protected Lydia from their father’s drunken verbal wrath. Now that she knew how their father had tortured his own child with threats, Phoebe was sick just thinking what her little sister went through.

Why couldn’t she have figured out what had been going on right under her nose? Was she so caught up in her own desire to flee when she turned twenty one, that she’d been blinded to it?

Two chambermaids entered quietly to begin their morning chores. One filled the ewer with hot water from the pot she carried. The other took the basin and emptied it into a bucket, then took the chamberpot, covered it and carried it out, returning minutes later with a clean one. After changing the towels and adding coal to the fire, they turned to go, never noticing Phoebe in the window seat. Or they did notice her and didn’t speak to her. Either way, when the door closed behind them Lydia sat up.

“I never thought I’d ever even see in a home like this in my life,” Lydie said. “I’m afraid I’m going to wake up and find I’m in jail for killing that man.”

Phoebe sat on the bed and wrapped her arms around her sister. “You’re not dreaming, sweetheart. I have been assured that will never happen. We are free to go home to Cleadon. We are free, Lydie. Free.”

“Harry is in love with you,” Lydie said.

Her heart stopped, and she swallowed her first instinct to say Lydie was imagining things. That was impossible. For several reasons.

“No he isn’t,” Phoebe replied. “And even if he were, which he is not, it doesn’t make a bit of difference. I’m not his equal, and he could never marry me because of that.” She kissed the top of her sister’s head. “And I’m too proud to be any man’s mistress.”

Lydia pulled out of her embrace and scowled at Phoebe. “He was scared for you that night. He never said it, but it was obvious in the way he acted.

“I saw his face when he saw the knife that horrible man was holding against your back,” Lydia said. Her sister was trembling in her sleeping gown, so Phoebe wrapped the lap blanket around them both. Lydie’s eyes had always been expressive, and right now, Phoebe knew she was reliving the terror of the night before last.

“He was whiter than the moon,” Lydie said almost trans-like in her monotonic speaking, “even in the light of the carriage lamps. Then you screamed and I dashed under the carriage to save you. I didn’t mean to kill Donovan. I wanted to hurt the man holding you so you could get away.

“But he spoke—and his voice— I heard him that night. He told the men to shoot Wally and his friends who were running. And I stabbed the man with the voice. I meant to get him in his heart, but he had a big belly so I got his thigh.

Her sister’s voice softly quavered. The realization of the gravity of what had happened likely hitting her again. “I didn’t mean for him to die. I just wanted to hurt him and keep him from taking you away.”

“You are safe, Lydia,” Phoebe reassured her sister. She sat next to Lydia filled with the shame of knowing she was responsible for hurting someone she loved through her reckless actions. “No one will take you away.” She crawled back into bed facing her sister and held her hand. “You will never have to fear anyone again. I promise.”

“I want to go home, Fee” Lydie said, using the name she’d called Phoebe when she was younger, before their lives changed forever. “When can we leave?”

“As soon as possible,” Phoebe replied. “I will discuss this with Harry today.”

“Good. Francie needs us, she’s all alone with Mr. Burnham.”

Phoebe agreed, and felt incredibly guilty that she’d not given a thought to Harry’s last surviving friend, Reggie. He was in very capable hands with Francie. She closed her eyes to try and fall asleep again, and the last thing she remembered thinking was she hoped Mr. Burnham didn’t pluck Francie’s last feather. Because she could be quite the little hellion when crossed.

* * *

Later that morning, after she and Lydia breakfasted in their room, the duchess and her daughter stopped by to visit, to make sure they were feeling well.

“We are doing well, your grace,” Phoebe said.

“I understand your voice has returned,” her grace said to Lydia. “You must both be thrilled.”

“Yes, ma’am, we are,” Phoebe said.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Phoebe again thanked God for the return of her little sister’s voice. “I am very happy I can remember what happened that night and that it’s not so hard to talk now. I’m not sure how well Phoebe or Francie will like it though, since I have years to make up for now.”

“I’m certain your sister is ecstatic, and believe your cousin will be, as well.” The duchess trailed after Sarah, preventing her from breaking the figurines and vases on every surface in the room except the bed. “I have a Ladies Benevolent Society meeting this afternoon, and was wondering— That is—”

She caught the ewer before little hands could topple it, and incidentally the basin off the wash stand before finally lifting the child and settling her on her hip. “You see, that is normally the time I walk Sarah in our garden. I was hoping you might like to take her outdoors for some fresh air later? Her nurse usually handles these duties, but it is her day off, and…”

“We’d love to, wouldn’t we Phoebe?” Lydia’s eyes practically glowed with excitement.

“Yes, that would be nice.” Neither one of them had seen the entire grounds of the Caversham House, and the weather, while overcast, had not rained at all. She’d seen a part of the duchess’s gardens from the window seat, and from what she heard from their maid there was much more to see.

“I’m so relieved,” the duchess said. “I know my husband will go to his club for tea. He usually does on Sundays, and it was bothering me to leave Sarah alone without a family member to oversee her activities.”

“We will have such fun,” Lydia said to the child squirming to get down from her mother’s arms.

“I should like to exchange the book on folklore for another, as I’ve finished reading it,” Phoebe said. “I will take a book out with me when we go out.”

“You certainly may,” the duchess said, “but I forgot to mention that Harry is waiting there to speak to you. That was the real reason I came here.”

“Perfect timing,” Phoebe said. “I had something I wanted to discuss with him also.” She didn’t know what Harry wanted to discuss, but Phoebe was ready to go back to Cleadon and get on with her life. That was where her cousin was, and the life she and Lydia were making for themselves with Francie.

She excused herself and walked quickly to the library with the book she finished. Her quick pace had nothing to do with the fact that she wanted to see him, or that Lydia said he loved her. Phoebe just wanted to go home.

When she reached the library and put her hand out to open the door, a profound thought crossed her mind. Francie owned the shop in Cleadon and if she chose to marry one day and live in the apartment above the shop with her new husband, Phoebe and Lydia would have to move.

They had no money whatsoever to their name, so they’d have to find a position somewhere that gave them housing. If they did that, there was no guarantee it would be together—and she’d just promised her sister she’d protect her always. She’d never be able to keep that promise if they were separated.

If Harry asked her to become his mistress, while it might upset her sensibilities, Lydia would have a home. She’d see to it. She might even be able to send Lydia to a school for girls to better herself. Phoebe simply could not discount out of hand whatever he offered.

If he offered her anything. She was not in the position to assume he would make her any offers. She wasn’t of his class. Nor did a few heated kisses make one skilled enough to please a man, as a mistress could.

She agreed with Lydie on one thing. There was an inexplicable connection between them. He’d admitted as much to her. But that didn’t mean he respected her as he would someone eligible to be a wife.

“Did Miss forget something?” a nearby footman asked.

Phoebe wiped a finger under a moist eye. “No, thank you. I have just remembered something, that’s all.”

“Well, let me get the door for you then,” the spotlessly-turned out man offered.

Afraid of what Harry had to say, Phoebe was on the verge of saying no, she wanted to return to her room, but it was too late. The footman had already opened the door and Harry leaped up from the settee as if he’d been waiting for her. Phoebe sucked in a deep breath as the door closed behind her.

Harry was incredibly handsome with his dark-blonde hair trimmed short, his gray-green eyes smiling at her. He’d shaved since last night, and a slight dimple in his smooth cheek stood out when he grinned. It would be impossible to resist this man if he asked her to be his—even for a short while. She’d just have to make him aware, if he wasn’t already, that she didn’t have the experience he may desire of a mistress to satisfy him.

“I was told you wished to speak to me?” She held up her book, and walked over to the shelf from where she’d selected it just two days earlier and slipped it in place. There was no need to choose another if they were soon to leave anyway.

“I did, and I still do.” He followed her to the bookcase and Phoebe was painfully aware of how close he was. When she turned, he was right behind her and she was mere inches from him. “Come for a carriage ride with me?”

Oh how she would love to. For just a few hours, she’d love to be a normal young miss going for a ride with a normal young man. But there was nothing normal about Harry, and certainly nothing normal about her. Her father sold her to a man who intended to sell her body for sex. Her sister killed the villain, and they were currently under the protection of a duke.

There was certainly nothing normal about their situation.

“I cannot leave Lydia,” she said. “My sister was given the honor of walking the baby in the garden after she wakes from her nap, while Her Grace is…”

He gave her an amused look, as though he fought a rising smile. This told her that the duchess was in on the scheme to get the two of them alone.

“My sister has servants who’d trip all over themselves for the opportunity to walk little Sarah in the garden.” His smile was infectious, and she felt her burden lift a little, even if for a just a short while.

“Come with me,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Now. Come with me now, Phoebe. It promises to be a beautiful spring day. I have a carriage waiting, picnic basket, a blanket, and warm bricks included.”

He wanted to take her for a ride in a carriage? Really? And his sister knew of this? And had obviously given her approval. How was she going to explain to Lydie where she was going?

“Harry is in love with you,” Lydia said just that very morning. Her sister’s head was filled with romance because she still believed in fairy tales. Phoebe knew better. In no fairy tale she ever read did the heroine’s father sell his children, and abandon them with a relative so he could continue drinking and gambling—and working when he needed to in order to afford the drinking and gambling.

And what did Harry have in mind for this carriage ride? Is this an open carriage? In the park across the road? It wasn’t the fashionable hour yet, which was a good thing. If his aunt discovered he brought her out in public she would be incredibly furious, and there was no telling what she might say or do to Phoebe to ruin her future, whatever that was.

Phoebe had been worrying about his family, especially after the awkward dinner the other night. Harry told her after that fiasco, that it was his sister’s opinion and affections that meant more to him that those of this aunt who has disapproved of her so much. If not for the fact that his sister was party to this excursion, she would refuse him, no matter how handsome and gentlemanly he behaved.

She lifted her gaze to his and gave him a smile. “I would like that very much.”

“Very good.” His voice quavered, much like her entire body trembled when she was in his presence. “Let’s go.”

“Let me get my pelisse and tell Lydie where I’m going,” she begged as she backed away from him, “and I will be right back.”

Phoebe feared if she touched his hand he would pull her in to the seductive web he was weaving with his handsome form and sweet words, so she hurried out of the library while she could. While there was a great reason to discourage him, there was an even bigger one to encourage him. She would have to accept that she would be living as kept woman, which went against her beliefs. But she could guarantee Lydia a better future if she accepted his offer to become his mistress.

Yes, she was attracted to him, but from the moment they met, her head had kept her from reaching above herself. She thought he was above her before she learned he was the brother of a duchess, and nephew of the almighty Archbishop of Canterbury.

Phoebe was the daughter of no one important. Worse yet, her father was the man who had irrevocably changed Harry’s life, and he was partly responsible for the deaths of Harry and Wally’s two friends. How could he possibly want a relationship with her?

She entered the borrowed bedroom but saw neither Lydie nor the duchess, so she assumed they were together. She freshened up, checked herself in the mirror, and decided that she was just going to have to do. Harry was downstairs, and it wouldn’t do to keep him waiting.

Phoebe smoothed the wrinkles in her dress. Which happened to be the nicest one she owned, and the same one she’d worn two days ago when Harry kissed her in the library. She wished she’d brought more dresses. She didn’t want him to think she had nothing.

Tossing her pelisse nonchalantly over her arm, as though she’d not a care in the world, she left the room and rushed down the steps, only to find Harry speaking with His Grace in the foyer. Stopping some distance away, she waited for them to acknowledge her presence.

“Are you ready?” Harry asked.

Phoebe nodded, still embarrassed by the need to be rescued in the wee hours. She stepped forward, intending to apologize. “Your grace, I—” She couldn’t look him in the eyes, so humiliated was she by her actions. “I wish to apologize for needing you to come save me. You put yourself in grave danger because of my headstrong behavior—”

“Miss Phoebe, I was honored to be of service,” the duke said. “I would do it again, if Harry asked.”

“But we aren’t going to need to, will we?” Harry asked her.

She shook her head, because she wasn’t ever going to act so irrationally again. Phoebe had thought she would be able to handle the matter, but instead bungled it and needed rescuing.

“I’m going to hold you to that, you know,” Harry said, taking her pelisse from her and putting it on over her shoulders. “You won’t need to keep it on, the carriage is warm. I’ve had the grooms warming it with fresh hot bricks for about an hour.”

“You spoil me, Mr. Manners-Sutton,” Phoebe whispered as he stepped closely behind her. His nearness caused her heart to beat a faster, and made her feel uncertain of herself—reminding her she had no experience playing the games of seduction men of his class learned early in life.

“That’s the point, Miss Phoebe,” the duke said with a sympathetic smile. “Let Harry spoil you.”

His words caused her to blush brighter than a radish. So Phoebe nodded and allowed Harry to take her out the front door of the home and into the waiting carriage.

A groom held the door open as Harry helped Phoebe into the plushest carriage she’d ever seen. True to his word, a picnic basket and two blankets sat on the rear-facing seat, giving Phoebe the idea she was supposed to sit on the same seat as Harry. He had to know how unsettled and nervous being alone with him made her.

After the door closed behind him, he sat next to her, then slid against the wall of the carriage in a casual manner, then loosened his tie. “Cav’s valet tied this and it’s choking me.”

She knew it was inappropriate, Phoebe watched in rapt attention—probably even gape-mouthed—as he removed his coat first, then his tie. It might not have been ladylike, but she did so nonetheless. She didn’t think she could tear her eyes from him.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“A place I know about an hour’s drive away that isn’t crowded with people. We’d be alone. Is that acceptable?”

Phoebe nodded. She was thankful he’d asked if she wanted to go on this drive. Perhaps wherever they were going she would be able to stretch her legs and walk much like she did at home.

“Good,” he said, “because I have been looking forward to getting you alone since we kissed.” He gave her a forced smile. “But first, I would like to address what happened the other night, and then it will be behind us, never to be mentioned again.”

Her stomach clenched. Here it comes, the reprimand he probably wanted to give her yesterday, but she never left her room. And she’d successfully avoided it thus far today by having breakfast in the bedroom with Lydie, and reading in what had become her favorite spot because of the light—the window seat.

She knew she couldn’t avoid him forever, so she dressed, expecting this very thing at some point in this day.

Now he was going to tell her what his demands were, and then ask her to decide. She was sure that’s what this effort was for. He wanted to be her protector for as long as it interested him, and she didn’t know what to say.

“Tell me you understand the folly of your effort the other night,” he enunciated each word calmly, perfectly, so she did not misunderstand him, “and that in the future you will never, ever, do anything like that again. Just promise me that, and I will not speak another word on it.”

“I do now. At the time, I thought I could negotiate with him, convince him…” She nervously smoothed out the wrinkles in the fabric over her knees with her palms, a habit she’d had since she was a child. “I realize I bungled everything—.”

“Bungled?” The tone of his voice let her know his words were not to be disputed. “That was dangerously naïve and willful ignorance.” His eyes were closed as though he couldn’t bear to look at her. “You could have been raped, or worse—killed. You could have easily been lost to me and Lydia forever. A man like Donovan has no honor. You went there thinking to reason with an irrational man. And…” His voice was trembling with upset, whether it was fear or anger, Phoebe didn’t know.

Phoebe moved closer to him, and laid her hand on his cheek. His face was warm and freshly shaved under her touch, and when she lightly stroked her thumb over his cheek his eyes opened, and she stared into the greenish-gray depths looking for some sign of his true emotion. They were beautiful eyes and she loved them—not just his eyes, but his smile, his heart, his soul, his body, the way he moved, the care he took not to hurt or upset anyone. His patience with her sister. He always spoke with Lydie as though he understood her frustration and pain.

“You should have asked before…” The words came out on a hoarse whisper, one filled with fear. “I could have… I should have…” The worry in his eyes, and the pain on his tense brow were like a hundred knives stabbed into her heart. What he was going through was because of her foolish behavior.

“Nothing happened to me,” she whispered. “Nothing. I am well, if not a bit chastened by my own conscience. My actions put you and his grace in jeopardy, and for that I am very sorry.”

He grasped her hand and put the palm to his lips, kissing her there. She was melting on the seat before him, and she couldn’t stop it.

“I could have lost you,” he said into her hand.

“Would it help if I told you what happened?” she asked, thinking that perhaps if he knew what she’d gone through it might help to relieve some of his fright for what hadn’t happened. When he gave her a curt, if hesitant, nod she began.

“Well, I left right after midnight, and getting out of the house was not easy. I told Lydia I would be back by two, and if I wasn’t back by three to wake you and tell you where I’d gone.

“It took forever for me to find a hackney that would pick me up; they must have had fares already on board. Once I got there and saw what he’d done to papa’s tavern, I was in shock and saddened. It took me a few minutes to realize that it was not my childhood home anymore. That’s when I asked to see Donovan and was led to what was Mama’s upstairs parlor, that he turned into an office. He showed me the ledger sheet of dates and amounts Papa had borrowed from him. It was most shocking to discover that my father was a partner to his crimes for years as a way of paying back his debt to the man. I saw my father’s mark next to the statement, beneath the total, that said he was putting his two daughters up for collateral on a debt that he was certain he would be able to pay by mid-November.” Phoebe paused to gauge Harry’s reaction, and saw no relief on his brow from her story. She had to finish or he would always wonder.

“The day before it was due is the day we were told to pack one box each and be ready to leave late that night.”

“What did he do?” Harry said, the words sounding as though it hurt him to say them.

“Papa? He just left us—”

“You know that’s not who I meant.”

“Donovan?” she asked. “He was, of course, angry that I didn’t bring Lydia, and said he’d get her eventually. Then I lied to him and said that Lydie was working at Caversham House now and was under the protection of the duke. I told him I was there to negotiate payments with him. As you can imagine, that didn’t go over well. He said I sounded like my father.

“Then he ordered two of his men to lock me up until someone arrived. I protested, then I was tied and put in my old room, which has boards over the broken windows. It was so dark. I cannot say how long I was there, about thirty minutes, and the hackney arrived, I could hear it. Then I was forced down and out through the kitchen.

“I couldn’t get the door to open,” Harry said.

“It’s an old lock, and very fussy,” Phoebe said. “But I was never more happy in my life than I was when I heard you call my name in the alley.”

He brought her hand to his lips, and kissed her palm. “I was terrified for you.”

“I was afraid, too.” Phoebe was sincerely repentant and now that this was behind them, she and Lydia could go home.

His lips moved over the sensitive palm of her hand, triggering a tingly and hungry sensation deep inside her. Something pure, yet primal. It was a force that was very sensual, yet desperate. “Promise me, Phoebe. Promise me you’ll never do anything so foolhardy again.”

“I swear to you, Harry, never again.” And she intended to keep that promise. Phoebe didn’t know any other way to prove how grateful she was to Harry and the duke for their efforts to rescue her than by never, ever again, doing anything so foolhardy. Quite frankly she was lucky to be alive, and knew it.

“Good. Because I don’t think I could—that is, I can’t imagine—” He shifted on the bench seat and pulled Phoebe onto his lap, where he held her so tightly she could barely breathe. He held her as though she might disappear.

“I want to go home, Harry. Or, rather, back to Cleadon. It’s all Lydia and I have now—we have each other, and Francie. And the shop. Oh! I forgot to mention that Lydie and I have ideas for getting more customers from Newcastle…” She was rambling, she knew, but she wanted to let him know she was optimistic about their future now that they were able to get out from under the threat of Donovan.

His arms went slack, slipping down her back, releasing her. Phoebe backed up so she might see his face which was gape-mouthed, as though she’d sprouted two heads. What was wrong? What had she done? Nothing except say that she wanted to go home. How could that have upset him like this?

“We—Lydie and I—want to go home now. There is no reason—”

“No,” he said stiffly, his tone one that would tolerate no argument. And that was caused her hackles to rise, much like an angry cat.

She closed her eyes and took a deep, hopefully calming, breath because she didn’t wish to snap at him. “Look, Harry, my sister and I cannot afford to live in London,” Phoebe stated. “I’m not sure where you live, but this city is a very expensive place to live decently—not extravagantly, but decently.”

“No,” he said flatly. “Phoebe, I… wasn’t intending on asking like this.” His finger traced over the surface of her lips so lightly that it tickled her, making her wish their lives were not what they were. That they weren’t of such vastly different classes. Because she’d never heard of a happy ending for a mistress, or the mistress’ children. Ever.

Even a loveless marriage granted the wife and children the protection of the husband’s name. As a mistress she’d be a nobody. A nobody who’d fallen in love with a man from a place so high above her socially that she would only ever remain in the shadows if she were to accept his offer.

She turned away from him so he wouldn’t see her fight her tears, but he prevented her from doing so. Then he tipped her chin up. His thumb wiped a tear that escaped her tightly-closed eyes, and her heart flipped in her breast.

“Phoebe, look at me.” She shook her head. Then she felt his warm breath on her cheek, in the exact spot where his lips placed a kiss on the spot where the tear had been. When he shifted back in his seat she opened her eyes to find him staring at her with a faint hint of a grin on his handsome face. “I wanted to wait until we were away from the city and lingering over a glass of wine after our meal. But now is just as good as later,” he said more to himself than to her.

“Marry me, Phoebe.”

“No,” she blurted out, then wished she could have taken it back when she saw the wide-eyed shock on his face. “What I mean is, we are not of the same class, my brother might have been the grandson and nephew of a viscount, but I am not of that blood. Your family would never approve of that. Mistress maybe, but not a wife.

“Think about it, Harry,” she said, afraid that he’d lost his mind somewhere between Cleadon and London. “My father was a handsome bastard of a passing gypsy, raised in an orphanage, with a history of menial jobs until my mother collared him like a wayward dog. He was never happy, and always wished he was elsewhere. Mama wanted stability. He reminded us quite frequently that we were an obligation and an expense. I cannot count the times he’d say to us ‘If it weren’t for you, I could travel the world.’ Or, ‘If it wasn’t for you I’d have more money.’

“If I accepted you, eventually you’d come to resent me,” she added. “Because I have independent ideas. I wish to continue working with Francie and Lydia, expanding our business into Newcastle.”

Harry didn’t look like a man who’d just been rejected. The glint of silver shining in his smiling eyes, and the confident, relaxed upward tilt to his lips told her he was not worried in the least. As though he knew she was working her mind around a problem by blabbering—and she was blabbering—and eventually would arrive at the outcome he expected.

“I’m not your father, surely you know that? I would never say such horrific things to you.”

“Of course I do, but we are not from the same world, Harry. People will talk. Some will shun you—perhaps even your own exalted family. I cannot claim kinship with anyone of importance, you have several. You say you wouldn’t care, but you would. Eventually, you would.”

“Never,” he whispered.

He grasped her hand and pulled her onto his lap, back in the circle of his arms, because he was going to… Oh heaven, he was going to kiss her again.

“I have fallen in love with you.” He kissed her cheek and temple as he spoke. “The other night I was terrified I wouldn’t find you. If you had been injured or—or harmed—I could fix that. I could make you better. But the thought of losing you altogether terrified me. And, Phoebe, I will not be put in that position again. I’m afraid I feel very strongly about this.” When he inhaled, Phoebe felt his breath quaver in her body, and her soul. “Because I love you.”

Her heart raced so fast and beat so hard, she thought it would surely break through her flesh and fly. He, Harry, was in love with her. Her.

“Are you—” She swallowed to get the knot out of her throat. “Are you sure it’s not just the responsibility you feel toward me because of your friendship with my brother?”

“I’m not asking you to marry me because your brother was my best friend and I feel some misplaced sense of responsibility toward you. Nor am I asking you to marry me because I feel any guilt regarding his death.”

Phoebe wanted to say yes. She did. But there was still something making her fear this wonderful giddiness that wanted to bubble up and erupt from her. Thoughts of her mother, and her sadness after years of working as a drudge for her father who never appreciated her efforts and demeaned her at every opportunity—both verbally and physically. Seeing her mother survive in her marriage that had once held such promise for her, made Phoebe skeptical of all men.

“Say yes, Phoebe.” He nuzzled the spot on her neck just behind her earlobe. It was the place he’d discovered that made her moan hungrily—as though it had a direct line to that slick secret place between her legs. “If you refuse me, know that I will not let you go easily. I will use everything in my power to persuade you.”

His tongue touched that ticklish, sensitive place behind her ear again, forcing another moan from her. “Because I love you, and I hope that you feel some of what I do. If so, I promise we could be very happy together.”

Phoebe was having a difficult time thinking. She wanted this. She wanted him. And she wanted happiness. But she had a responsibility to her sister, and cared deeply about her cousin and wouldn’t abandon her either. “Lydia—”

“—Will live with us,” Harry said before she could finish her sentence.

She straightened, remembering the tiny dressmaking shop that she agreed to operate with Francie after Aunt Frances died. “But that would leave my cousin all alone,” she added, unable to forget about the only relative she had.

“Reggie is besotted with Miss Francine, and has been from the minute she put a ball into his shoulder.” Harry pushed the escaped tendrils from her combs behind her ears, and the feel of his finger moving lightly over the top of her ear made her head fall backward, almost as though it was a magician’s trick. “If he returns to Bermuda without her I would be surprised, and if he does, he isn’t the man I think he is.”

“Do you really think so?” He had removed one of the three barriers to her agreeing to a marriage by agreeing to Lydia living with them. If Francie and Lieutenant Burnham were truly enamored of each other—and Phoebe was not yet convinced, she would have to hear from her cousin—then that removed another barrier, because she could never abandon Francie.

“Your family?” The last barrier loomed large and impenetrable for her. And unless his sister was on board with this, she couldn’t commit to him. She saw how much they loved each other and she didn’t want to be the reason for their alienation.

His mirth-filled eyes glowed silver, which melted away the fear that had taken root in her head.

“I’m afraid they were party to my plans,” he whispered, a sly look hiding the grin she was sure was hidden behind it.

Phoebe was not yet ready to leap for joy just yet. And, it would be difficult to do anyway as she was straddled upon his lap, his hands on her hips bracing her from the ruts and bumps in the road.

“You want to marry me?”

He gave Phoebe that boyish grin that had captivated her from the day they met.

“Yes.” His reply sounded very certain to her. But she still feared waking from this dream and discovering it was a cruel hoax played on her for falling in love.

“Really?” she asked, still a little disbelieving that he could care about her in this way. Especially after what her father had done. “You’re sure about this?”

He rolled his eyes in a comical fashion and it made her feel a little silly for being distrustful of his intentions. “I have never been more certain about anything before in my life.”

Her heart took flight and the sensation of weightlessness and soaring on the wind was enough to vanquish her skepticism. When the most she expected was to become his mistress, to now learn that he loved her, was freeing in a way she’d never thought to be free before. All she ever wanted out of life was stability and love, and it appeared she was now getting both. And after she’d resolved herself to accepting far less from him just for the roof over her head.

Since their reintroduction exactly one week ago, Phoebe was attracted to Harry as she’d never been before. Ever. While she wasn’t exactly certain what love was, she knew desiring the person was a very good start. Heaven help her, but she desired to do all manner of things with Harry. Though he’d have to show her how if he knew. And if he didn’t they could borrow the book in His Grace’s library.

Harry’s voice brought her back to the present. “Phoebe? Are you all right?”

Still a little too stunned to speak, she gave him a slight nod before leaning in to place her lips on his in a sweet kiss. “I will.”

“Oh, yes,” he groaned. His touch turned aggressive, or possessive, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that one minute his hands were on her waist holding her in place and the next they were on her thighs, above her stockings, holding her and pulling her closer to him. Closer to the hard ridge behind the drop-front opening of his breeches.

His hands crept higher to cup her bottom, where he held and kneaded her flesh with his fingers. That same fluttery sensation inside her lower belly that she experienced each of the other times she’d kissed Harry. The intense clenching and releasing, and an aching need to have the void filled.

His lips traveled down the column of her neck, teasing her with his lips and tongue as he left a trail of burning flesh that quickly made her private area tingle and clench. The air left her when his fingers parted her lower lips and discovered her wetness.

She sucked in a breath, surprised when he slid his fingers inside her. “Harry,” she forced his name out on a breath, “I don’t understand…” Her head fell back as she reveled in the sweet sensation of his intimate touch. When he removed them it drew a disappointed sound from her, making him chuckle softly.

“If you wish to wait until we are wed, tell me now,” he whispered. “If we keep this up, I will need release.”

“Doctor,” she said, hoping she wasn’t about to shock or offend him because she was hungry for more of him and what was about to happen. “I already need release,” she said as her hand covered that hardened ridge, still hidden behind his breeches. “Because there is a part of me that wants this part of you.”

“Oh, Phoebe,” he sighed. “You are one delightful surprise after another, aren’t you?” His fingers found her sensitive button and she moaned.

“Have you done any of this before?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Does that disappoint you?” She prayed not.

“No, sweetheart. It just means I need to be a bit more gentle than I have been.”

He had been nothing but patient and gentle. Perhaps more than she wanted right a that moment because she needed him, needed this, so very much.

He moved his fingers up and down over the spot where her woman’s sensations were centered, and she began to move with his fingers. “Have you ever touched yourself like this?”

She nodded. “It feels good.”

“Then you know what a climax feels like?”

“I think so.” Phoebe hadn’t known that was what it was called, but after a few minutes of stroking herself she would have this overwhelming clenching of her entire lower belly, and release of a more slick liquid—which Harry appeared pleased to have discovered.

He released her. “Stroke yourself a moment, love. I have to unbutton and release my… manhood, if we’re going to do this.”

It was incredibly hedonistic, erotic even, to have the man who was about to be her lover watch as she pleasured herself. He worked the buttons as quickly as he could, and when she saw his erect rod, it produced more than a bit of alarm. She must have said something when she stopped stroking herself. Just like the day in the library when she was looking through that book, Phoebe had no idea how that was going to fit inside her.

“Don’t be afraid, love,” he said, the concern knotting his brow.

“I’m not,” she whispered with more confidence than she actually felt.

“Good,” he stroked his erect manhood in one hand while parting her slick flesh with his other. “I’m going to slip into you now, and I’ve read that it might be momentarily uncomfortable, but… Phoebe, I promise if you give it a minute you will acclimate to my girth, and I will do my best to…”

“Harry?” Phoebe said, placing her hand over his hand which held his erect shaft. She looked down at the glistening tip, then back up at the man she’d fallen in love with.

“Yes? Did you change your mind?” His voice sounded worried, perhaps even laced with disappointment.

“Quit talking and make me yours,” she whispered. She tasted his lips before his tongue swept into her mouth, sliding over the smooth surface of her teeth, and tickling the inside of her lips. As Harry positioned his shaft at her entrance, he covered her mouth as he thrust upward, breeching her.

Her body stretched to accommodate him, the burning sensation forced a sound of discomfort from her. She tried not to think about the invasion, and instead counted in her head how long until the pain passed, because she trusted him that it would. She breathed deep and by the time she reached eight the pain was gone, replaced with an intense need for him to move inside her.

She pushed down onto him, taking him as deep as she could because it was what her body wanted. He stroked that sensitive button again, and started moving inside her. And suddenly her body began to move with his, her hips rocking instinctively, searching for a pinnacle, a destination that existed but was out of reach. Unless… Unless he could help her reach it.

“Harry, something I feel—I think that thing is—coming— It’s—I can’t stop it.”

“Don’t stop it, give into your climax,” he whispered. “Keep moving as you are, and I will be climaxing soon, too.”

She dropped her head onto his shoulder and focused on moving, and the sensation of his fingers moving on her clitoris and then up and down action he wanted from her. But she noticed other motions, involuntary movements. Her sheath grasped him, clenching his thickness in a rhythmic manner. And the unconscious racing toward a finish, a climax, as Harry called it, took over her body made her continue. The desire to please him, and wanting him to have his climax, she realized wasn’t just for herself. It was for Harry, and she could give that to him. Now.

Suddenly she couldn’t slow down. Couldn’t stop moving. Nor could she prevent the cry that welled up within her, and she called out for him. “Harry,” she panted, “I don’t—understand—I need—it—now.”

He covered her mouth with his as her tightly coiled need erupted, and she screamed her climax into him. Almost immediately, he gave a deep, long, satisfied moan as he reached his own orgasm, his shaft pulsing inside her, releasing his seed.

Phoebe collapsed onto him and he wrapped her in his arms and held her close to him. So close the space between them disappeared. They were one quite literally.

He kissed her cheeks and pushed her hair back. “How do you feel?”

“Good, I think.” Phoebe shifted, sitting back on her heels to better look at him while she spoke with him. His manhood stirred inside her, and the feeling was amazing. He was in no rush to right his clothing and the skirt of her purple and white dress covered their connected flesh.

“That felt amazing,” she said. “Is it always like this?”

Harry kissed her again. Tenderly. Making her feel as though she was cherished and adored. “As long as you are mine, it will be.”

“I look forward to our future adventures then, Doctor.” She grew serious when a thought overcame her. It was something she felt she needed to share with him, because it might explain some of her past behavior, her future behavior, and desire for independence.

“Harry, I didn’t have the happy, loving upbringing that you had with your parents, grandparents, and sister. I don’t know what love is supposed to look like between a couple. But I do have this warm, affectionate feeling when I think of you. And when I’m with you, I want your touch, no… I crave it.

“I have never been with a man before you, nor have I ever loved a man…”

The look on his face told her she was making a mess of this explanation, this confession of her heart.

He tilted his head a scant inch. A curious wariness in them. “What are you saying, Phoebe?”

She needed to allay his fears. Soon, or he would separate from her, and she didn’t want him to remove his body from hers, because a tiny part of her head was still unwilling to let her heart be happy. “I’m saying I want you to teach me what love is between a man and a wife. I don’t want any other man to show me. I want you for always, if you will have me.”

Phoebe’s last words turned into a groan when he started to stir to life inside her. “I love you, Phoebe Grace Grenard. And we’re getting married as soon as Reggie and Francie arrive.”

“I will need to send Francie a letter.” Phoebe started to blush. However was she going to explain falling in love and agreeing to marry a man after one week. That was illogical—and, not something that happened to women like her.

“I already did.”

“Confident, were you?”

Harry gave her a wink and a smile, one that reminded a lot of her brother’s,

“Aye, lass. I was.”