The room was dark and full of shadows. A cheerful fire upon the hearth lent a certain warmth to the parlor, but the glow did not extend much further than the hearth, and no one had thought to light the candles.

For a moment Phoebe caught her breath. The setting could not have been more perfect. One hand went to her uncovered hair, touching the strands to make sure they were in place as she shut the door, her footsteps light and eager.

Yes, this moment would be hers, and hers alone. The Duke of Durham would be unable to resist her.

In fact, it seemed he was already there. A figure stood in the shadows by the window where he had been standing near the harp, looking out, onto the street below.

For a moment Phoebe’s heart skipped a beat. This…this was her moment. She stepped forward, eager to meet him, her hands outstretched to take his into her own. Were his shoulders always so broad? He seemed shorter than expected though. The minor details mattered later as his strong hands clasped her own, capable and sure.

“Phoebe!”

That he dared to say her name was daring, delicious. She could not look up; her blush was too bright. The fact that he held her hands at all left her legs weak and unsteady beneath her. “Your Grace!” she gasped and wavered on her feet.

“My dear! I did not think you would come! I had not supposed, nor even thought you would…well, you caught me off guard. This is so new, but I am pleased. So very pleased!”

Pleased? Something seemed wrong with his voice — was it ever this deep? So husky? He was overcome by emotion then. Well, it was only right to be so, for she herself was just as overcome. Phoebe stood there trembling, keeping her face averted in a most maidenly gesture, knowing fully well how scandalous her behavior was to meet him like this. How utterly compromising they were, standing so close. She blushed and dropped her gaze, unable to look at his face when so nervous.

“Your Grace, there are things we must need discuss,” she said quietly, hearing the rush of blood in her ears. Would she faint in this moment? She willed herself not to look up at his face. What if she saw the rapt wonder that was surely there, mirroring the wonder she herself felt? No, she could not.

“We must marry — that is all there is to it. I compromise you now, in sitting here with you, but we are of an age when few will concern themselves with such things. The banns can be posted quickly, I think, and much of the falderal associated with society weddings can be dispensed, with, do you not think? Oh, Helena will be so pleased, I am sure. She loves you like a mother already.” His voice was husky with emotion.

Helena? Mother?

That voice. No. ‘Twas impossible. It was not what she was thinking. Ice flowed through her veins, dousing the flames of passion in an instant. Phoebe launched away from him, stumbling, nearly falling. The hand that reached out to steady hers was large, the fingers blunt and square. The ring upon the hand was one she knew, all too well.

Phoebe’s mouth open and closed. She could not speak. The words simply would not come.

Harcourt Barrington, the Duke of York stood, strong and sure, drawing his hand back as he regarded her with some concern. “Phoebe? Are you well? Dash it all, I suppose I have taken this too quickly. Women like weddings to be sure, so if you want one, I have little objection. Helena would enjoy helping in the planning. It would do her good to have a project, something to occupy her time.”

“What are you doing here?” The words came out quickly, a shrill scream, as she stepped back, away from the Duke, feeling sure she might faint. No…No, this cannot be. I have not…This was not…

“Phoebe! Please, allow me to help you sit. I will ring for a servant. Some water perhaps. You are overcome. My darling, I am just as overcome. I had no idea…I had not even thought about it, but when I see you now, like this, I can only be sure. More sure than I have been of anything in my life that this is meant to be. My love, please stay for a moment…”

He meant to grasp the bell pull. Any moment there would be someone there at the door who would see him, would see them, and draw such hideous conclusions. James! Where was James?

Unable to endure the idea of anyone finding her like this, Phoebe lunged after him, her intent upon keeping him from that bell pull. She would indeed be ruined if so much as a servant came and saw them together. And then there would be no getting out of the actions that would follow — likely a forced marriage to this man, this ridiculous duke nearly twice her age, who looked upon her now with such fond concern that she would surely scream.

Phoebe’s hands scrabbled at Harcourt’s sleeve, and she was now near to begging for him to stop. Only she was not the one to beg. The very idea of being Helena’s mother was enough to give her the strength to push him away. “Stop, you old fool, before you ruin us all!” she cried.

The Duke turned to her in surprise, eyes widening as he put his arms around her. “Nay, my dear, be not afraid. There will be no ruination for us if that is what worries you. You have declared yourself to me already. I will pay the priest to post the banns after the nuptials. We would not be the first.”

It was all too much. Phoebe drew away, laughing harshly. “Marry you? You want me to marry you?”

At that moment the door behind them opened abruptly. The footman entered first, apologetic, urgent in his manner, followed by the Duke of Durham, who looked from one figure to the other. The Duke of York held Phoebe who clawed at him and struggled to get away.

“I say! Am I interrupting something?” James asked, her James, whose eyebrow raised halfway up his forehead as he came fully into the room.