Phoebe waited over twenty minutes in the orangery for Morgan. Apparently, he had either changed his mind or had been waylaid once again by one of the many determined ladies. With a shrug of disgust, she left and returned the way she’d come.

She opened the French doors to the library to see Morgan and Lady Brenda.

In the library.

With the door closed.

With Lady Brenda’s arms wrapped around Morgan’s neck.

While Morgan attempted to pry her arms off him.

“My, my. What have we here?” Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. “At it again, my lady?”

Lady Brenda turned and growled. Actually growled. “Leave us. His Grace and I are having a tête-à-tête.”

Phoebe dropped her arms and moved closer. “Indeed? It appears to me you are attempting to strangle him.” She walked right up to the young lady, took her by the arm, and yanked hard. Thank goodness Phoebe did quite a bit of walking and was in good physical form because Lady Brenda tried as hard as she could to stay where she was. She dragged her feet and complained. Loudly.

Once they reached the door, Phoebe opened it and pushed Lady Brenda through. “I’m sorry your plan did not work.” She hesitated and tapped her lips with her finger. “No. I am not sorry your plan did not work.” With a tight smile, Phoebe closed the door in the girl’s shocked face and turned to Morgan.

He collapsed to the sofa behind him and ran his fingers through his hair. Then remembering his manners, hopped back up again.

Phoebe waved him to sit and made her way over to join him on the sofa. “How could you possibly get yourself into this situation? Have you learned nothing about social disasters?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. “Lady Stevenson and Lady Brenda met me as I was headed to the orangery. They prattled on about some nonsense and then Lady Brenda insisted on a dance. I finally extracted myself from her and headed to the orangery to meet you. She apparently followed me, closed the door to the library, and cried out in pain—or so I thought.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Go on.”

“She said she had twisted her ankle, and could I help her to the sofa and go fetch her mother.”

Phoebe blew out a breath. “And, of course, being the gentleman you are, you fell for it and she pounced on you.”

He drew himself up. “You make me sound addlepated.”

She smiled and touch his hand. “There are times I do wonder. But then again, I realize your social skills are quite wanting, although your manners were well driven home. Which is why you’ve gotten yourself into these messes.”

He turned toward her and took her hands in his. “Let’s forget about Lady Brenda. Phoebe, there was something I wanted to tell you. Why I asked you to meet me in the orangery.”

“Odd. There was something I wanted to tell you as well.” Her stomach twisted into knots at the idea of saying the words out loud that would end their friendship. She would get through this, though, and ask Mother and Papa to return to the country earlier than planned. Pru had grumbled recently how tired she was of the whole thing, and Phoebe had no desire to continue with the Season and watch Morgan court and eventually become betrothed to some woman who would never appreciate him.

Some woman who was not her.

He squeezed her hands. “Ladies first, of course, but before you do, there is something I need to do to begin our conversation. Something that can be said without words.” He took her lips in a soothing, soft kiss. When she whimpered, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. Turning her head so he could take the kiss deeper, he probed her lips and she opened to him.

“Oh, my! Well, I never.” The loud shrill of a female voice cut into Phoebe’s befuddled brain. She and Morgan sprang apart and turned to see three of Lady Stevenson’s closest friends, Lady Dickinson, Lady Monroe, and Mrs. Botswell, standing in the doorway. All three of them stared at them with various looks of outrage on their faces.

“What is going on?” Lady Stevenson pushed her way past the ladies, and her eyes grew wide. “Where is my daughter?”

Morgan stood and pulled Phoebe to her feet. “Lady Brenda is not here.”

Several more guests joined the group at the door. Morgan put his arm around Phoebe and drew her close. “My betrothed and I were just about to leave and share the news.” He smiled at Phoebe. “Lady Phoebe has made me the happiest of men and consented to be my wife.”

The gasps moved through the group like a wave coming to shore. Mumbling and exclamations were followed by several congratulations. Lady Stevenson cut daggers at them both.

Phoebe was grateful for Morgan’s arm because her knees were about to give out. Here she had come with the idea of saying goodbye to him and their friendship, and now they were betrothed. No, she couldn’t allow that. Only heartbreak lay in that direction.

Morgan took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “My dear. Shall we visit with your mother and share our good news?”

Unable to form any words, she merely nodded, and they made their way to the doorway. The crowd moved back, and the mumbling continued as they headed down the corridor to the ballroom. Although there had been quite a gathering at the door to the library, there were dozens of people in the ballroom, apparently unaware of the drama that had just taken place.

Morgan steered her toward her mother who was chatting with Lady Laurence. They both looked up as they approached. “My dear, are you well? You look quite pale.” Mother cupped her chin and viewed her with concern in her eyes.

“I am sure it is excitement, my lady. Lady Phoebe has just consented to be my wife. I know I should have spoken to Lord Pomeroy first, but I couldn’t wait.”

He gazed at her with such love in his eyes Phoebe was almost fooled. The man could tread the boards on Drury Lane with no trouble.

Mother’s face broke into a bright smile. “Oh, my dear. I am so very happy for you.” She turned to Morgan. “Your Grace, I am sure his lordship will be most amenable to this match.”

Morgan took Phoebe’s hand and bent over it. “My dear, I will leave you now to visit with your mother while I pack to have an early start in the morning.” He turned to Mother. “Please tell his lordship I would like to call at three tomorrow afternoon.”

With that proclamation, he turned on his heel and left the room, a pathway clearing for him as he made his way to the door.

Phoebe’s jaw dropped, and she turned to Prudence who had just walked up to them. “Phoebe! I just heard the news!” She hugged her and leaned back, gripping her shoulders. “How wonderful.”

Her head swam with the happenings of the last fifteen minutes. She felt like an actor in a play who was not given her lines. Everyone else seemed to know what to say and what to do.

Except her.

She could not marry him. No. She could not marry him. What the devil would she do now?

* * *

Morgan had no sooner entered his London townhouse after the trip from the Bentworth estate than the Duchess appeared on the staircase. She raised her chin and regarded him as if he were a nasty bit of something on her shoe. “I would like a word with you, Your Grace.”

He sighed, not knowing how it had happened, but apparently word of his betrothal had reached her ears. One of Bentworth’s guests must have left the party before he did this morning and came right here. Although Mother did not socialize, she kept up with the women she’d met when she was younger, either through rare afternoon calls or correspondence.

It had taken him hours to come to grips with the idea that he’d announced his betrothal to Phoebe without her consent. There had been no choice. Being found alone in the library, locked in an embrace, she would be ruined if he hadn’t stepped up with that explanation.

After he’d retired to his room and had his valet pack for an early departure the next morning, he realized the entire situation had been planned. Apparently, Lady Stevenson had sent her friends to the library to “catch” him and Lady Brenda. When Phoebe had stepped in and dragged the girl out, there hadn’t been time for her to inform her mother.

Surely no man was as happy as he was being caught with a young lady in a compromising situation. He had intended once again to propose to her, but at the same time tell her of his newly found feelings.

He loved her.

He’d found his heart, and it overflowed with love for Lady Phoebe. That’s what she’d been waiting to hear and before he could tell her, disaster had struck.

Well, not exactly disaster because he’d gotten what he wanted. However, it might take some maneuvering on his part to convince Phoebe that everything had worked out for the best.

Annoyed at being summoned to the library like a recalcitrant lad, Morgan proceeded up the stairs to his bedchamber. He was tired and dusty from the ride home and wanted to clean himself up first. The meeting with Lord Pomeroy was only an hour or so away and he needed to gather his papers to be able to work out the marriage settlements.

He told a footman to pass along the message to the Duchess that he would join her directly.

He smiled to himself as he washed up and changed his shirt and cravat. He was betrothed. And not to a silly, simpering young miss who was only interested in his money and title. Who would never look past his reputation as The Cold Duke. Had that happened, his life would have continued as it had been. Lonely and cold.

Not anymore. Phoebe was everything he could ever hope for in a wife. And he loved her.

Dreading the coming confrontation, he steeled himself and made his way down the stairs to the library.

The Duchess sat on the edge of the settee near the fireplace, her back ramrod straight, her hands crossed in her lap.

“Your Grace.” He bowed and sat across from her.

“I understand you are betrothed.”

Well, apparently there would be no niceties first. No how was the house party or inquiry about the journey home. Fine. He didn’t need small talk anyway. That was only for him and Phoebe. The warm, back and forth bantering that he’d learned from her was only for her.

“Yes.”

If she had no intention of giving an inch, neither would he.

“And may I ask who your chosen bride is to be?”

He leaned back on the chair and rested his booted foot on his bent knee. “Come now, Mother. There is no need to play games. You know precisely who my bride is. I am sure whoever gleefully brought the news to you also told you Lady Phoebe is my choice.”

Her eyes flashed, and her lips tightened. “I told you she is unsuitable.”

“Then it is a good thing I am marrying her, and not you.”

His mother hopped up and paced. Something he had never seen her do. That behavior ran opposite to how she had kept herself, and her emotions, wrapped up tight all these years. “This is a disaster. You must find a way out of it.” She turned to him. “She will ruin your life.”

He’d heard enough. “Stop at once! Lady Phoebe is my choice. Yes, we were found together alone in the library, but you can thank your friend Lady Stevenson for that since she apparently had arranged for me to be found with Lady Brenda.”

“An excellent young lady! One who would bring dignity to the title of Duchess of St. Albans!” Her voice rose with each word, something else he’d not heard before.

Morgan tugged on the cuffs of his shirt. “Nevertheless, Lady Phoebe will be the next Duchess of St. Albans. You may either accept her, and be kind and gracious toward her, or move into the Dower house.”

“I demand you break this betrothal!”

He’d oftentimes heard the expression seeing red, but for the first time he actually knew what it meant. It seemed as though all his blood had raced to his head, ready to explode. He drew on years of coldness that he’d honed to handle difficult situations. His parents had trained him well.

He lowered his voice and stared at her. “You are in no position to demand anything, Your Grace. I will marry Lady Phoebe. She will be the next Duchess of St. Albans. You will move into the Dower house. We will have children, who will be your grandchildren. If you chose to ignore them as well, it is your loss.”

“I would rather you take her for a mistress which is what she is suited for.”

Obviously, they would never agree on this. Rather than continue the argument, he bowed. “I wish you good day, Your Grace.” He turned on his heel and left the room. He stopped at the front door and addressed the butler. “See that Her Grace’s lady’s maid packs her things. She is returning to the Dower house at St. Albans’ estate.”

Hoping a walk in the fresh air would settle his anger and stop the fierce headache he’d developed while dealing with his mother, he elected to walk to the Pomeroy townhouse. He’d sent word as soon as he’d arrived in London for his man of business to meet him there at three o’clock. He was a bit early, but he wanted to speak with Phoebe first, anyway.

Feeling a bit better when he reached the townhouse in Mayfair, he took the steps two at a time and dropped the door knocker. The door opened immediately. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

He stepped inside to the cool air of the entrance hall.

“Lady Phoebe has requested you wait for her in the drawing room upon your arrival,” the man said.

“Thank you.” He followed the butler to the drawing room and roamed the room while he waited for Phoebe. He kept smiling, something he’d done more of in the short time he’d known Phoebe than his entire life.

Less than ten minutes later the door opened and she entered the room. It was apparent from her swollen red eyes and the handkerchief she clutched in her hand that she’d been crying.

Taking a shuddering breath, she walked up to him and stopped a mere three feet away. “I am most sorry, Your Grace, but I will not marry you.”