I have no heart.

Those words rang in her mind as she watched St. Albans return to the table, a footman in tow carrying a tray with champagne and a plate of delicacies.

’Twas quite sad that the man saw himself that way. Despite what he’d said, no man without a heart would have rescued that poor animal.

He fascinated her in a way no other man had. The few times she’d seen him at various events the last two years he always stood apart from the rest of the guests. Once or twice she’d seen him speaking with another gentleman, but it had always appeared to Phoebe that the other man was requesting something from The Cold Duke. That it wasn’t a friendly exchange.

He took his seat, and the footman placed the glasses and plate in front of them. She nodded at the man and thanked him while St. Albans ignored the servant.

“Why do you say you have no heart?”

“Because I don’t.” He shrugged as if that was easy to answer.

Before Phoebe could continue the conversation, Lady Anne and Lady Penelope stopped at their table. “Good evening, Lady Phoebe.” Although they spoke to her, their eyes were riveted on St. Albans.

He stood and bowed. “Good evening ladies.”

They both flushed bright red and offered a curtsy. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

“Are you enjoying the ball?” Phoebe asked while St. Albans continued to stand.

“Yes. It’s lovely.” Reluctantly, they dipped once more and moved on.

St. Albans sat.

“Everyone has a heart, Your Grace.”

“Oh, Lady Phoebe, how lovely to see you. I simply love your gown.” Miss Barton, along with Lady Cecilia, had now wandered to their table.

St. Albans stood. “Good evening, ladies.”

They tittered, made some banal remarks, and drifted away.

“I am sure there is an organ in my body that can be identified as a heart. When I say I have no heart it’s because I see no need for frivolous emotions that are attributed to a heart.”

“Lady Phoebe! I didn’t see you there.” The Misses Stanford now grinned in her direction, their eyes on St. Albans.

St. Albans straightened once again. “Good evening, ladies.”

They dipped, giggled, and rushed off, obviously too overcome at being spoken to by His Grace.

It was obvious they were not going to have any peace. Several more young ladies that she was acquainted with, but not in an overly friendly way, headed in their direction. “Your Grace, I believe we will be greeted by numerous young ladies the longer we sit here.”

He finished the rest of his champagne and wiped his mouth with a serviette. “So it seems. I will return you to the ballroom, as I believe the orchestra is returning.”

St. Albans stood and pulled out her chair, then placed her hand on his arm. The young ladies who had been heading their way slumped with disappointment. But His Grace was oblivious.

They returned to where her mother sat with several friends. He bowed to her mother. “Lady Pomeroy, it is a pleasure to see you.”

Lord, even her mother was taken with the man. She flushed and almost tittered herself. He turned to Phoebe. “Have a pleasant evening.”

With those words, he turned on his heel, made his way across the room, up the stairs, and disappeared.

* * *

The next afternoon, which was an “at home” day for Phoebe, Prudence, and their mother, they sat in the drawing room with her mother’s good friend, Lady Spencer, her daughter, Lady Louise, Mr. Davidson—who still seemed put out by losing his dance the night before—and Lady Penelope.

Lady Penelope leaned forward, her tea cup in hand. “I thought His Grace would be here this afternoon.”

Phoebe raised her eyebrows. “Whatever made you think that? He has never called before.”

“But you were the only one he danced with at the Manchester ball.”

“I see no connection between that and His Grace calling on me.”

“His Grace, the Duke of St Albans.” The butler, Mason, stepped into the room with St. Albans right behind him.

Phoebe’s head snapped up as His Grace walked into the room. He headed directly to her and bowed over her hand. “Lady Phoebe, good afternoon to you.” He turned to her mother. “Lady Pomeroy, you are looking quite well,” then eyed the other gaping women in the room. “Ladies, good afternoon.”

Phoebe stared open-mouthed until his lips twitched, which, for St. Albans, was as good as a grin. “Uh, thank you for calling, Your Grace.” She waved to the chair next to her. “Won’t you have a seat?”

Her mother drew herself up, obviously the first one in the room to recover from the shock of seeing the most elusive member of the ton in her drawing room. “Your Grace, would you care for tea? This is a fresh pot.”

“Yes. Thank you, I would enjoy a cup.”

Phoebe could no longer stand it. She leaned over to him and murmured, “What are you doing here?”

His brow rose.

How did he do that?

“Enjoying tea?” he answered.

“You know what I mean. You never make afternoon calls.”

“And you know this to be true, how?”

She waved her hand. “Everyone knows that.”

“Ah, everyone knows that. Just as everyone knows it’s difficult to tell you from your charming sister.”

“You did it again. You walked right up to me without hesitation.”

“I assure you, Lady Phoebe, I have no trouble distinguishing you from Lady Prudence. No problem at all.”

She sat back, all the air escaping from her lungs. She quickly stiffened her spine when her mother cast her a telling look. Ladies of Quality did not slump in their chairs.

The man had her tied in knots. Whether he wished to acknowledge it or not, it was well known among the ton that His Grace, the Duke of St. Albans, did not dance at balls, did not make afternoon calls, and did not rescue downtrodden horses.

Yet he’d done all those things.

“Your Grace, now that you have made an appearance here, can we expect you to make the rounds of afternoon calls in the future?” Lady Penelope practically fell out of her chair, she leaned so far forward to get his attention.

He offered her a slight nod, his lips not softening toward anything resembling a smile. “I am afraid not, Lady Penelope.” With no further words, he took a sip of his tea and turned back to Phoebe.

“I would like to escort you on a ride through Hyde Park one afternoon. Do you have an available date?”

Whatever was going on? Was he courting her? Rumors had spread the last couple of years that his mother, the Duchess of St. Albans—a formidable woman, herself—had been urging her son to take a wife and secure his title.

In order to find a suitable wife, one did have to go through all the courting rituals, but Phoebe could not for the life of her believe he was seriously courting her. She was lively, impulsive, a bit scatter-brained, all the things no one such as His Grace, the Duke of St. Albans, would select for a wife.

Perhaps it would be good to join him on a ride. At least then she could find out exactly what he was about. “Yes. I have tomorrow and Friday afternoon available.”

“Excellent. I shall arrive Friday at four o’clock.” He put his tea cup down, stood, and addressed her mother. “My lady, it has been a pleasure.” With those words, he bowed in Phoebe’s direction and left the room, all eyes following him.

The silence was deafening.

Morgan left the Pomeroy townhouse and strode to his carriage. “Home.”

He settled into the soft leather seat of the comfortable and well-sprung carriage. Nothing but the best for the Duke of St. Albans. He looked out the window and considered Lady Phoebe’s question.

“What are you doing here?”

What the bloody hell was he doing there? There was no question in this mind that she’d caught his attention. The short time he’d spent with her, he felt a strong physical attraction. She was lovely, well-formed, and—something he never experienced much of before—funny. And happy.

Was that the draw? Happy? She seemed to enjoy everything. She was always smiling, always had that gleam in her eye that made him feel as though there was a joke that only she’d heard.

In truth, she was unlike anyone he’d ever met in his life. But then again, his contact with anyone besides his parents and servants had been quite limited. Because of what his parents considered his exalted position, he’d been educated by private tutors and had not attended the schools most young men of the nobility attended. No Harrow or Eton for him.

He had several cousins. At least that was what he’d been told. He’d never met any of them, since his parents did not socialize with their families because they felt their siblings beneath them and not worth their time. He’d been a young man completely alone, drilled in his duty.

When Mother had begun to urge him to find a bride, he’d become quite unsettled. How did one go about finding a bride when one hadn’t spent much time with young ladies? Being a man with a man’s needs, he’d certainly had his share of courtesans, but a bride was from an entirely different world.

A world where he was as ignorant as a green youth.

“Her Grace has requested your presence upon your return, Your Grace.” Billingsley greeted him as he entered his townhouse.

He took the stairs two at a time to his mother’s sitting room where he knew she would be at this time of day. She rarely held calling hours, being as unsociable as she wanted him to be.

“You wanted to see me, Mother?” He approached her and gave her the requisite peck on her soft cheek.

“Yes. Please have a seat.”

He flipped his tailcoat behind him and sat on a very uncomfortable, and not quite sturdy enough for his large frame, chair.

She viewed him through her quizzing glass as if she’d forgotten what her only child looked like. “I understand you danced and ate supper at the Manchester ball the other night with Lady Phoebe, Lord Pomeroy’s stepdaughter.”

“Your rumormongers are correct.” He wondered how she got her information since she kept to herself most of the time. But these things did tend to find their way through the ton, and she did have a friend or two she saw on occasion.

She made a nasty face. “You may forget her. I have a lovely young woman I want you to seriously consider for a wife. Lady Brenda and her parents, Lord and Lady Stevenson, will join us for dinner Thursday next.”

“I don’t understand the you may forget her. I have just come from Lady Phoebe’s house, and I invited her for a carriage ride on Friday.”

“Cancel it. Send your regrets.” She waved her hand around. “Find some excuse, Parliament or something.”

The anger at her easy dismissal of what he wanted to do rushed through his body. He was a duke, for heaven’s sake. Something that Mother had impressed upon him daily since his father passed and the title came to him. He was certainly old enough to decide with whom he wanted to spend time.

“I think not, Mother. I enjoy Lady Phoebe’s company, and I intend to appear at her home on Friday to escort her to the park.”

Mother’s brows nearly reached her hairline. “She is not at all suitable.”

“Suitable for what? I only invited her to take a ride in Hyde Park, not to the church to get married.”

“You needn’t get flippant with me. I am your mother. I know what is best for you, and it is certainly not that chit.”

“However that might be, I fully intend to ride with her on Friday. However, I am curious as to why you think she is unsuitable.”

Mother raised her chin. “Her family leaves much to be desired.”

“How so? Her father was a viscount; her stepfather is an earl. Her stepsisters are married to a baron, a viscount, and a marquess. What objection can you possibly have?”

“It seems you have done quite a bit of research on this young woman.”

He shrugged, since he had done that very thing after he’d seen her on Oxford Street.

“It is well-known among the Beau Monde that all three of her stepsisters, as well as her own mother, delivered children before nine months had passed after their weddings.”

He shrugged again, something the duchess abhorred. “So?”

“So, there is obviously a scandalous streak in Lady Phoebe.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mother. That’s ridiculous. And I might remind you that more than half of all ton marriages result in a child before nine months have passed from the appearance before a vicar. Many betrothed couples anticipate their vows.”

“How dare you speak to your mother about such things? I am offended!”

Morgan stood and ran his fingers through his hair. “You brought it up. In any event, I will be happy to attend a dinner with the Stevensons, but be fully aware I am not promising anything with regard to their daughter, so don’t expect as much. I will also be escorting Lady Phoebe to Hyde Park for a ride. And if I wish to invite her to the theater or the museum, I shall do so.”

Mother’s eyes flashed. She did not like being thwarted. “What is it you are saying? Do you intend to court the gel?”

“I have no idea. All I know is that she is a charming young lady who laughs.”

Once more the quizzing glass rose to Mother’s eye. “Laughs? That is your requirement for a bride.? That she laughs?”

“Actually, I never quite thought about it that way, but now that it has come up, yes. That is a requirement I have for a bride. She must laugh.”

She shook her head. “I believe the Pomeroy chit has bewitched you.”

“Perhaps she has.” He headed toward the door. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters to attend to. I will also be out for dinner.”

“Out? Where are you going? I am not aware of any social events tonight.”

“To my club.”

“You never go to your club.”

He tossed over his shoulder as he left the room, “I know. That is why I’m going. Have a pleasant evening, Duchess.”