“I still think it is quite strange that His Grace was able to walk right up to you at the Manchester ball and our afternoon at home and know it was you.” Prudence stared at her sister as she sat in front of the mirror on her dressing table. “It is quite strange, you know.”

“I agree. When I called him out on it, he said we don’t look anything alike.”

Prudence’s brows rose. “We have been fooling people with trying to decide who was who for years.” She smirked and shook her head. “Unless…”

Phoebe swung around on the bench. “Unless what?”

“Unless he is your soul mate.” Prudence clasped her hands to her chest and sighed.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I barely know the man.” She didn’t like the flush she felt rising from her middle to her face, nor the thumping of her heart. The very last person in the world she would consider being her soul mate was the Duke of St. Albans.

Prudence shook her finger. “Ah, but he knows you.”

“You are making far too much of this, you know. We’ve had one dance, a bit of conversation, and that is it.”

“Not so.” Her sister began to tick off items on her fingers. “One dance and supper together. I might also add he danced with no one else. One visit to our home—again, I add no one I have spoken with has ever seen him attend an afternoon call. And now a carriage ride during the most populated time at Hyde Park. You might not want to hear it, but I believe His Grace is courting you.”

“Stop it.” Truth be known, she wasn’t sure she wanted him to be courting her. Yes, she found him extremely handsome, and even charming, in his own way. Also, she firmly believed he was not the man he presented to the world. But there was that statement about him not having a heart. Did she want to encourage a man who told her he was incapable of engaging his heart?

“My lady, His Grace has arrived.” Their lady’s maid, Jenny, entered the room, a smile on her face.

“Why are you smiling?”

Jenny giggled. “He brought a beautiful bouquet of flowers with him.”

Odd, most men—in fact, every man she had reason to know—sent flowers. They didn’t deliver them.

Prudence sailed from the room, calling over her shoulder in a sing-song voice. “Soul mate…”

Phoebe tied the wide yellow bonnet ribbons under her chin and tugged on her gloves. A quick look in the mirror to pinch her cheeks and bite her lips, and she plucked her reticule from the dressing table and left the room.

St. Albans had arrived for their carriage ride, and she hated how excited she felt. ’Twas only a ride in Hyde Park, something she did a few times a week every year during the Season. The fact that the Duke of St. Albans had not appeared during the fashionable hour in Hyde Park ever, as far as she knew, did relegate this appearance to an unusual event, and most likely, one to comment on among the members of the ton.

“Are you ready, Jenny?” Phoebe asked as she descended the stairs right behind the maid.

“Yes, my lady. I just need to get my coat.”

St. Albans studied her as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She dipped a curtsy. “Your Grace.”

He bent over her hand. “Lady Phoebe. Thank you for agreeing to accompany me on a ride.” Since he was missing the bouquet Jenny had referred to, she assumed someone had relieved him of the flowers.

Phoebe had to squelch the desire to laugh. He was so very serious, and she didn’t want to embarrass him. “’Tis my pleasure, Your Grace.”

He took her arm, and they left the house. His carriage was, by far, the most beautiful open barouche she had ever seen. Gleaming black, with a plush red velvet interior, the seats were as soft as her bed. The two matching bays were sleek and shiny, well-tended and obviously ready to high-step around the park.

She and His Grace settled in the front seat with Jenny behind them. He handled the horses with ease as they made their way from Mayfair to Hyde Park for the entrance to the park at Bayswater Road. Although this was the best time to parade around in the fashionable hour, she was quite surprised that The Cold Duke wanted to present himself with her, considering the number of rumors that would start.

The day was a rare one for London, a cloudless sky with bright sun. Even in the late February air, she was quite comfortable with just a pelisse. She breathed in deeply and turned to him with a smile. “’Tis a lovely day, is it not?”

He looked around as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is a pleasant day.”

“Although I haven’t seen them, I understand you brought flowers. Thank you very much.”

He nodded and continued to study the pathway. It occurred to her just then that he had no idea how to converse with a young lady. From what she knew of him—based on rumor, which she hated—he did not attend school but had private tutors, and was never seen in the gambling halls or racing around Hyde Park in a phaeton or doing other foolish things that most young men did.

What a solitary life he’d led. “Did you enjoy the ball the other evening?”

“Yes. It was quite pleasant.”

Frustrated, Phoebe took in a deep breath and turned to him. “Your Grace, I fail to see why we are together riding in this carriage if you have no intention of speaking with me.”

The genuine surprise on his face had her laughing.

“I’m sorry, but you look as though you are quite surprised to find me in your carriage.”

He drew himself up and then immediately smiled. “Yes. You are correct. Not the part about being surprised at you being in my carriage,” he added quickly. “But I am afraid the art of polite conversation is not one of my accomplished skills.”

She drew in a breath at the change in the man when he smiled, now that he was close up, since she’d seen his grin from afar the day of the horse beating. His handsome face could take one’s breath away.

“Very well. Then I shall teach you the fine art of useless polite conversation.” She laughed softly.

“Your Grace, how lovely to see you out and about.” Lady Lansbury stopped her carriage, forcing St. Albans to do the same. The Lansbury carriage was loaded with the woman and her four daughters, all of them unmarried. And all of them watching St. Albans with starry-eyed glee.

“Good afternoon, Lady Lansbury.” He nodded to the young women. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

They all giggled.

Lady Lansbury was practically drooling with excitement. “We are having a small gathering in two weeks, Your Grace. A musicale. My daughters all play various instruments and are quite talented. I shall have an invitation sent to you first thing.”

“Thank you.” He nodded, but before he could move his carriage, she spoke again.

“I hear you are seeking a wife this Season.”

When St. Albans didn’t answer, she continued. “I hope to see much more of you.” She shook her finger. “You have been much too secreted, Your Grace. You must attend more entertainments.” She glanced quickly at Phoebe. “There are many young ladies who would enjoy being introduced to you.”

He nodded. “Have a good day, Lady Lansbury.” He moved the barouche forward. After a few minutes, he turned to Phoebe. “I agree. I will need some instruction in this useless polite conversation.”

To her amazement, he smiled.

Truth be told, he wanted instruction in this unknown and frivolous art of polite conversation from Lady Phoebe so he could use it on her. For some reason, he felt quite comfortable with her and didn’t seem to mind that she saw his flaws. Something he had never been easy with before.

But being comfortable with her didn’t mean he wanted to converse with everyone in the park. He should have known that if he appeared with her by his side, all sorts of speculation would arise. They barely got another fifteen feet when they were stopped by Lord and Lady Mowbry with their two daughters.

“Well, Your Grace. This is certainly a treat! Seeing you at the club yesterday, and now in the park.” Lord Mowbry guffawed loud enough to gain the attention of several carriages, whose occupants turned in their direction. Quizzing glasses rose to curious eyes and whispering behind fans commenced.

Bloody hell. Now how did one reply to that statement? He glanced at Lady Phoebe who said, “Lady Mowbry, I simply love your hat. You must tell me where you purchased it.”

The woman preened under Lady Phoebe’s admiration. “’Tis a secret, my dear Lady Phoebe. Well, perhaps not. I found this one at Lock’s. I just love that shop.”

Lady Mowbry zeroed in on Morgan with a steely-eyed look. Looks perfected by mamas with unmarried daughters. “Your Grace, such a pleasure to see you. I am hosting a small soiree next week. I should love for you to join us. I will send an invitation posthaste.”

Morgan nodded and snapped the horses’ ribbons to move forward. “Good day, ladies, Mowbry.”

If this kept up, he would not have the chance to speak with Lady Phoebe at all. Perhaps a ride in the park was not the best thing.

“I don’t believe we will get very far in our ride, Your Grace. It appears all of London is thrilled to see you.”

He shook his head. “I rarely make an appearance. I’ve never been comfortable with,” he grinned at her, “polite conversation.” The devil take it, he’d grinned more since he first saw Lady Phoebe on Oxford Street than he had probably in his entire life. With a quick flip of his wrist, he left the line of carriages and turned back, stopping the promenade to wedge between two carriages going the opposite direction.

“What are you doing?” Lady Phoebe grabbed the side of the carriage as it swung around.

“Leaving the park.”

“Your Grace!” An older woman he knew by sight, but whose name he could not remember, waved at him, actually standing in her carriage. Head down, he pretended not to see her and kept moving. He eased out of that line and turned the horses onto a little-known path to another part of the park. He sped up, as if escaping for his life.

Beside him, Lady Phoebe threw her head back and laughed. “I’m afraid that was not well done of you, Your Grace.”

He glanced over at her, and his insides twisted. Her checks were flushed from the fresh air, her eyes danced with merriment, and her very kissable lips smiled brightly at him. Causing him to smile back.

“Until I learn this polite conversation trick, I think I shall avoid the park. At least during the so-called fashionable hour.”

Once they were about a half mile onto the new path, with no other carriages around, Morgan breathed a sigh of relief. “I had a somewhat singular upbringing.” He had no idea why he brought that up, but he wanted Lady Phoebe to think the best of him and not believe that he was some sort of snob—despite his reputation—or a complete dolt.

“Mother and Father did not want me to attend Eton or Harrow. They had private instructors for me until I went to University.”

“At University you must have mingled with others.”

“Yes and no. By that time I had already earned the reputation of being a bit on the reclusive side. All the young men I met at University had come from either Eton or Harrow and had already formed friendships. I never felt welcome and just ended up doing what one was supposed to do at University—which most young men did not—and tended to my studies.”

He’d never been sorry for his childhood because he didn’t know anything different. Once introduced to Society via University, he’d learned quite quickly that in order to avoid rejection, it was easier to reject others first. Hence, he began his solitary life as The Cold Duke.

To his horror, Lady Phoebe reached over and touched him on his arm, as if to offer sympathy. “I am so sorry, Your Grace.”

No one had offered sympathy to him since he’d been a child. And then it had been rare and offered only by Cook. Quite surprised at his actions, he placed the carriage ribbons in his right hand and covered her small, delicate hand with his large one. “Thank you.”

The carriage came to a rolling stop as he tugged slowly on the ribbons. He studied her face, so beautiful, pure, and open. No coyness or other annoying mannerisms about Lady Phoebe. He wanted more than anything to place his lips on hers but suddenly became conscious of the maid in the seat behind them.

He slapped the reins, and the horses moved forward. Wishing to keep from discussing what had just happened—or had not happened because he remembered his place—he cleared his throat. “My mother is most anxious for me to take a bride and set up my nursery.” He glanced sideways at her. “Duty and all that.”

“Of course. It is the duty of all peers to secure their title. My stepfather was quite relieved when he and Mother had a son a couple of years ago, after his three daughters.”

“Somehow, word got out that this is the Season I will move forward with that plan.”

Lady Phoebe burst out laughing.

Despite not knowing why she laughed, he broke into a grin himself at the joyful sound. “What is so funny?”

She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. “Your Grace, based on your expression, you make seeking a wife sound like a nasty chore to be done and then crossed off your list to move on to the next item.”

He snorted. “It is.” He turned to her. “How am I to find a wife when I have no idea how to go about in Society?”

And, I think I have already found the woman I want, but, of course, Mother doesn’t approve.

Lady Phoebe shook her head. “You have no idea of your appeal. You are a duke. Women will be literally falling at your feet, dropping handkerchiefs, pretending to swoon—hoping you’ll catch them—and worst of all, attempting to have it appear that you have compromised them.”

“But I have a reputation. Men tend to stay away from me. Unless they want something, that is.” With his connections, that seemed to happen quite a bit.

“Women seeking the highest title they can aspire to will have absolutely no qualms about chasing after you.”

His stomach muscles tightened more with each word she spoke. After a few moments, without thinking the entire thing through, he blurted out, “Will you marry me?”