Phoebe stared at the Duke of St. Albans, also known far and wide as The Cold Duke, who had just asked her to marry him. Would this man ever stop surprising her? “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. Did you just ask me to marry you?”

“First of all, please don’t continue to use Your Grace.”

“That is the proper address for a duke.”

“Then try St. Albans.” He shook his head. “No, that makes me sound like a member of the church. Why not call me Morgan? That is my Christian name, although I mostly forget because no one ever calls me Morgan. And second, yes. I did ask you to marry me. I think it is a splendid idea. We get along quite well, and it would keep me from having to go through the horror of courting.”

She sighed and offered him a soft smile. “No.”

He reared back, quite surprised, apparently. “No? Just like that? I thought all you young ladies had a speech prepared to reject a proposal.”

“A serious proposal, yes.”

“Why do you think my proposal was not serious? And might I remind you that you said all young ladies would be falling at my feet.”

Her thoughts finally settling down after his startling question, she was able to give it some thought. Of course her answer would still be no, but somewhere deep inside her a little voice said there was a possibility that her no could turn into a yes. Given the right circumstances.

“I don’t think your proposal was serious because you seem to be more interested in avoiding the horror of courting. Also, you haven’t given it enough thought. And, yes, there will be many young girls falling at your feet because they don’t want you—no offence intended—but your title. If you were an unmarried duke of fourscore with a wart on the end of your nose and foul breath, they would do the same.”

He huffed. “That isn’t very encouraging.”

She placed her hand on his arm. “I do not want to hurt you—”

“—you didn’t,” he snapped. A bit too fast, it seemed.

“—but there is also the fact that I am committed to marrying for love. All of my stepsisters did, as did my mother and stepfather.”

“Love? That is pure nonsense. Marriage has nothing to do with love, and everything to do with connections. I shall never allow such emotional nonsense to enter into my decision as to whom I marry.”

“You see, then? Since you don’t wish for love—in fact, you have professed to have no heart—and I am determined to have love in my marriage, my answer was perfect.”

“I see.” He snapped the ribbons and the horses sped up, and he turned the barouche toward the exit from the park.

Obviously headed to her house, Phoebe sat back and pondered the exchange they just had. She liked St. Albans—Morgan, as he asked her to call him—but she would never give her heart to a man who professed he would never love her in return. What a cold, lonely life it would be. She shook her head. No, even if she believed he was serious in his proposal—and she had her doubts about that—she would not trade her desire for love for an exalted title. Leave that to the girls who cared about those things.

“Since you do not wish for love in your marriage, then your decision should be quite easy. As I stated, most young women would sell their souls to marry you. Just pick the first one who falls into your arms. There will be plenty, I am sure.”

“’Tis not that simple. Even though I am not looking for an emotional attachment, I have to be able to stand having her in my house.”

“Oh, dear. Now you are looking for a woman who you can merely ‘stand’ being in your house.”

Morgan’s lips tightened. “I meant I won’t have a woman who complains all the time, who is always wanting to do things and go places where I must accompany her.”

“So you want to be left alone? As you’ve always been? Just marry any woman you can stand, produce an heir and a spare, and then you will both go your separate ways?”

He actually looked surprised that she saw something wrong with that. ’Twas sad. He deserved more and didn’t even know it. She hated to think that the warm man she’d discovered under his frigid exterior would continue with the cold and lonely life he’d lived to this point. Maybe he would marry someone who he could at least have some affection for eventually.

It was at that moment she decided to make the Duke of St. Albans her project. She would see that whoever he married was a woman worthy of him, not just some greedy, title-snatching shrew who would do exactly what she knew said woman would do.

“Since I turned down your proposal, may I suggest you let me help you find a woman who you can tolerate enough to marry and to whom you would not become emotionally attached?”

“Yes.” It didn’t take him long to answer that question.

“Very well. Lady Montford is hosting a soiree tonight. I planned on attending, and I know you would have an invitation.”

“Most likely. Mother handles those things for me and usually just gives me a list each day of where I need to be that evening. At least she started doing that this Season since she finally convinced me to seek a wife. I’m not so sure if either I am ready to do this or more anxious to have her stop badgering me.”

“Very well. You may escort me, my sister, and my mother to the event. There you will be pleasant, and I will keep my eye open for any young lady that I think would suit and steer her in your direction.”

He huffed. “I am always pleasant.”

She raised her eyebrows. “By pleasant, I mean speaking with people, not merely staring down your nose at them.”

“So now we’re back to polite conversation.”

“Yes. But I will help you.”

He tugged on the ribbons as the barouche came to a stop in front of her townhouse. “Why would you do this?”

“Because I like you. I think you are so much more than what you present to the world. If you insist on no love, then I want to make sure you at least have someone who is kind and won’t make your life miserable.”

“Are you sure you won’t marry me?”

Oh, how she wished she could say yes. It would be quite easy for her to fall in love with this man. But she had no desire to see her heart break when he held her at arm’s length. She shook her head. “No. I am sorry, but I want more from my marriage than you are willing to give.”

He jumped from the vehicle and moved to her side to help her down. “What time shall I call for you this evening?”

“Nine o’clock would be good.”

He walked her up the stairs and bowed as Mason opened the front door. “Until later, my lady.”

* * *

“I did not put Lady Montford’s soiree on your list for this evening.” The Duchess regarded Morgan with her usual condescension.

Morgan poured a brandy from the sideboard and returned to where his mother sat on the settee near the fireplace in the drawing room, settling in the chair across from her.

They had finished their dinner with the usual admonishments from The Duchess throughout about the best way to go about finding a bride suitable for his title. After dressing for the soiree, he had been surprised to see her in the drawing room at this time since she generally retired to her bedchamber before now.

“As you say, but I am not sure because I did not check your list today. I made arrangements to attend the Montford soiree.”

“With whom?”

“Lady Phoebe, Lady Prudence, and Lady Pomeroy.” His stomach muscles tightened, waiting for the coming storm.

“I thought I told you she was unsuitable. She would never uphold the title duchess with sufficient dignity.”

“I am not marrying the girl, Mother, I am merely escorting her and her family to the soiree.”

Mother sniffed. “You know precisely what everyone will think if you all arrive together.”

He swirled the liquor in his glass. “You and Father raised me to believe I didn’t need to worry what others think because my title placed me above them.” He downed the last of his drink and placed the glass on the table in front of him. “Also, I have it on quite good authority that most young ladies of the ton would be thrilled to be my bride, and nothing would stop them from trying until I am solidly betrothed.”

Mother sniffed. “I have a good idea who gave you that crude idea of securing a bride.”

“Most likely you, madam.” He stood and gave her a slight bow. “If you will excuse me, I must leave now if I am to arrive at the Pomeroy townhouse on time.”

He strode from the room, feeling lighthearted at the thought of spending time in Lady Phoebe’s company. It occurred to him that she was most likely the first friend he’d ever had. And that was all she was to him. A friend. One who was willing to help him find a tolerable bride.

Nothing else.

A short time later, he bounded up the steps of her townhouse and was allowed entrance by the butler. “Good evening, Your Grace. The ladies are awaiting you in the drawing room. If you will follow me.”

The townhouse was smaller than his, but still of a good size. A tastefully decorated corridor led them to the drawing room where the three ladies and Lord Pomeroy sat in lively conversation.

“Ah, here he is now.” Lord Pomeroy rose from his seat and walked across the room, his hand held out. Never having had anyone offer to shake his hand before, it felt odd to do so. “I understand you’ve been here for tea, but allow me to welcome to our home, Your Grace.” Pomeroy waved to a chair across from where the ladies sat. “Please have a seat. What can I get you to drink?”

Morgan knew of Pomeroy’s reputation as being a bundle of energy. Most likely that was where Lady Phoebe got her vitality. “A brandy, please.” He flipped back his coattails and took the seat Pomeroy had indicated.

“I must tell you, Your Grace, I am thrilled that you are accompanying the ladies this evening.” He waved in the general area of his family. “I appreciate an evening off. My lovely wife must accompany the ladies as their chaperone and I try to go to as many events as I can stand, but it’s wonderful when I can enjoy a night at home. The perfect situation, of course, would be my wife here with me at home, but until the girls marry, that won’t be too often, during the Season anyway.”

Morgan wondered if the man got enough air. He spoke so much and so rapidly he had a problem keeping up with him. No wonder Lady Phoebe was so well-versed in useless polite conversation. Pomeroy looked at him as if he expected some sort of response to his diatribe.

“Yes. Well, you are very welcome.” He looked at Lady Phoebe, and she immediately stood.

“I believe I will fetch my belongings so we can leave as soon as His Grace has finished his brandy.” She turned to her sister. “Pru, are you coming?”

Lady Prudence stood and shook out her skirts, glancing at her mother.

“You go on, dear. I already brought my things down.”

The girls left the room, and Morgan felt the sweat build on his brow.

“I must also thank you for escorting us tonight, Your Grace.” Lady Pomeroy patted her husband’s thigh—something he had never seen his own mother do all the years his father was alive. “I love letting my husband have a night off.”

Morgan nodded.

Silence fell, and more sweat beaded on his forehead. He took another sip of brandy. Where the devil was Lady Phoebe? She was supposed to help him with this.

“Are you sponsoring any bills this parliamentary session?” Lord Pomeroy leaned back in his seat, resting his arm around his wife’s shoulder.

At last, something he could converse on. “Yes. I am sponsoring a transportation bill.” Since he could not think of anything else to say, he was most grateful when Lady Pomeroy stood. “I see the girls are here.”

Morgan hopped from his seat after downing the last of his brandy.

The hustle and bustle of three women all gathering their belongings, offering kisses to Lord Pomeroy—a very strange habit, indeed—and then making their way to Morgan’s carriage settled him a bit from the time spent alone with Lord and Lady Pomeroy.

The short ride to the Montford home was taken up with Lady Phoebe and her sister chatting away. They had no trouble with polite conversation. Lady Pomeroy added to the discourse every once in a while which left him to his own thoughts.

Appearing with the Pomeroy family tonight after riding in the park with Lady Phoebe was sure to raise speculation, but if Phoebe was correct, it would not deter ladies who might be interested in marriage to him.

In some ways, he wished Phoebe had taken his proposal seriously. Yes, she claimed to want love, but security and friendship would go a long way toward a happy marriage. His parents’ marriage had not been a happy one, and neither had seemed to like the other.

His one conversation with the late duke confirmed what he’d always thought. He’d married his mother for connections and had a mistress all the years of their marriage. He also assured his son that rather than being upset, Mother was more than happy to have Father slake his baser needs on a paid woman.

Now, after spending just a short time with Lady Phoebe and her parents, he wondered if that was the best way to treat a wife. He had the distinct impression that Lady Phoebe would not take kindly to having her husband visit a mistress.

Violence came to mind.

Once they arrived, he stepped out of the carriage first, then turned to help Lady Pomeroy down, then the two young women. He took Lady Pomeroy’s arm, and they made their way up the stairs where they were greeted by a butler and directed to the room where the soiree was to take place.

A less formal affair than a ball, they were not announced but merely joined the guests already assembled.

“Your Grace, how lovely that you elected to join us.” Lady Montford hurried across the room, her arms outstretched. He took her hands in his and bowed. “A pleasure.”

Within minutes, he was surrounded by a bevy of young ladies. And several of their mamas. He ran his finger around the inside of his cravat and looked for Lady Phoebe who stood about ten feet from him.

Grinning.