f Salop, had left for England the week before. The second carriage would be empty, as Phoebe had traveled alone with her maid. And the other two held all their traveling trunks and servants. There was no fuss or stirring from the front carriage when the second coach stopped, and a footman assisted her inside.
The warmth that enveloped her was immediate, and with a gusty sigh, she sat on the well-padded seats. Sarah perched in front of her, and none of the footmen uttered a protest when she ordered Wolf into the carriage and onto the seats beside her. Phoebe reached for the basket loaded with more food than she and Sarah could eat and proceeded to carefully feed the dog the cooked meat, which he scarfed down without any hesitation.
“I confess I am not at all pleased to return to London,” she said to Wolf after he had eaten the last slice of meat. She patted her lap. Her maid cast her a glance of horror, as if the beast would attack her lady at any moment.
The dog considered her for a long time before he shifted closer and rested his head in her lap.
“Good boy. We shall be wonderful friends! Although I think we will have to arrange a bath for you when we reach wherever we are staying tonight.” With a sigh, she confessed, “If not for dear George, I think I would run away. Or perhaps we should elope together and damn the scandal!”
“Please, milady,” Sarah began fretfully. “It is not wise to keep thinking about the young sir. The duchess…” Her lady’s maid parted the carriage curtain and peeked outside as if to ensure the duchess was not mystically perched listening to their conversation. “The duchess must not know you have a tendre for each other!”
To Phoebe’s mind, Mr. George Hastings was a perfectly respectable and accomplished young man, but although he came from a well-connected family, he could not be thought a sufficiently eligible husband for a duke’s daughter. They had been friends since they were children, and lately there had been softer emotions bubbling between them. “He loves me, Sarah,” Phoebe murmured. “And I daresay the warmth that fills me whenever I see him will soon grow to mean so much more. I am certain of it!”
“Pish! Love is not ‘warm!’”
Phoebe frowned and shifted on the carriage seat. “Then what is it like, since you’ve experienced it?”
Sarah flushed, pink blossoming on her cheeks, and glanced away momentarily. “That hardly matters. Mr. Hastings is only the second son of a viscount! You know of the duchess’s grand aspirations, so why do you persist in vexing her, milady?”
Phoebe brushed aside the carriage curtains and peered at the rolling landscape dotted with snow. It was proving extremely difficult to convince her mama she did not wish to marry the Earl of Dumont. It only mattered that Dumont was powerful, wealthy, and the connections of their family would be considered by society to be very well matched. Over these six weeks spent on a prolonged holiday with her parents, Phoebe had tried not to think of her impending marriage announcement but only how to escape that predicament. Phoebe was dreadfully tired of pretending to be the obedient, unthinking social butterfly her mother insisted she should be at all times.
She might have only seen eighteen years of life, but there was a desperate need inside Phoebe to enjoy a fulfilling life. And that was not done by merrily walking into the dastardly traps the duke and duchess had set for her.
I shall find a way to escape it…I shall!
Chapter One
Five months and three days later…
Mulberry Park, Derbyshire
A man advertising in a newssheet for a wife was decidedly unexpected, shocking, and alarming under any circumstances, yet to Lady Phoebe’s mind, this one had a bit of peculiar humor added to its sheer outrageousness.
A gentleman of distinction and wealth hereby seeks a woman of good sense, with an amiable and proper temperament, for marriage. This person must be a lady of quality, be familiar with the intricate workings of the haute ton, and be able to introduce others within society confidently. This lady will be required to host many balls, charitable and political dinners, and other events. While attractiveness would be a boon, it is not a stiff requirement. This lady must be the sensible, practical sort and not prone to dramatics or the swooning type. She is to be from a respectable family with no scandal attached to her name. Respectable/influential and dependable connections are an asset; however, wealth is not necessary.
Those interested may reply to the address below, and further instructions will follow. Please note that each response will be thoroughly vetted before an offer is made.
Kind regards.
“Why, I cannot credit it! The gall of this supposed gentleman is too much,” Phoebe gasped, laughing at the sheer audacity and scandalous nature of seeking a wife in this manner instead of wading through the marriage mart. And how relieved she was that such levity could enter her heart when dread had been a constant occupant these last few months.
She hurriedly scanned the pages of the newssheet to see if this was the only one of its kind. This man was unpardonable. Advertising for a wife for all of society to see and speculate upon? The poor woman, whomever she might prove to be, would have a hard time recovering from the wagging tongues of her peers. How hard would it be for one to uncover the true identity of this gentleman of distinction and wealth? His very actions invited scrutiny and scandal, yet he would dare demand his future wife to have no scandal attached to her name.
You hypocrite!
Phoebe bit into the bilberry tart and, with some amusement, noted the return address in the advert. This gentleman, if she could think of him as such, truly expected a well-born lady to respond to his outrageousness. He deserved a scathing set down! The idea made her laugh once more.
“Phoebe!” her mother scolded, lifting her attention from the picture she was diligently embroidering. It was gaudy and not very well designed, but at least it looked like she was doing something correctly feminine.
“I’ve told you several times that such an unfettered laugh is quite unbecoming—”
“Of the daughter of a duke,” Phoebe ended, mentally rolling her eyes while carefully lowering the newssheet. She wondered if he was English or Scottish. The latter would explain his lack of tact and propriety. Her mama often lamented while in Scotland how lacking the people’s refinement and manners when compared to the English. Phoebe often yearned for such relaxation in the social niceties, thinking their forthright manner very welcoming.
Feeling the fiery burn of her mother’s glare, she said, “I understand, Mama. I read the most diverting piece in this week’s Gazette’s advert and momentarily forgot your graceful teachings.”
Her slender shoulder stiffened. “Is it about your brother?”
“No, Mama…” Phoebe said softly. “Not every scandal is about Richard. And I daresay the sheets that mention him usually have the wrong of it.”