“I’ve always thought you too close with this boy, and you were willful enough to behave in such a wanton manner. We will not allow this marriage to take place.”
The duchess went to the oak desk, retrieved a decanter with amber liquid, walked over to George, and rudely splashed some of its contents in his face. His lashes fluttered open, and it was with some confusion that he swiped a hand across his cheek. He fumbled to his feet and tugged at his cravat. “Your Graces…I…”
“Mr. Hastings, you will accept a draft of five thousand pounds, and you will never darken our doorstep again or dare to speak with our daughter. Is that understood?”
A fortune for a second son who only ever had the hope of entering the clergy or the Royal Academy of Music. Phoebe wanted to weep at the pain and disappointment she saw in his dark eyes.
“Your Grace,” he began softly. “I implore you—”
“Eight thousand pounds, Mr. Hastings,” the duchess interjected with chilling incivility.
His eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. “I sincerely love Lady Phoebe—”
“Ten thousand pounds!”
The words fell like acid against her skin. “Mama, please!” Phoebe cried, humiliation crawling through her. “Please stop.” Because there was a slowly burgeoning fear in her heart that her mother’s outlook on the world, that money was the solution to every problem, could find root today in the library. Immediate guilt seared her for having so little faith in George.
He drew himself up as if he were affronted, and her heart lightened. Once he was resolute, she would fight with him, for days, weeks, if necessary.
He raked his fingers through his sandy hair and expelled an ungentlemanly sigh of frustration. “Your Graces—”
“Come, man, name your price!” her father snapped, his voice a whip. “And let us be done with this crass haggling; it is unbecoming and distasteful!”
George flushed and quickly glanced away from Phoebe. The daring words to rebuke her father hovering on her tongue died at that flash of guilt. “George?”
He did not regard her, only stared at the scrubbed tip of his well-polished boot. A cold chill of warning sliced through her.
“Twenty thousand pounds,” he said so softly, she wondered if she had heard correctly. But then he squared his shoulders and looked beyond her father’s shoulder to a spot on the green and gold drapes. “Twenty thousand pounds, Your Grace.”
His voice echoed with misery and shame, and he diligently looked at those drapes and not in her direction. Phoebe’s heart became a roar in her ears, and she almost crumbled to the floor. And now she felt unbearably foolish. Her throat burned, though she did her best to not cry. Betrayal burned through her heart like a poison-tipped knife. They had been dear friends for so long. She could still recall the first time they met more than ten years ago, the many days they had run barefoot through the meadows and swam in the lake that abutted their estates.
Phoebe had been so certain of their friendship…and budding l
ove. On so many occasions, with the utmost adoration and flattery, he had confessed his love. Every stare as they sat and played the pianoforte together had always communicated longing and admiration. But apparently all of that had a price. Twenty thousand pounds.
A feeling she had never endured before erupted inside her chest, and it was raw and powerful enough where a soft moan of denial against it rose in her throat. But she bit it back, fierce pride holding her tongue from demanding an explanation. It would not do for George and her parents to see her emotions so exposed, certainly her vulnerability would invite a scathing and critical remark.
“Done!” her father said, walking around to his desk and withdrawing a sheaf of paper and an inkwell.
Unable to witness her father writing the order for his solicitors to prepare the draft, Phoebe whirled away from the sight. George was staring at her with regret and some sort of determination.
“They will never allow us to marry,” he said softly. “I…I am deeply sorry…”
The carefree days of happiness and a simple life she had envisioned shattered. The realization that she was ruined in every way settled on her shoulders. “You are a coward, Mr. Hastings…one without honor…and I…I was a reckless fool who trusted in your empty words.”
He jerked as if she had slapped him, and his face flushed a ruddy red.
Phoebe was afraid of speaking more, afraid her voice would break. She pressed two fingers to her lips, shook her head wordlessly, and hurried from the library.
I am irrevocably ruined… Oh, what am I to do?
She raced up the stairs to her bedroom, calling for Wolf as she entered her chamber. He streaked in behind her, and when Phoebe collapsed onto the bed, he was there, butting against her chin and rumbling comfortingly low in his chest. The sound soothed her, and Phoebe gently rubbed her gloved fingers behind Wolf’s ear.
“My lady,” Sarah said anxiously, lowering the dress she had been hanging in the armoire and making her way over to Phoebe. “You look very pale. Should I send for the doctor?”
“No.” Then to Phoebe’s horror, a raw sob tore from her throat before she quickly contained the emotion. “I only have one wish in life. And that is to live my days happily. I do not think that is an unreasonable desire.” And how silly she had been to write of those hopes to a stranger who seemed like he had the right of it—sentiments were for fools.
“Not unreasonable, milady,” Sarah said soothingly, her pale gray eyes glowing her worry.