hall. She took another slow sip in the seconds before he reached her side, then set the cup aside and rose from her seat.
“Your Grace.” She dipped into an elegant curtsy.
He grasped her hand, lifting her to her feet. “Lass, you needn't be so formal, you will soon call me father.” He smiled. “You may begin now, if you wish.”
"You're too kind," she said, then, “Might we speak privately?”
“Of course.” He looked toward the kitchen. “Marinda,” he called to a girl passing by the door, “have tea sent up to my library.”
Phoebe followed him up the stairs and down the long hallway to his library. He opened the door and motioned her in. She entered and seated herself in the chair opposite his desk as he stepped behind his desk and lowered himself into his chair.
Phoebe took a deep breath. "Your Grace, there is something about me you must know. When I was seventeen, I eloped with a man to Gretna Green."
"Seventeen is young to marry," he said.
"My uncle thought so, too, and came after us. I will be blunt. He did not arrive in time."
"In time?"
Phoebe's cheeks warmed. "You must know what I mean."
"I assume your reputation was tarnished?" he asked.
She gave a nod. "With good reason. So you see, your son can't possibly marry a woman like me."
"A woman like you?" There was no mistaking the amusement in his voice, but before she could reply, he added, "No need to worry, Miss Wallington, no one will dare impugn your reputation once you and Kiernan are married."
"Your Grace, a marquess simply does not marry a tarnished woman."
He laughed. "I think a marquess marries anyone he chooses."
"I am certain your son won't be so blasé about the situation."
"Miss Wallington, as Kiernan said last night, you have no choice."
"But society—"
"Society will likely make the Marquess and Marchioness of Ashlund their darlings," he said.
"You—you can't be serious," she breathed.
"Society thrives on just such a story as yours," he replied.
Panic swept through her. Did he really consider himself that far above society's reach? Was there nothing that would sway him, nothing he cared about? She understood all too well society's barbs. She enjoyed parties and received many invitations, but no man of rank would think of offering for her and—she abruptly recalled the Duke's reaction yesterday when he thought she was related to the Wallington he knew. By heavens, the answer was right in front of her. Why hadn't she thought of it before? The duke might think his position put him above society's rules, but even a man of his rank couldn't flout society's view on a woman whose father was wanted for high treason.
Phoebe's stomach twisted as she said, “Your Grace, there is something much more serious than a green girl's mistakes."
His brows rose in polite inquiry.
" When I was a child, my father involved himself with the wrong sorts of men: dissidents, malcontents, murderers. In a word: traitors.” She suddenly realized the irony of the fact that the lie that had enslaved her all her life was about to buy her freedom. “These traitors, along with my father, planned to assassinate a group of nobleman. All but my father were hanged. He escaped and hasn't been heard from since. Your Grace, he is wanted for high treason.”
“High treason,” the duke repeated. “That is serious business."
Hope surged through her. "Indeed it is."
"A very interesting tale,” he said.
“Tale? It's the truth. The incident is known as the Cato Street Conspiracy.”
His forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. “I seem to recall…the Spenceans, correct?”
“Why, yes. I'm surprised you know of it.”
He smiled, the light in his eyes indulgent. “My generation does read the papers.”
Phoebe flushed. “Forgive me. Of course, I-I didn't mean to imply otherwise—oh, surely you see, your son can't marry me?”
“Why not?” said Kiernan MacGregor from the doorway.
Phoebe cursed and, an instant later, when he stood at her side, she
“Your Grace.” She dipped into an elegant curtsy.
He grasped her hand, lifting her to her feet. “Lass, you needn't be so formal, you will soon call me father.” He smiled. “You may begin now, if you wish.”
"You're too kind," she said, then, “Might we speak privately?”
“Of course.” He looked toward the kitchen. “Marinda,” he called to a girl passing by the door, “have tea sent up to my library.”
Phoebe followed him up the stairs and down the long hallway to his library. He opened the door and motioned her in. She entered and seated herself in the chair opposite his desk as he stepped behind his desk and lowered himself into his chair.
Phoebe took a deep breath. "Your Grace, there is something about me you must know. When I was seventeen, I eloped with a man to Gretna Green."
"Seventeen is young to marry," he said.
"My uncle thought so, too, and came after us. I will be blunt. He did not arrive in time."
"In time?"
Phoebe's cheeks warmed. "You must know what I mean."
"I assume your reputation was tarnished?" he asked.
She gave a nod. "With good reason. So you see, your son can't possibly marry a woman like me."
"A woman like you?" There was no mistaking the amusement in his voice, but before she could reply, he added, "No need to worry, Miss Wallington, no one will dare impugn your reputation once you and Kiernan are married."
"Your Grace, a marquess simply does not marry a tarnished woman."
He laughed. "I think a marquess marries anyone he chooses."
"I am certain your son won't be so blasé about the situation."
"Miss Wallington, as Kiernan said last night, you have no choice."
"But society—"
"Society will likely make the Marquess and Marchioness of Ashlund their darlings," he said.
"You—you can't be serious," she breathed.
"Society thrives on just such a story as yours," he replied.
Panic swept through her. Did he really consider himself that far above society's reach? Was there nothing that would sway him, nothing he cared about? She understood all too well society's barbs. She enjoyed parties and received many invitations, but no man of rank would think of offering for her and—she abruptly recalled the Duke's reaction yesterday when he thought she was related to the Wallington he knew. By heavens, the answer was right in front of her. Why hadn't she thought of it before? The duke might think his position put him above society's rules, but even a man of his rank couldn't flout society's view on a woman whose father was wanted for high treason.
Phoebe's stomach twisted as she said, “Your Grace, there is something much more serious than a green girl's mistakes."
His brows rose in polite inquiry.
" When I was a child, my father involved himself with the wrong sorts of men: dissidents, malcontents, murderers. In a word: traitors.” She suddenly realized the irony of the fact that the lie that had enslaved her all her life was about to buy her freedom. “These traitors, along with my father, planned to assassinate a group of nobleman. All but my father were hanged. He escaped and hasn't been heard from since. Your Grace, he is wanted for high treason.”
“High treason,” the duke repeated. “That is serious business."
Hope surged through her. "Indeed it is."
"A very interesting tale,” he said.
“Tale? It's the truth. The incident is known as the Cato Street Conspiracy.”
His forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. “I seem to recall…the Spenceans, correct?”
“Why, yes. I'm surprised you know of it.”
He smiled, the light in his eyes indulgent. “My generation does read the papers.”
Phoebe flushed. “Forgive me. Of course, I-I didn't mean to imply otherwise—oh, surely you see, your son can't marry me?”
“Why not?” said Kiernan MacGregor from the doorway.
Phoebe cursed and, an instant later, when he stood at her side, she
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