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.”
Though Richard was the future duke of Salop and the current Marquess Westfall, he was not welcomed in her father’s residences and was currently shunned socially by society. Society’s hypocrisy knew no bounds, because Phoebe was aware that when her father died, they would rush to Richard’s side as the new duke to fawn and flatter him.
“A gentleman of wealth and distinction advertises for a wife! Have you ever heard something so notorious in the ton? Surely he must know the scandal it will incite, especially if his identity is uncovered?”
Her mother pursed her lips but did not deign a reply. Presumably, such matters were far too below her to warrant the duchess’s comments. Phoebe suppressed her smile and eagerly lowered her attention to the newssheet, searching for any more scandalous mentions. Her mouth dried, and tension wound through her as she spied a mention of her brother, the Marquess of Westfall.
Phoebe sighed with relief when she noted it was only a mention that he had appeared at a ball with his ravishing marchioness and that he had scandalously danced with his wife three times.
“How shocking,” she muttered drolly, once again finding the antics of the ton tolerably amusing. It was with that unexpected humor lingering in her heart that she called for a quill, the inkwell, and papers to be set up on a smaller table. Once she was seated before the small desk, she dipped the quill into the inkpot and wrote to the scoundrel who thought it acceptable to advertise for a wife. It would give her a measure of satisfaction to take him to task for his outrageousness, given that she doubted highly another lady might do so.
Phoebe left no forwarding address and gave instruction to the footman to have the letter delivered post-haste and that he should await a reply if said gentleman desired to send one.
To her discredit, she could not help but anticipate hearing from the rude man.
…
A few days later, Phoebe was astonished when the butler delivered a letter to her upon a silver slaver in the palatial library of her home. The book she’d been reading, Ivanhoe Walter Scott, was quickly forgotten when Mr. Martin indicated the man had paid her rider to bear his letter to her and even awaited her reply.
Though she’d hoped, Phoebe hadn’t much expected an answer to her scathing letter.
Dear Curious Lady,
I’ll not thank you for your aggrieved letter or waste my time with polite sallies. I can conceive of nothing more tiresome than inane pleasantries, especially those of the hypocritical variety. I find I am similarly compelled to reply to your…boldness. A wife is a helpmate, who will run her husband’s household well, educate any children on propriety befitting their station in life, and should endeavor to keep her husband company loyally. Love has little to do with it. If not for the most pressing circumstances, I believe I would have tried my hand at wooing, though I cannot say I would have done so by long walks and reciting poetry. I am not sure what that would reveal other than that I have sturdy legs and can read.
By the by, given your lack of returned address, I’ve prevailed upon your servant to deliver my letter to you and return your replies to me should you have any. I shall pay him handsomely for his efforts.
Yours,
A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth.
His reply was the precursor to several exchanges over the next few weeks. Phoebe’s hand trembled, with a sense of thrill, when she had replied,
Dear A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth,
Loyalty is not a substitute for warmth and affection. Would you not find having a wife who only esteemed you for your wealth and connections insupportable?
Dear Curious Lady,
I would find such a wife sincere in her requirements. But is this not the way of society? To marry for connections and status? What else should be on my criteria?
Sincerely, A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth.
Dear A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth,
Love and friendship. How can one exist within marriage without joy and happiness?
Sincerely, A Curious Lady.
Dear Curious Lady,
Love, you astonished me. The bold and brave manner in which you scolded me erroneously encouraged me to believe you a creature of logic and pragmatism. I was evidently quite mistaken, for I formed the opinion that you could be a lady who is beyond certain whimsy. I see I was wrong. You are fanciful…a person who believes in the romantic notion of love and courtship. I confess I neither believe nor disbelieve in such sentiments. I frankly admit I am indifferent to emotion and believe it has no place in a marriage. One does not really marry for affection. Marriages are a business and political unions. They are made for practical reasons, and I hope for a wife with similar leanings.
Sincerely, A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth.
Phoebe folded the most recent letter she’d received from the man seeking a wife and attended to the scrumptious fare. Cook had outdone herself by baking one of Phoebe’s favorite cakes for the breakfast table this morning. It astonished her the degree to which she anticipated receiving a letter from the mysterious gentleman. She often found her thoughts distracted with questions as to his identity and why he was away from society. She did not believe him to be a man with a title. Perhaps a merchant, a tradesman, or a wealthy landowner.
Yet why was he so indifferent to love?
Who are you, and why am I so curious about you?
She pondered her reply and was pouring hot chocolate into a teacup when the door opened, and their butler entered.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Martin said to her mother after dipping into a slight bow. “His Grace sends his apologies on not being able to keep his promise of breaking his fast with you and Lady Phoebe this morning. Mr. Hastings requested a most urgent meeting, and it cannot be ignored.”
Her belly flipping alarmingly, Phoebe carefully poured the hot chocolate, praying her face was composed. Mr. George Hastings, one of her dearest friends, was two hours early, and an almost sick feeling tightened low in her stomach. He was to ask her father to marry her. They had carefully planned every word he was to utter today. Her happiness…their happiness depended on every word he would say to her father.
The duchess glanced at her sharply. “Do you know what this is about, Phoebe?”
“I couldn’t say,” she murmured, taking a sip of the delicious brew. “My lessons begin today at ten. Mr. Hastings did not mention yesterday that he would arrive early.”
Somewhat the truth. She did not like fibbing to her mother, but it was entirely necessary.
“Mr. Hastings is waiting on His Grace in the drawing room,” the butler said, and Phoebe knew it was directed at her. Mr. Martin had seen her and George in an intimate embrace a few weeks prior, and to her shock, he had not reported them to the duke and duchess.
“If you’ll excuse me, Mama. I’ll visit the music room and practice a sonata I’ve wanted Mr. Hastings to hear.”
The duchess’s lips flattened. “I cannot fathom why your father does not dismiss that boy. You’ve outshined him on the pianoforte for years now, and he is no longer fit to be called the master and you the student. I saw the manner in which he dared to smile at you when I passed by the music room at your last lesson.”
Phoebe’s breath caught. The door to the music room was always held ajar, and a footman would stand just outside that open door. They had been careful to observe the proprieties since that night a few weeks ago. “Mama…”
“Mr. Hastings is not the sort of man a young lady of your connections and propriety should extend the smallest encouragement! I will speak with your father about terminating his services. Today will be his last lesson.” Her mother sniffed before inclining her head in agreement to Phoebe’s departure.
She hurried toward her father’s library as if Dante’s hounds of hells chased her, needing to know what George would say to her father. Phoebe planned to shamelessly eavesdrop! She knocked, and when his voice did not answer, Phoebe opened the door and slipped inside. Hurrying over to the floor to ceiling windows, she slipped behind the partially drawn drapes just as the door opened once more.
Closing her eyes tightly, she whispered, “Thank you!” to the heavens.
Within the murmuring, she discerned her father’s and George’s voices. Courage, my dear George, courage.
Phoebe held her breath as a terrible anticipation coursed through her. She was pressed up against the wide windows facing the palatial gardens of her father’s estate, and massive dark green drapes hid her from the tableau unfolding in the library.
“What is it, man? Speak up!” her father snapped quite impatiently, a manner to which Phoebe was long accustomed.
How she wished she could peek and see where they stood, though she could imagine her father behind his large oak desk, his arms folded across his chest, his handsome yet stern face creased with annoyance.
“If you would oblige me…I…have something of utmost importance to discuss with you, Your Grace.”
“So your note said,” her father replied, his voice low and hard. “I granted you this audience because you used words such as ‘dire’ and ‘ruinous’ along with my daughter’s name!”
Deftly slipping her fingers through the slit in the drapes, she parted it and peered at the man whom she’d promise to wed and her father, the Duke of Salop. George flushed, tugged at his cravat as if it constrained his breathing. She was certain she heard his gulp of dread from where she stood. Warmth passed through her, and she wished she could stand beside him, lace their fingers together, and assure him all would be well.
“I…I would like permission to request your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Phoebe held her breath. George had not done it right. First, he should have laid out the advantage of such a match, though there was little in the minds of her parents, then make his offer with a heavy hint or threat that they must wed. The implication of intimacy would be enough for her very proper, albeit ruthless, father to give his consent.
“I beg your pardon?”
Phoebe clenched her fists tight. Whenever her father’s tone lowered in such a manner, even her mother, a woman who was sure of her place in this world and quite arrogant, hesitated. However, George bravely plowed ahead.
“Lady Phoebe and I have been the best of friends for more than ten years. We love each other…and I would like your blessings to marry her. I am the son of a viscount, and I am not without connections, Your Grace. I informed my father…my father yesterday of our attachment, and he is very pleased with this match.”
Very good, George, she encouraged silently. A mention of others knowing of their attachment would cause a scandal if they were not allowed to marry.
A silence that seemed fraught with peril blanketed the library. She waited, her nerves jagged and raw, twisting her fingers together.
“I believe I will take pleasure in burying you for your unmitigated gall,” her father said with lethal softness. “The second son of a viscount, requesting the hand of the daughter of a duke. How laughably ridiculous. Your family is not fit to lick my bloody boot heels!”
George paled and cast a desperate glance at the door. Unable to bear him facing her father alone, she pushed aside the curtain and hurried forward. “Papa, forgive me for barging in, but I dared to because this matter is of the utmost importance!”
George seemed ready to faint, his eyes downcast and his cheeks reddened. And her father’s mien was coldly furious and unforgiving.
Phoebe was quiet for a moment. “Papa,” she said, hating that her voice shook. “Please—”
“Be silent! There will be disagreeable consequences as a result of your willful ways!”
She flinched at the sharpness of his tone but resolutely lifted her chin. “I fear I cannot be silent, Papa, and I must speak about my hope for a future with…G…with Mr. Hastings.”
“Why would you conceive to even ask this of me and your mother when you know the expectations we have of you?” the duke demanded, leveling his icy glare at her. “A marriage between you both is quite unthinkable by our family’s standard.”
Because we are best friends, and because of a night of celebration that led to too many shared intimacies. To her mortification, she hardly remembered that night when they had secretly met in the alcove in the garden, laughing like loons because George had received a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Music. It had been her idea to take down the sherry and the two glasses from her father’s study and meet him when the household had gone to bed.
They had drunk and drunk…and it had been some mad wildness and rebellion in her which had encouraged her to lean forward and kiss George on the mouth. Phoebe recalled the awkward kissing, the sweet, shy way they had undressed each other while giggling, the warmth which had unfurled in her chest when he promised to care for her always. There had been some fumbling, a mild discomfort, and then George stammering that on their wedding night it would be much better. Phoebe had been bemused and terribly disappointed that the passion poets wrote about was so unmemorable. Despite being a bit addled by the sherry, Phoebe believed that deep in her heart she had wanted such an outcome, for then the aging earl would no longer be a marriage prospect. And then she would be allowed to live a life that would most certainly bring happiness to her heart and home.
“Mr. Hastings loves me, and I also hold deep affections for him. We must be married, Papa,” she said bravely, hating how furiously her heart pounded.
The duke stiffened, disbelief widening his dark golden eyes. “You are ruined?”
Phoebe closed her eyes, a flush mounting on her cheeks. “Papa, please, I—”
A loud crash jerked her eyes open. A carafe rested in broken pieces on the carpet, and liquid dribbled down the wall by the fireplace. The icy fury on the duke’s face was one she had never seen. A thud sounded, and she glanced down to see that George had fainted. Her heart pounded, and her throat went tight with pain and worry.
The door opened, and her mother sailed inside to pause in dismay. “Winston!” she cried, her hand fluttering to her chest. “What is happening?”
“Close the door,” her father said in a very disagreeable manner.
The duchess complied then sauntered toward them. She stared at George for a moment then at Phoebe and the shattered glass on the ground. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Your daughter…our willful, stupid daughter, has allowed herself to be ruined by…” Her father closed his eyes.
The duchess sucked in a sharp breath. “Ruined?”
Phoebe clasped her fingers tightly together around her middle. She thought she had prepared for her parents’ reaction to the news. She felt terribly frightened.
The duchess rounded on her. “You will refute your father’s scandalous supposition this instant!”
“Mr. Hastings and I…we…we…” How difficult it was to say with her parents looking on. “We’ve kissed…and…and…” The sensibilities she had thought long abandoned reared their heads, and she blushed.
The duchess straightened her shoulders. “Whatever foolish thing you did will not be discussed or considered going forward! You will wed Lord Dumont, and you have simply proven that we should have forced this marriage weeks ago instead of allowing you to enjoy the season!”
An awful sensation lodged itself in the vicinity of Phoebe’s heart. Her parents had not been so benevolent as to allow her to enjoy the season, but that the earl still had a few weeks to come out of mourning. They were very considerate about what was proper and would never condone announcing an engagement while his second wife had gone on to her rewards less than a year ago. Phoebe had been living with such anxiety and dread, counting down the months then weeks to when her engagement would be announced. The days of living with such anxiety and fear had taken a toll, and Phoebe desperately wanted something…anything to be different.
“Mama, are you so determined to marry me to Lord Dumont that you will overlook that Mr. Hastings and I…that we are compromised? How can you be so indifferent to the future state of my happiness?”
The duchess directed a quelling look at her. “You will be allowed to marry wherever you wish when the earl is dead. If fate is kind to you, he will go on to his rewards in a few years’ time. There is a rumor that he has a weak heart.”
Her mother’s cruel and icy words pierced Phoebe’s heart deeply. “Do I mean so little to you, Mama? I am simply a tool to be bartered to support our wealth and holdings? What of my happiness and contentment in life?”
Her mother walked over to her, and before Phoebe realized her intention, a harsh slap landed on her face. Fire exploded in her cheek, and with a gasp, she pressed her hand to the left side of her face.
She didn’t dare breathe. “Mama?”
“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 love. 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.
Phoebe’s late brother, Francis, had held a similar hope in his heart, and in his last days he’d sunk into deep despondency as he’d been forced to agree to marry the woman their mother had selected. However, the fiancée was not the one who deeply held his heart. Her brother had died without the woman he loved by his side. And the worst of it was that he had called for her in his delirium, but their mother had forbidden anyone from acting on the request.
Phoebe still recalled the terror she felt sneaking out in the dead of the night, with only a scared Sarah by her side, as they had made their way to Mayfair Square to knock on Miss Minerva Tilby’s door. But it had all been in vain. Hating to recall how Miss Tilby had wept when she discovered Francis’s death, Phoebe forcefully shut the memories away. “Am I silly and capricious for desiring such happiness?” she asked the dog.
Unexpectedly, Wolf nudged her chin, and an odd rumble came from his throat. “Really?” she asked. “Do you think I should defy Father and do everything to secure my own future?”
Sarah gasped and looked worriedly behind her at the closed door before facing Phoebe. “I do not think this creature implied anything of the sort, milady!”
“His name is Wolf.” Phoebe smiled tearily when the dog rumbled again. “I think he did, didn’t you, my boy?”
Another deep, lazy rumble, then it licked her chin.
“You are right,” Phoebe murmured with a shaky laugh. “I am Phoebe Maitland! Daughters of dukes do not allow fear to master their lives! We do not succumb to self-pity and despair or the coercion of others. We must be smart…and witty…and outwit those who wish to control our lives as if we have no thoughts of our own!”
Sarah sounded as if she was choking, but Phoebe paid her no heed.
“Why am I not able to choose?” Phoebe whispered into Wolf’s neck. “Am I not a person who bleeds and cries and has hopes?”
“You are distraught. I will go call for a warm bath and some tea,” Sarah said, hurrying from the chamber.
“I must keep fighting, mustn’t I, Wolf?”
Wolf rumbled his agreement, though it could just be that he found pleasure in her rubbing behind his ear. Richard had often scolded her that her capacity for recklessness was truly unmatched. Of course, Phoebe did not agree with that assessment; she simply did not accept that Papa, Mama, and society’s opinions must direct her entire life.
To most in society, it was inconceivable that there were young ladies who dared to step out from under the restrictions their families and society dictated. But to her mind, if every lady in society had allowed themselves to be controlled by the collective group of society, then surely famous ladies whom Phoebe admired such as Mary Wollstonecraft, Charlotte Lamb, and Lady Hester Stanhope wouldn’t have rebelled against expectations and inspired so many young ladies of society to aspire for individuality. Why, if Caroline Herschel had followed the persuasion of her mother, she would have been a well-trained servant, and not a woman of great intellect who discovered eight comets!
How do I escape the future you’ve plotted for me, Papa?
Could she go to her brother? Richard had his own worries and battles to fight, so how could she think to burden him with her problems? And if Phoebe were honest, she was afraid to create a deeper rift between Richard and her parents. She felt like she had no one to turn to with all the doubts, anxiety, and pain that were a constant pressure on her heart. Phoebe was hurting and confused. And she felt utterly alone, a state she had existed in since Francis died and Richard had cut all ties with the duke and duchess.
Francis had died far too young, Richard had been labeled a scoundrel, and so the family had reinvested their hopes in her. And that hope rested on her making an eligible and proper match, one they could exploit for their politics and influence in the realm. Her parents were constantly involved in political chess with the powers that be and were quite determined to carve more influence for the Maitland family. Everything they did, even deciding which ball to attend, seemed to be carefully plotted and executed because it mattered who would be in attendance.
At times, Phoebe wished she had been able to escape as Richard had. He had stormed from their clutches by forging his destiny, damning all consequences. But of course, it was different for Phoebe. She had been reared with the benefits of an excellent education, which had alarmingly paid close attention to propriety, duty, and obedience. Aristocratic ladies did not dare to chart their destinies or fall head long in love with a gentleman of their own choice.
Heaven forbid we should have dreams and desires of our own.