Her mother gave her a sharp, dismissive look before adjusting her own necklace. “Oh, Phoebe. Must you make a scene at every turn? You will find, in life, that sentiment does not weigh as much as currency or status.”
Phoebe blinked at her, struggling to understand. “But that necklace was given to me by Grandfather! It bears his name. It matters to me greatly.”
Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. “The little token from your grandfather might matter toyou, perhaps. But sacrifices must be made. We had to raise your dowry, and that required selling many possessions. Including that trinket, you treasured so much.”
Phoebe gaped at her mother.
“Close your mouth, Daughter,” the Countess commanded, then she sent a disdainful look at Clara. “And get up, will you?”
The lady’s maid, who had also been staring wide-eyed at her mistress, obeyed the order hurriedly.
Phoebe felt a wave of helplessness wash over her. Her mother, in a small cruel flourish, touched her own neck, glittering with jewels that had never been sold. “There, you see? I did not part with my possessions. But your things… your little fancies… we were more than happy to sell them.”
Phoebe’s knees went weak. She sank onto the edge of her bed, staring at the floor, trying to hold herself together. “But it was irreplaceable.”
Her mother waved her off. “Irreplaceable? Child, you will have more jewelry than you could wear in a lifetime once you are married and settled outside of this house.”
Phoebe’s hands clenched into fists. The loss felt heavier than anything she had experienced, because it was proof of how expendable she truly was in her family’s eyes.
As expendable as any silver item to be pawned away and sold to the highest bidder.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lord Robyn, the second son of the Marquess of Thrumberg, arrived shortly after noon, and the moment he stepped into the sitting room, the air seemed to shift.
Phoebe recalled meeting him last night at Lady Brennan’s party. Of course, she did. How could she forget the young man who had been foisted upon her by not just her mother, but her father as well? It seemed that every time she turned around, Lord Robyn stood before her, trying to make polite, if a tad stilted conversation.
Spending time with this gentleman was a step up from being with Lord Birchwood, but he could not hold a candle to the Duke of Talwyn. Lord Robyn was young, perhaps four or five and twenty, just a year or two older than Phoebe herself. He had brown hair the color of an oak’s tree bark, and despite the tension in the room, he wore an anxious, twitchy smile on his pale face.
Phoebe forced herself to stand taller, to meet his gaze with a measured composure. Her parents hovered behind her, expectant and taut, their eyes like hawks. She could feel how they were ready to correct her every misstep, and say whatever was necessary to propel the conversation.
“Lady Phoebe,” he began, voice smooth, youthful, and delicate, “I have come to make my intentions known. My visit is informal, of course, but I hope it may be received with due consideration.” He inclined his head slightly; the gesture polite yet edged with a hint of trepidation. “I find you… most intriguing, and it is my desire to make a proposal that is mutually beneficial to all parties concerned.”
Phoebe stared at the man in disbelief. He had only met her last night. What would possess him to offer her his hand in marriage after such a short acquaintance?
She was so stymied that she meant to ask these questions and more, simply so she might hear his explanations, but then she heard her mother’s breath hitch behind her and her father surged forward to stand at her side. He gripped her elbow tightly and Phoebe could do nothing more than wince.
“Your accomplishments are noteworthy,” Lord Robyn continued in a tone that made it sound as if he were reading from a script. And perhaps, he was, for Phoebe knew she had no accomplishments to claim, other than her writing.
Even then, only a handful of people knew about her stories, and those friends and loved ones would not have shared her secrets with this young gentleman.
He ploughed ahead, oblivious of the strained smile Phoebe pressed upon her face.
“Your demeanor, your education, your refinement, all these mark you as a suitable companion for a man of position. And yet…” His eyes flicked toward her parents. “…recent events have caused a minor inconvenience.” The words landed like carefully sharpened stones. “The incident with Birchworth has been gossiped relentlessly. It is unfortunate that you were aligned with such a criminal, but I have been assured that, in time, all will be forgotten and made whole.”
He cast another look at the Earl and Countess. Phoebe could feel it with her father gave the young man an approving nod.
So, Lord Robyn continued. “Naturally, your parents have guaranteed me that you have a proper dowry. It is, or rather will be, sufficient to restore the family’s honor in the eyes of my peers.”
Phoebe’s pulse quickened. The weight of expectation pressed on her chest, but she drew in a slow, steadying breath.
When his gaze returned to her, she met it squarely.
“I am grateful for your consideration, sir,” she said, her voice quiet, yet firm and controlled. “And I understand the practicalities of such arrangements. However,” She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, “I cannot accept a marriage based solely on convenience, financial gain, or to remedy the embarrassment of others. Therefore, I thank you for the offer, but I must graciously decline.”
Lord Robyn’s eyes grew wide. It was evident that her response astounded him. She realized it was likely her parents had promised that she would be amenable to this arrangement and had even gone so far as to guarantee that his entreaty would not be met with resistance. A flicker of surprise passed across his features, though he immediately masked it with composed calm.
“You refuse?” His voice was low, steady, but there was an unmistakable edge of incredulity. “You are aware of the consequences, Lady Phoebe. You understand the financial and social obligations that weigh on your family. Your refusal does not occur in a vacuum.”
