Phoebe was grateful for that, but she could not seem to sort out her own conflicting emotions. A part of her rejoiced at the thought of being married to the man she loved. She longed to seize the opportunity. She wanted him as she had never wanted anyone or anything in her life.

But another part of her was extremely uneasy. She had no indication yet that Gabriel truly loved her. She was very much afraid he was making his offer out of a desire to protect her from the sort of incident that had occurred yesterday.

It was highly probable that Gabriel was marrying her out of a misguided sense of chivalry.

True, he was rather fond of her, she was certain of that much. He gave every indication of being physically attracted to her. And they did have interests in common.

But there had been no talk of love.

Phoebe glanced at the clock. It was almost three-thirty, What on earth was there to talk about that took half an hour? she wondered.

She got to her feet and began pacing the room. This was ridiculous. A woman had the right to be present when her future was being discussed.

This business of waiting meekly upstairs in her bedchamber while the men dealt with something as important as marriage was aggravating in the extreme. Men did not have a good grasp of such things.

They would not understand, for example, that she had no wish to be married because Gabriel's lofty notions of chivalry demanded it.

She had vowed long ago that she would only marry for true love, the sort of love that guided the knights and ladies of medieval legends. Nothing less would do for her.

At three forty-five, Phoebe decided she had had enough of playing the dutiful daughter. She marched out of her bedchamber and went downstairs to the library.

The door of the library was closed. The butler stood firmly planted in front of it. When he saw Phoebe, his expression turned wary, but determined.

"Step aside, please," she said to the butler. "I wish to join my father."

The butler drew himself up bravely. "Forgive me, madam, but your father left explicit instructions that he did not wish to be disturbed while in conference with Lord Wylde."

"Pssst, Phoebe." Lydia stuck her head around the corner of the drawing room and waved frantically to get Phoebe's attention. "Don't go in there. Men like to handle this kind of thing all b\ themselves. It makes them feel as if they are carrying out their responsibilities."

Meredith, hovering behind her mother, frowned delicately at Phoebe. "Wait until you are summoned, Phoebe, Papa will be most upset if you interrupt."

"I am already upset." Phoebe strode forward.

The butler wavered. It was all the opportunity Phoebe needed. She opened the door herself and walked into the library.

Gabriel and her father were seated near the fireplace. They each held a glass of brandy. Both men looked up with forbidding expressions as she entered.

"You may wait outside, my dear. I shall summon you in a few minutes," Clarington said firmly.

"I am tired of waiting." Phoebe came to a halt and glanced at Gabriel. She could tell nothing from his expression. "I want to know what is going on."

"Wylde is making an offer of marriage," Clarington said. "We are discussing the details. You need not concern yourself."

"You mean you have already accepted the offer on my behalf?" Phoebe demanded.

"Yes, I have." Clarington took a swallow of brandy.

Phoebe shot Gabriel a questioning look. He arched one brow in response. Her gaze went back to her father. "Papa, I wish to speak to Gabriel before any announcements are made."

"You may speak to him when I have finished settling matters."

"But Papa—"

"Leave us, Phoebe," Gabriel ordered quietly. "We will talk later."

"I want to discuss this now." Her hands tightened into small fists. "It is my future that is being bandied about in here. I have a few thoughts on the subject. If the two of you think you are going to tie all the details into a neat little package and expect me to accept it without comment, you are quite wrong."

Clarington peered at her. "Very well, my dear, what is your chief objection to all this?"

Phoebe took a deep breath, opened her clenched fists, and dried her damp palms on the skirts of her gown. "I have always made it very clear chat I will only marry for love. To be perfectly blunt, Papa, Wylde has never once mentioned love to me. I will not be rushed into marriage until I am certain there is true love on both sides. I will not be married simply because Wylde's sense of chivalry demands it."

"Phoebe," Clarington said wearily, "you are behaving like a romantical schoolgirl. Wylde is quite right. After what happened yesterday, you can no longer be allowed to continue in your rash, impulsive ways."

"He said that?" Phoebe glared at Gabriel.

"Yes, he did, and I agree with him," Clarington declared. "He claims he is willing to take on the task of managing you and I must say, I am grateful to be able to turn the responsibility over to him."

Phoebe was outraged. "What if I do not wish to be 'managed' by a husband?"

"I know of no better way to settle you down and rein in your eccentric manners than to marry you off," Clarington retorted. "It is time you were married, young lady. For God's sake, you are nearly five and twenty. The fact that you are an heiress puts you at terrible risk. Only think of what happened yesterday."

"Papa, what happened yesterday was not my fault."

"It most certainly was," Clatington shot back. "Who knows how many others of Kilbourne's sort are lurking out there? Wylde is correct when he says that sooner or later your impulsive ways will land you in serious trouble. I want you safely established under the guidance and protection of a husband."

A sense of desperation welled up in Phoebe. "Papa, please. I must have time to think about this. Wylde and I must discuss it."

Gabriel gave her a cool glance over the rim of his brandy glass. "As far as I am concerned, there is nothing that needs to be discussed at this moment. Go on upstairs to your bedchamber. We shall send for you presently."

Phoebe was speechless. To be banished upstairs to her bedchamber by the man whom she had considered a gallant knight, the man she had secretly viewed as a soul mate, the man she loved. It was too much.

"My lord," she whispered, "you are no better than Kilbourne."

There was a short, awful silence.

"Phoebe," her father thundered. "You will apologize at once. Wylde is no fortune hunter."

She dashed the back of her hand across her eyes to get rid of the moisture. "I did not mean to imply that he was. But he is certainK just as much of a pompous, overbearing prig as Kilbourne ever was." She gave Gabriel one last anguished glance. "I thought you were my friend. I thought you understood how I felt about matters of love and marriage."

Before either man could respond, she whirled and tied from the room.

Out in the hall she dashed past the concerned faces of her mother and sister. She picked up her skirts and raced up the stairs. When she reached the privacy of her bedchamber, she threw herself down on the bed and surrendered to the tears.

Fifteen minutes later the storm had passed, leaving in its place an unnatural calm. She dried her eyes, washed her face, and sat down to wait.

Twenty minutes later, when she was finally summoned to the library, she was composed and solemn. She walked sedately down the stairs, waited politely for the butler to open the door, and then stepped inside.

Her father was still seated in his chair. He appeared to have started on another glass of brandy. Gabriel was standing near the fireplace, one arm resting along the mantel. He watched her intently as she came gravely into the room.

"You sent for me, Papa?" Phoebe asked with excruciating civility.