Sylvester by Georgette Heyer

matter to you,’ said her ladyship, observing Phoebe’s expression. ‘I do so because it was on your behalf that he undertook the fatigue of a journey to London. You should be very much obliged to him, which I am persuaded you must be when I tell you that he is about to arrange a very advantageous marriage for you.’
    Phoebe was well aware that in failing to secure at least one respectable offer during her London season she had fallen lamentably short of expectation, and this announcement made her look more astonished than ever. ‘Good gracious!’ she exclaimed involuntarily. ‘But I don’t think—I mean, no one made up to me, except old Mr Hardwick, and that was only because of my mother!’
    She then quailed, flushing to the roots of her hair as she came under a basilisk stare from Lady Marlow’s cold eyes.
    ‘ Made up to you —!’ repeated Lady Marlow ominously. ‘I need not ask from whom you learned such a vulgarism, but perhaps you will inform me how you dared permit me to hear it on your lips?’
    ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am!’ faltered Phoebe.
    ‘Such language may do very well for young Orde,’ said her ladyship bitingly. ‘No female with the smallest claim to refinement would use it. And if you were to express yourself in such a manner to the Duke of Salford I tremble to think what the consequences might be!’
    Phoebe blinked at her. ‘To the Duke of Salford, ma’am? But how should I ? I mean, I am sure there can be no danger, for I am barely acquainted with him. I shouldn’t think,’ she added reflectively,’ that he even remembers me.’
    ‘You are mistaken,’ replied Lady Marlow. ‘He is to visit us next week, with what object I imagine you may guess.’
    ‘Well, I haven’t the least notion what it may be,’ said Phoebe in a puzzled voice.
    ‘He is coming with the intention of making you an offer—and you will oblige me, Phoebe, by not sitting there in a stare, and with your mouth open!’
    ‘M-me?’ stammered Phoebe. ‘ The Duke of Salford ?’
    Not displeased to find her daughter incredulous, Lady Marlow bestowed a thin smile upon her. ‘I do not wonder that you should be surprised, for it is far more than I ever hoped for you, I can tell you. I shall expect to hear you express your gratitude to Papa for his kindness in arranging so splendid a match for you.’
    ‘I don’t believe it!’ Phoebe cried vehemently. ‘Besides, I don’t want to marry the Duke of Salford!’
    No sooner had the words been uttered than she trembled at her boldness, and for several moments dared not raise her eyes to the austere countenance confronting her. An awful silence greeted her rash speech, which was broken at last by Lady Marlow’s demanding to know whether her ears had deceived her. Judging this question to be rhetorical Phoebe made no attempt to answer it, but only hung her head.
    ‘A marriage of the first consequence is offered to you: a marriage that must make you the envy of a score of young females all of them by far more handsome than you will ever be, and you have the audacity to tell me you do not want it! Upon my word, Phoebe—!’
    ‘But, ma’am, I am persuaded it is all a mistake! Why, I only spoke to him once in my life, and that was at the Seftons’ ball, when he stood up with me for one dance. He thought it a great bore, and when I saw him not three days after, at Almack’s, he cut me!’
    ‘Pray do not talk in that nonsensical style!’ said her ladyship sharply. ‘Your situation in life renders you an eligible wife for a man of rank, however unsuited to a great position I may consider you to be; and I don’t doubt the Duke must be aware that your upbringing has been in accordance with the highest principles.’
    ‘But there are others j-just as well brought-up, and m-much prettier!’ Phoebe said, twisting her fingers together.
    ‘You have over them what his grace apparently believes to be an advantage,’ responded Lady Marlow repressively. ‘Whether he may