“Which would be more difficult for you? For Thornwick,” he swallowed down the rising bile at her future husband’s name, “to undress you or for you to undress yourself in front of him?”
“Oh,” she said and blushed and looked away. “For me to undress myself in front of him.”
He blinked but kept his voice even, neutral. “Then that is what you had better do. In front of me. For practice.”
Her face was still red. “All right.” She kicked off her shoes and rolled down her hose while still sitting on the edge of the bed. What lovely rounded calves and trim little ankles she had.
She got off the bed and stood in front of him. As she reached behind her back to undo her buttons on her dress, he had to resist stroking his member as he watched her.
But he felt he should warn her.
“Do not be upset if your future husband touches himself while he looks at you.” His voice was louder than he had intended.
As her dress popped over her head, she gaped at him, astonished. He noted how beautiful she looked with her dark-gold hair mussed, her red lips swollen, wearing only her stays, chemise, and petticoat.
This was a husband’s view of her. He was the first man ever to see it.
Again, the darkness enveloped his mind. The Duke of Thornwick—he of the puny cock, the yellow curls—would be able to see her like this every day for the rest of his life.
“Why would he be touching himself? Shouldn’t I be the one doing that?” She threw her dress down and stepped toward George and grasped his member again.
Oh, oh, oh.Steady now.
“It can be difficult for a man to restrain himself when he is aroused. And I am sure he will be aroused looking at you.”
After all, I am, Phee. I very much am. Even without you grabbing my cock. Damn it, why wasn’t I aroused like this a year ago? What am I saying, a year ago? Hell, how about last week? Before you agreed to marry Thornwick?
“Show me what to do with my hand, George.”
“No.” He grabbed her wrist. “Let go.” She did.
“Then with my mouth.”
“No!”
The violence of his response made her take a step back. For the first time today, she looked frightened. The answer to his earlier question—could he intimidate his little Phoebe?—was yes.
He released her wrist and tried to make his voice soothing as he had after he had beaten her with the Fool’s Mate when she was nine. “Your husband will expect to show you things, Phee.”
She squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin. “I wantyouto show me, George. That’s the whole point of this. I don’t want to be nervous. I want to know things. How to please my husband. What if—” She gulped. “What if he laughs at me? He’s so intimidating. He’s a duke.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled the counterpane over his shaft and gestured with his arms. “Come here, Phee.”
She walked over and he snugged his arm around her waist and put her onto his now safely covered lap.
“Your own father is a duke, Phee.” He permitted his hand to edge off her stays-encased waist to the unconstrained soft curve of her hip under her petticoat. His thumb stroked the top of her leg.
“I know. But my father, well, he’s Papa. He has to love me and do what’s best for me. Thornwick doesn’t. And Thornwick is . . .” She paused. Was that a shudder? “I should think he has very high standards.”
“You call him Thornwick? Not Arthur?”
“He hasn’t told me to call him anything yet.”
“How did you accept him? When he asked you to marry him?”
“‘Yes, please, Your Grace.’”
“What?” He couldn’t help it. He smiled and almost laughed.
