“Ungh.” He couldn’t speak. He sat back on his haunches between her still-spread legs, his hands on his face.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
Twenty seconds ago, he was more than all right. He was at the highest peak of pleasure he had ever experienced in his life. And now he didn’t know what he was.
“Is that your seed?”
He finally made himself take his hands off his face and look at her. She was sitting up, looking at her own legs. He looked where she was looking, forcing himself not to gaze at her quim.
“Yes,” he said.
She raised her head and grinned. “And no blood, just like I said. That’s what comes of being a hoyden and riding astride.”
A loud voice at the door.
“My lord?” It was Morton, his valet.
It must have been the scream. Morton knew Friday afternoon was for the current mistress since Friday was also the day George’s sister Alice went to Lady Huxley’s for afternoon whist and stayed on for dinner quite late into the night. Therefore, Morton knew better than to disturb George on a Friday.
But George had never screamed before.
“Yes, Morton?” he called out from the bed, still unable to move and surprised to find he had the strength to answer as loudly as he did.
“May I offer any assistance, my lord?” George was pleased to see the door knob did not rattle and Morton did not even try to come into the room. Because George did not remember locking the door.
“Everything’s fine.”
A lie. Everything was not fine.
Because he was kneeling between the legs of a woman who was not only suddenly the most desirable woman in the world but also the woman who knew everything about him and still loved him.
And that woman was promised to another man even as he, the Baron Danforth, had taken her virginity and sprayed his seed all over her thighs and stomach.
“Very good, my lord.” Footsteps moving away and silence.
He looked at Phoebe’s face. She had not moved, had not tried to cover herself when the knock had come. She was still sitting up, legs spread, looking at him thoughtfully.
“Thank you, George,” she said in the same tone of voice she might use when returning a book she had borrowed. She leaned forward and gave a quick peck to his cheek, seized an edge of the sheet and wiped off her thighs and stomach, and before he could gather himself, she was sliding off the bed and pulling up her petticoat.
“I am much relieved,” she said. “It all makes a great deal more sense now.”
Her bottom was lost to view, sheathed in the petticoat.
“You . . . you’re welcome.”
Now the chemise covered her breasts.
“Will you do my stays, George? I must get to Lady Huxley’s, and tomorrow, I have such a lot to do. Mother wants to start drawing up the guest list for the wedding breakfast which I think is foolish. His Grace hasn’t even said whether or not he is going to get a special license. We have no idea how long the engagement will be or whether he wants to get married here in London or at his duchy or ours.” She giggled. “I mean Papa’s. Because I supposehisduchy will soon be what I mean when I sayours.”
While Phoebe burbled on, George willed himself to get off the mattress. Silently, he tightened and tied off her stays. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and watched her put on her dress and try to arrange her hair. He could not even bring himself to get dressed, to put on his banyan or his shirt. He sat naked, despairing.
“Do I look presentable, George?” she asked and turned in a full circle for his inspection.
Her cheeks were still flushed, her lips still red. Her eyes sparkled like they did after she had won a game. But her hair was passably tidy, her buttons done up.
He grunted his approval. He wondered if she would kiss him goodbye. Embrace him. Or better yet, touch his head.
She did none of these. She left as she would after a chess game she had won. Smiling broadly, stepping lightly.
