“I mean it, Phoebe. I want a date to be set today. I don’t like undecided things. And men, particularly dukes,” her mother cast a glance at her father, “have no sympathy for what a long engagement can do to a young woman.”
Her father grinned unrepentantly through his mouthful of honey cake.
“Thank you, Mother.”
The clock chimed ten. Her brother stood from the table abruptly. “I’m off. Tell Thornwick I’ll thrash him if he takes any liberties with you, Phebes.” Andrew winked.
It was a joke, of course. Her brother might have her mother’s height but he was a thin and spindly thing. Completely uninterested in sport or physical activity of any kind. Never had a boxing or fencing lesson. Part of that had to do with his horrible eyesight, bad since childhood and apparently worsening all the time. No wonder he loved music so much.
Yes, Andrew wouldn’t have the strength to thrash Phoebe, let alone Thornwick.
“Or I’ll get Daniel to do it,” Andrew said. Daniel was her even younger brother, the one who was not the heir. The one in the army. The one with muscles. Then Andrew added, “Or George can step in asde factobrother since Daniel is off doing maneuvers.”
Who then would thrash George for taking liberties with her? She giggled and lifted a cake to her mouth and took a bite. Oh, Papa was right. The honey cakes were particularly good this morning. And wafting up from the kitchen, the aroma of the beefsteak-and-kidney pie being baked for luncheon filled her nose. Her mouth watered in anticipation.
It seemed all of her sinful appetites were increasing in step with each other. What next? Would she become a tippler and take up smoking cheroots and playing Hazard and sleeping until noon?
Goodness, if Phoebe weren’t engaged, she might become a hellion to rival even Alice Danforth.
Seven
After a morning spent going through her trousseau with her mother, followed by quite a good luncheon, Phoebe changed her dress and made her toilette for Thornwick’s call. She could sense her activities—both with George and by herself—had already wrought some changes. She had always bemoaned her short stature, but look, she was sitting taller at her dressing table. Her skin was glowing and her eyes had a bit of a sparkle. She felt carefree and confident. She was magnificent and beautiful. She was well on her way to becoming a duchess.
If only her hair could be made aware of that fact. She sighed as her lady’s maid struggled with the thick, heavy, straight tresses.
“I’ll do it, Dawson. You know I might have a better chance of getting it arranged than you do.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Finally, her hair was up. Please let it stay that way. Phoebe cast a glance at the mantel clock. Thornwick would be here soon. Very soon. Her hair had taken so long. What jewelry should she wear? She fussed with her necklaces, unable to choose.
Because of the heat, windows were open all over the house. Sound from the street wafted up into the room across the hall and Phoebe could hear a carriage come to a halt in front of the house. Thornwick was here. She mustn’t be late. She jumped up from her dressing table and as she did so, one long strand of her hair fell down around her face. Oh, well. Thornwick would know soon enough that her hair did not behave.
And she, Phoebe, had no plans to behave either.
She met the duke in the front hall. The butler Chapman had just taken his hat so she had not made her betrothed wait very long. Her breath hitched. He was so handsome.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied.
“Lady Phoebe.” He bowed. “Good afternoon.”
She led the way into the drawing room. He raised his eyebrows when she shut the door behind them.
“Mother said we could.”
“Ah.” He gazed at her.
A silence. Surely, that wasn’t normal. Shouldn’t engaged people have heaps to say to each other? Well, first things first.
“Your Grace, I do wonder what I should call you.”
Thornwick tucked his chin back. “What do you mean?”
“Shall I call you Arthur?”
“There’s such a lot of baggage with the name. Legendary boy king and all that.”
“You’re no boy.”
