“Still. No one calls me Arthur. Not even my mother.”
“What does your mother call you?”
Thornwick hesitated for a moment. “My boy.”
“Well, that won’t do. For me, that is. What’s your next name after Arthur?”
“Henry.”
“I rather like the name Henry. May I call you Henry?”
“No. Still a king problem. Too many kings named Henry.”
“What is your next name after that?”
“George.”
“Oh.” She couldnevercall him George.
“Yes, the name of three more kings. And the next king, too. My lady, what is your objection to Thornwick?”
“If I am to marry you, I don’t want to call you by your title. How would you like it if I said you had to call me Thornwick once I was your wife?”
“I wouldn’t like it all. What should I call you?”
Not Phee or Phebes. Not Bumblephee. She needed to leave all that behind. “I assume Phoebe. You call me Lady Phoebe now. Surely it won’t be that difficult to drop the honorific when we are alone.”
“As we are now. Phoebe.”
She felt herself blush. Would he kiss her? Yes, he would, she decided as he came toward her.
“May I kiss you?”
She looked up at him. He was so handsome. Those heavy-lidded blue eyes, those golden curls, that good nose.
“Yes, please, Arthur.”
He cupped her face in his hands, bent down, and kissed her.
Lovely. His first kiss was just like George’s first kiss. Sweet and gentle. But he didn’t smell quite right. Not bad or anything. But not quite right. What would the inside of his mouth taste like, she wondered. And then he kissed her again. The second kiss was quite like the first one. Both of them too light and delicate to cause any stirrings below.
Although George’s light and delicate kisses had caused stirrings that had made her quite desperate and had led her to grabbing George’s neck and kissing him back.
Perhaps it was just that she was an experienced kisser now and inured to the thrill of a light kiss. She would kiss Thornwick and show him how it should be done. With open mouths and the tongue included.
But she remembered George’s prohibition against giving. She should receive, only. Until she could better gauge Thornwick’s desires.
He spoke. “I think I rather like your calling me Arthur.”
“Yes, Arthur,” she breathed.
He kissed her a third time. “It makes me think I could be a king when you call me Arthur. Will you be my queen, Phoebe?”
The third kiss had caused no excitement but Thornwick’s question had. Would she be his queen? He was so romantic! Of course, she would. She began to feel the achy pulse she had felt with George.
“I will, Arthur.”
Now he will kiss me again and I will have the pulsing achiness and his kiss at the same time.
