But he didn’t kiss her again. He released her face and smiled at her. That pleasant smile that had no component of a grin to it.
“At least I have no fear you will pursue Guinevere’s course.”
Guinevere. King Arthur’s consort. The one who had committed adultery. A traitorous, lustful queen.
“You’re so sweet, Phoebe. So without pretense or deceit. You would never betray me.”
She took a step back. She had never considered . . . she had not even thought . . . after all, she and Thornwick were not yet married. What she and George had done—was it adultery?
A hand began to wander up toward her mouth and she jerked it down and clasped it in her other hand.
No, no, surely not. Being engaged was not the same as being married. Being engaged was the promise of a promise. It wasn’t the promise itself. Was it?
No matter. It was done. If she had committed a sin, she had committed it. And she had undertaken the coupling with George to benefit Thornwick, hadn’t she? So she could please him, her husband. So the duke wouldn’t have a frightened mouse of a wife on the first night of his marriage.
That wasn’t the only reason, but that was the unselfish reason she could allow her mind to dwell on.
She searched for something to say. Something safe. Something banal. “I was at Lady Huxley’s whist party yesterday.”
“Were you?” Thornwick had a quizzical look. He gestured at her face. “You have a bit of hair hanging down. Is it supposed to be there?”
“No.” She reached up and touched the unruly strand.
“Do you want to fix it?”
“I know it will just fall down again. Or another piece will. Would you like me to fix it?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Will you have to leave the room to do so?”
“No.”
“Then I would like you to fix it. So I can see your adorable face.”
He didn’t want her to leave the room and he thought she was adorable. Worthy of adoration. Blushing once more, she turned to one of the mirrors in the room and found a hairpin in her hair she thought she could remove and not cause worsening damage. She worked it free carefully and used it to pin the loose strand back up.
“Would you say that again?” she asked.
“Say what again?”
She looked at him in the mirror. He stood behind her and put both hands on her waist, as if he were measuring her, estimating her girth. He was looking down. At her bottom, maybe.
“Are you teasing me?”
“No.” He raised his eyes and met her gaze in the mirror.
“Would you say I’m adorable again?”
“That depends. Will you believe it this time?”
She bit her lip. She raised her chin. “Yes.”
“You are more than adorable, Phoebe. You are enchanting.”
It was the perfect thing to say. Perfect, like Thornwick himself. But strangely, despite her promise to him mere moments ago, she did not believe it. Not a bit. Not as she had when George had said she was beautiful. And magnificent. Of course, George had shown her his hardened shaft right after that. Demonstrated to her the proof of his opinion.
