Because if he could rally the rest of the family in opposition to the match, Phoebe might break it off. And there had to be something amiss about Thornwick. There just had to be.
“I think with so much of theton’s focus being on balls during the Season and with so many wonderful professional musicians here in London just now, there really is no call for having more assemblies to listen to amateurs like me.”
“Uh, certainly. But don’t call yourself an amateur, Andrew. You are every bit as good as some of these imported maestros who play the big concerts.”
“There’s no shame in being an amateur.” Andrew smiled. “You know the origin of the word.”
Yes. Amateur. From the Latin.Amare.To love.
George put a finger on the key of the pianoforte and played a single note. Idly. “Is the Duke of Thornwick a music lover, do you know?”
“I hope not, for his sake. Phebes is wholly tone-deaf. I had to convince her years ago to mouth the words to hymns in church on Sunday. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to bear being in the same pew as her.”
George bit his tongue to prevent himself from correcting Andrew’shertoshe. “Is she around, do you know? Your sister?”
“No earthly idea. Probably. Go down to the front hall and ask Chapman. He’ll know.”
Andrew said it very politely, but George could tell he was itching to get back to his violin. Indeed, as soon as George left the music room, he could hear the violin starting up again behind the closed door. Bach. One of those concertos. What a shame Andrew would never play it accompanied by a full orchestra unless he hired it himself. But such things were never done. Not by a future duke.
George went down to the front hall in search of the Abingdon butler. He passed the drawing room door. It was closed but he heard a very faint sound. Could it be a mewl? He looked around and found the hallway empty. He put his ear to the door. Yes, a little mewl. And then a moan. And could it be? A huffing. Very like the huffing Phee had given out yesterday when she had spent. For the first time in her life. Under his own hand.
He recoiled from the door. Andrew was wrong. Thornwick hadn’t left the house yet. Thornwick and Phoebe were in the drawing room together. And Thornwick was doing something to Phoebe to make her huff that way. That beautiful huff. That was George’s huff, damn it.
And now there was another sound. A new sound. A keening. Was it the sound of Phee reaching an even higher level of ecstasy with that . . . that . . . that duke?
He took a deep breath and threw open the door. He was prepared to find Thornwick touching Phoebe. Perhaps even fucking her, Phoebe bent over an arm of a sofa, Thornwick behind her, with his hands on her hips, her skirts thrown up. George was prepared to be devastated. To face his pain head on. To pour salt on his own wounds. To tighten the noose around his own neck. Because discovering the two of themin flagrante delictowould not end the engagement. It would only hasten the marriage.
But what he saw when he opened the door was his Phoebe, alone, crying, her back heaving, her face in a pillow.
George knew if he were a decent man this would be as distressing to him as finding Thornwick’s cock buried in Phoebe. But he was not a decent man. Her crying was glorious, like manna from heaven. The engagement must have been broken off, and Phoebe was having a bit of a blub about it. But he’d soon find a way to make her forget Thornwick.
She raised her head from the pillow. “George!” She stood, her hands clutching her skirts, her nose running, her face red, her hair hanging down.
“Oh, Phee.”
He closed the door behind him. The very vile man in him closed the door. Yes, he wanted the door closed. Definitely.
“What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” He crossed to her, forcing his voice to be gentle instead of predatory. He would take her in his arms, feel her soft body against his, let her cry. And after a bit, he would pull her face away from his chest and kiss her. Tenderly, at first. Sweetly. And then with a bit more force. Show her his desire for her. Like a lover. So she would know his intentions. No more brother George. No more teacher George. He was George, the ravisher.
“I’m fine.” And indeed, in just the few seconds between when he had barged into the room and when he reached where she stood by the sofa, her tears had stopped flowing and she was smiling. A real smile. Her nose was still running, her face was still red, her hair was still hanging down, but she was smiling.
“How lovely to see you. You wouldn’t have a handkerchief I could borrow, would you?”
Mutely, he dug into the inside pocket of his tailcoat and pulled one out and handed it to her.
She wiped her face and blew her nose. “Thank you. That’s much better. I’ll get this back to you after it’s laundered.”
“You’re not fine, Phee. You were crying.”
“Oh, you know me. I must have a cry every once in a while. You know that.” She folded the handkerchief.
No, he didn’t know that. Phoebe didn’t cry in front of him.
“I heard Thornwick was here. Did he make you cry?”
“Oh, no, not at all. In fact, he has promised to have a house party at his estate. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”
No, it sounded awful. “Yes. Wonderful.”
