He had to own her.
Legally. And forever.
Having her break it off with Thornwick and having her in his own bed on occasion was not enough.
He must marry her.
Her brother Andrew was right. Phoebe would make an ideal wife. Sweet and smiling and even-tempered, not mercurial and high-strung like his own mother or sister. Clever and able to argue with him without riling him. Soothing when he needed that. Always willing to read his monographs and to be an audience when he practiced his speeches before giving them in the House of Lords.
He saw himself and Phoebe in front of a fire, playing chess long into the night. And then retiring together, her yawning prettily, him with his arm around her waist and his hand creeping toward her bottom as they went up the stairs at the Danforth country house.
He would get a promise from her. Immediately. Then, they would consummate their betrothal. Next, he would go directly to her father. He would be demanding as only George Danforth knew how to be. And he would apply for and receive a special license first thing tomorrow morning. They would be married by next week. No, two days from now.
Yes, it would cause a scandal for her to be married to him on the heels of the announcement of her engagement to Thornwick. But not nearly as big a scandal as the Duke of Middlewich’s wedding last week. James Cavendish had married a woman seventeen years his senior, a former actress, a banker’s widow. And visibly pregnant, if rumors were to be believed. No, the insignificant Baron Danforth stealing the youngest daughter of the Duke of Abingdon away from the Duke of Thornwick would barely warrant a whisper in thetonwhile the Middlewichon ditwas still fresh news.
In some ways, the timing was perfect.
And, besides, he didn’t care about a scandal. He wanted Phoebe married to him before she got it in her head to go off and get engaged to some other fellow without asking his permission.
Because she should behis, shouldn’t she? She was meant for him.
A beautiful future stretched out in front of him, dotted with permission to touch her naked body whenever he wished. They would marry and have at least four—no, six—bald babies of their own and he would have two dozen pairs of gloves made for her, all the same, and she would never be without a matching pair again.
Perhaps it had better be five dozen.
The door that led to the private staircase opened and he heard the familiar greeting: “Hello, lover.”
No.
It wasn’t Phoebe. It was Lady Starling. Horatia. His mistress. The young Dowager Viscountess Starling. She was dressed in one of her fussy dresses which emphasized her large bosom, her pale blonde curls peeking out from under her hat.
“You look surprised, George.”
He was lost. He was dizzy. “What-what day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
Tuesday? But Tuesday was when he was supposed to deliver his speech in the House of Lords regarding the outlay of expenses for the Royal Navy. And he hadn’t done that, having spent the morning idling here in his study. He had completely lost track of his duties.
“You said Tuesday, remember? Since I could not come last Friday. You demanded it from me, you naughty boy.” She crossed to him, her hips swaying. “How verydishabilleyou are already. So unexpected. You must be very hungry for me.”
She stood in front of him, the miasma of her perfume washing over him. She had a quizzical look on her face before she broke into laughter.
“I’ve never seen you without your wig on. You look so virile this way.” Smiling, she reached up and touched his scalp. “How strange that your head reminds me so much of your cock.” She dragged her hand down the side of his face, brushing his unshaven jaw, his chest, and down to his bulge where she groped him firmly. “Yes, I see. Very hungry for me.” She leaned forward, her lips slightly open, ready to kiss him.
He grabbed her wrist and moved her hand off of him. Her touch on his head had revolted him. She had no business touching him there. That place was for one woman, and one woman only.
Her expression changed. Became calculating.
“I see you’ve heard.” She wrenched her arm from him and stepped away. “But it doesn’t mean we can’t have one last fuck, George. In fact, I had counted on it.” She reached up to unpin her hat. “I was going to tell you afterward, but it’s good you already know. It will lend a certain sweet ferocity to our coupling. Our last time. For now. As you know, I don’t like things to end in too final of a manner. Especially after seeing you this way.” Her tongue darted out and she licked her lips. “Rather too good to be true, you all rugged and unfettered and scowling. I hope you take out all that wonderful rage on me.” She paused, lost in thought. “Perhaps I might manage both of you.”
“Heard what?” His mind raced. Had she heard something about him and Phoebe? Or about Thornwick and Phoebe? “Both of whom?”
“Oh, I see. You want to pretend. Fine.” She shrugged and put her hat down on a chair. Phoebe’s chair. “We’ll pretend. If that’s what it takes to salve your delicate male vanity.”
He lost any semblance of control over his temper. “Tell me what the devil you’re talking about!”
“Oooh. The bear has come out of its cave to play. My grumbly-wumbly bear, is it?”
