“None whatsoever.”
Phineas grinned and grasped George’s hand and shook it. “I’m glad there won’t be any unpleasantness. After all, it’s the lady’s choice. And she’s a rather fickle lady, too, isn’t she?”
“Yes. Quite.”
“You look good without your wig, George. Modern.”
George shrugged. He didn’t care about being modern. Only one person’s opinion mattered on this subject, and she had said he was handsome without his wig. He’d never wear one again as long as she thought that.
George looked around the room at the usual batch of newspaper readers. “You haven’t seen Thornwick about, have you?”
“He’s in the card room.”
“Do you know him?”
“Not really, not much, just the way you know someone at the club.”
“What do you think of him?
“I don’t.”
“Pardon?”
“I don’t think of him. Really. Although—” Phineas ran his hands through his thick silver mane. “He is rather disconcerting, isn’t he? Rather perfect and rather blond. And much too tall.”
George snorted. Everyone was much too tall for Phineas who was always the first to tell you he was actually of average height, it was only that he was cursed with abnormally tall friends.
Andrather perfectandrather blondwere not inducements for a young woman to break off a publicly announced engagement. George would love to hear something rotten, something egregious to take to Phoebe in case Thornwick refused to back down. Or better yet, to take to her father. Phoebe would do what her papa told her to do. And her father had always liked George.
He steeled himself as he entered the card room. Thornwick was playing loo with a handful of other club members, including a grim-faced Viscount Dagenham.
George studied his rival from across the room. Yes, the man was tall and had that damnable head of golden curls. But really, what else did he have to recommend him? Oh, yes, the nose. A good nose. And he was a very good dresser. His cravat was tied in some newfangled way.
And, of course, he was a duke.
The loo game ended and Thornwick stood up and George strode over to him and stood in front of him, blocking his way.
The duke was taller than George by a fraction of an inch, but much slimmer in build. Narrow shoulders and chest. He was no village blacksmith, as Phee had called George.
I could beat him easily in a bare-fisted brawl.George puffed out his chest.Think of his little cock.
After the slightest pause, George bowed. “Your Grace.”
Thornwick bowed and said nothing, surveying George’s clothes.
William Dagenham, still sitting at the card table with his head in his hands, said glumly, “It’s George Danforth.”
“Ah,” Thornwick said, his expression adjusting ever so slightly as his eyes came to George’s face. “Lord Danforth. But no wig.”
“Yes.” George paused, suddenly feeling wrong-footed. The man hadn’t recognized him? Was this some new version of the cut direct? Should he be insulted? “I, uh, I‘ve heard your news.”
“My news of what?”
Was that a gibe? No, Thornwick’s expression was serious. The man really did not seem to know what George had referenced.
“Your engagement to Lady Phoebe Finch.”
“Oh, yes. That. Of course. You know her. Neighboring estates, isn’t that right?”
