George ground his teeth together. “I’ve known her since she was born. She’s my best friend.”
Thornwick raised his eyebrows. “Your best friend? A female? What do you talk about? Oh, yes. You play chess together. Lady Phoebe told me that.”
“Yes, and I must inform you—”
“It’s been very good of you to occupy her with that diversion all these years.”
“It’s not really a diver—”
“And, I hear, allowing her the occasional victory?”
“I don’t allow—”
”But it won’t be necessary any longer.”
“I think—”
“It’s just so unattractive, isn’t it?”
George was lost. Again. “What?”
“It’s her very worst quality. She’s very sweet, otherwise.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Her . . .” Thornwick made a vague gesture with his hands. “I don’t know, her wanting to win all the time. I am really going to have to do something about that. But it should be easy enough. She’s such a biddable thing. Very eager to please. But, see here. I am to have a little house party, and you and your sister should join us. Swell our ranks. It’s so devilishly difficult to get people away from London near the end of the Season, despite the heat.”
“Er, yes.”
“Good. That’s settled then.” Thornwick walked around George and headed toward the cluster of men who were drinking at the far end of the room. “Don’t swill all that brandy, chaps. I bought the bottle, after all.”
William Dagenham got to his feet shakily. He looked as miserable as George now felt.
“You all right there?” George asked, not really caring, but feeling he should say something.
“Nothing some good luck won’t fix.” William sighed. “Or a strong drink.” He raised his hand and George noted a tremble. “Ave atque vale.”
George skulked out of the card room as William made his way toward the not-yet-emptied brandy bottle, laughing insincerely at barbs from the other men about his poor cards.
The meeting had not gone at all the way George had seen it in his head. He had thought he would tell the duke that Phoebe really belonged tohim, George Danforth, and Thornwick had better retreat. Immediately. Instead, the other man had displayed the most shocking effrontery, pretending not to recognize George, talking over him, catching him off guard with his arrogant dismissals of chess, George and Phoebe’s friendship, Phoebe’s ability.
And to call Phoebe a thing. And biddable!
Damn Thornwick. Damn his blond hair. His nose. His superciliousness. And most of all, damn him for even daring to suggest there was something wrong with Phee and she needed changing.
Whatever he did to end this betrothal was justified. It wasn’t just jealousy and possessiveness motivating him, was it? Thornwick categorically did not deserve Phoebe.
And Phoebe did not deserve a life chained to such a puny-pricked Pink.
George came through the reading room, trying his best to hide visible signs of his rage. Phineas stood and waved him over.
“I’ve been thinking about what you asked me about, George.”
“What I asked you about what?”
Phineas studied him over the top of his spectacles. “Are you sure you’re all right?” He lowered his voice. “About Thornwick. Could it be you are asking on behalf of your little sister?”
“Alice?”
