“His mistresses are well known. And his activities with other females.” She shrugged and George lost the battle to avert his eyes from the wobble of her breasts. Yes, he would never be immune to the draw of women’s mammaries.
“Besides, he wanted me to talk to him as if he was one of the other men. As if I was doing those things to him.”
George had to restrain himself from correcting her. Telling her she should have usedwere doinginstead ofwas doing.Subjunctive. The woman in front of him likely had no interest in or use for grammar. “So, you would tell him you were doing filthy things to him while, er, touching him?”
“Yes.” She sighed, obviously thinking he was a dullard.
“Why do you think he didn’t want the actual filthy things?” It was a strange kind of vicariousness Thornwick sought. Perverted, almost. That gave George hope.
“I don’t know. I suspect it’s because he’s mean.”
“Mean?”
“Dirty talk and spending by hand are the cheapest of our services here, my lord.”
“But surely . . .” Surely Thornwick could afford a fuck? Could it be his financial situation was more precarious than anyone thought? And that he was after Phoebe for her dowry?
No lord had pursued Lady Phoebe Finch in her first three Seasons. And now, suddenly, Thornwick wanted to marry her. He must be desperate. George would see Thornwick’s banker first thing tomorrow and the engagement would end once Phoebe knew Thornwick only wanted her money.
How forlorn she would be. And how he, solid George Danforth with no need for her dowry, would comfort her. Already he was picturing the little kisses he would place on her forehead as she clung to him before he raised her chin up and took her mouth with his.
“But the supplemental services are not too expensive, my lord. And surely you deserve some pleasure. I can use my mouth and grunt in a very low voice and you can close your eyes and pretend I am His Grace.” She was reaching out to the fall of his trousers.
“What? No.” He backed up all the way to the door. “You—I didn’t mean—no.”
Lydia stared at him. “Is that all then? Are we done?”
“Y-yes.”
She muttered and turned away to pick up her shawl. “Another churl” was what George thought she said.
“I’ll pay now,” he said loudly. “As if I had had the supplemental services. And a little extra Madame Flora doesn’t have to know about. In fact, nobody need know anything about what passed between us in this room, eh?”
Lydia’s eyes were glinting as she turned back to him. He dug in his pocket for his purse. She held out her hand.
“No indeed, my lord,” she said.
Fourteen
Phoebe tried to find a cool place on her pillow. Sleep had become so difficult the last two days. And it wasn’t just the heat.
Her whole life was topsy-turvy now. In just over a week, she had gone from being an unwanted almost-old-maid to being the betrothed of a duke. And she had gone from a state of ignorance about her own body to one of rapturous enlightenment.
Those were the topsy parts.
But life as an engaged woman, a wanted woman, wasn’t quite what she had expected it would be. She scarcely knew her own feelings. She was agitated, undone, uncomfortable, and even spending in her own bed did not soothe her now.
She had lost the nails of both ring fingers and her left middle finger in the last two days.
That was definitely turvy.
Sunlight was peeking around the crack in the drapery. It was Wednesday now. She would see Thornwick this afternoon. Her stomach twisted in knots.
She gave up on sleeping and got out of bed and dressed herself, sweeping her hair into something reasonably neat, not waiting for Dawson. She would, of course, have a bath later and need to do ever so much work on her hair before Thornwick’s call. But a simple knot would suffice for going to see her father. She crept down the hall and rapped lightly on his study door.
“Papa?”
“Come in, dearest girl. You’re up so early and already dressed? Breakfast isn’t for another two hours.”
