“And I just love horsemen, like you, Lord Danforth. You’re so flexible in all the right places. Those rolling hips.”
He had turned then and taken her mouth, shutting her up, getting on top of her, ready to rut with her, not interested in her previous lovers.
Now he cursed himself and his own cock as he stalked down the streets of the City, away from the bank, the day already hot as blazes. He should have brought his carriage. He found his own handkerchief and wiped his head.
Why hadn’t he let Horatia rattle on about Thornwick in January? Let her tell him all of Thornwick’s foibles and peculiarities and things he might have done with a mistress that he wouldn’t do with a whore, since with a mistress the only cost would be a few bits of jewelry and some attention?
All the secrets George had missed hearing because he had wanted to spend. And because he had no way of knowing his future need for information about Thornwick’s sexual habits.
Blast.
There would be no going to Lady Starling with questions now since she was in such a fury at George. And Sir Josiah had not remembered with whom Thornwick had philandered before Horatia.
He must hope Sir Josiah found very few pounds in the Thornwick coffers.
Fifteen
Phoebe checked her reflection in her dressing table mirror. The redness on her nose and cheeks from Sunday’s archery session had faded, thank goodness.
Thornwick would be here soon. No, she meant Arthur. And he was going to take her out in his barouche, unchaperoned. With a driver in the front, he would have his hands free and there would be opportunities, even with the hood of the barouche down, even in Hyde Park, for him to touch her in some thrilling way that showed he desired her. On her hand, her leg, her lap. He would show her his need for her. And she could start to fall in love with him and get a sense of what it would be like to share her bed with a handsome duke for the rest of her life.
She made a concerted effort, nay, an enormous effort, to be waiting in the front hall when Thornwick’s barouche rolled up in front of the house. She was very close to being on time but was still descending the stairs when he knocked.
“Don’t answer it, Chapman,” she hissed at the butler. Imperturbable as always, Chapman cocked an eyebrow and waited until she had come all the way down the stairs.
“How do I look, Chapman?”
“You look quite presentable, Lady Phoebe.”
This was high praise from Chapman.
Phoebe preened a little. “You may open the door now.”
And there was Thornwick in all his glory. He seemed even taller than he had been four days ago. His hair, more golden.
He smiled. She grinned. He bowed. She curtsied.
“Good afternoon, Lady Phoebe.”
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
He did not step all the way inside but stood on the doorstep and cocked his arm for her to take. “Shall we go for a drive?”
“Yes, please.”
To her disappointment, Thornwick—Arthur, she must think of him as Arthur—sat opposite her, facing backwards. Still, she could gaze on him this way.
He said something, but she couldn’t hear him over the noise of the wheels on the cobblestones.
“Pardon?”
He spoke again, slightly louder, and she could hear him now.
“Still quite hot, isn’t it?” he said.
An idea struck her. Did she dare? “I can’t hear you, Arthur,” she said loudly. “I’m dreadfully sorry.”
He stood and turned and sat beside her.
