The corners of Sir Josiah’s mouth turned down. “One hardly likes to say. I would not want to repeat something untrue and cause the unhappiness of two young people.”
“And I would not want my friend to be unhappy if it came out later, after the wedding. Once irreparable damage had been done.”
Sir Josiah looked torn. George glowered at him. That did the trick.
“Well.” Sir Josiah leaned forward and lowered his voice even though they were alone in the room. “There is an aunt. In an asylum. Madness. Perhaps a taint in the family blood.”
It was thin. Very thin.
“And his mother was most eccentric. An artist of some kind. Very much not the kind of woman we think would make a duchess.”
“Why do you say shewaseccentric? She is still alive, I thought.”
“Yes.” Sir Josiah laughed. “But I have heard she is no longer eccentric. Only in her youth, apparently.”
“Why did Thornwick’s father marry her?”
Sir Josiah shrugged. “I have no idea, Danforth.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, shall we play?”
George had difficulty concentrating his mind on the game. He had pinned all his hopes on Thornwick’s poverty, his being a fortune-hunter. An aunt’s lunacy? He was not sure that would dissuade Phoebe.
What was an aunt’s madness to thick, blond hair and a duchy?
Nothing.
He beat Sir Josiah. Barely.
“If you play like that in the tournament, George, you won’t even make it into the quarter-finals.”
“I am fatigued. The heat saps my energy.”
“Well, take care of yourself, otherwise you’ll end up an old bachelor like me. There’s no hope when the best-looking mature women like Mrs. Lovelock—I mean Her Grace—are getting snatched up by young blades like Middlewich.”
George ushered Sir Josiah out, assisting him down the stairs while trying not to seem as if he was assisting him.
“Marry soon, George, while you still have your health and can service your bride as you should. You need to take a page from Thornwick’s book. He’s got the right idea. A lovely young woman like Lady Phoebe, that’s what you need.”
No, damn it. I don’t need a lovely young womanlikeLady Phoebe.
I need Phoebe.
Sixteen
Phoebe had her nightdress on and was about to get in bed and give herself a bit of pleasure. After her demoralizing afternoon drive in Thornwick’s barouche, after his criticism and lack of affection, she felt she deserved that comfort. Just one time tonight though, she promised herself as she turned down the counterpane. Then she would sleep and everything would be better in the morning.
She heardplickle-plickle-plickand saw pebbles scattered across the floor. Hail? She picked one up. No, it was a stone, the same kind that made up the gravel walk in the back garden.
She went to her open window and heard “Phee!” being hissed at her by a dark figure. It was George. Oh, yes, when she had been ten years of age and burning with fever and forced to stay in her room, he had come under her window and thrown pebbles and she had gotten out of bed and opened the window and he had climbed up and sat with her.
“I’m coming up,” he said from below her window and started climbing. Despite being so much more muscular now compared to when he was fourteen, it seemed a good deal more difficult for him to clamber up. Probably because he weighed so much more. He was sweating by the time he hauled himself over her window sill.
“Good evening,” he said between breaths.
A week ago, if he had come through her window, she would have been scurrying to put a dressing gown over her nightdress. But George had seen everything, hadn’t he? And it was so hot.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“I came to see you.”
