Two
George observed Phoebe take in the details of his bedchamber. She gazed at the chair he used when he couldn’t sleep but was too tired to go into the study next door, the large bed with its fawn velvet canopy and curtains, the bright lamp next to the bed with the extra oil reservoir so it could be lit at all hours of the day and night, the portrait of his beautiful dark-eyed French mother and besotted father that had been painted shortly after they were married.
He suddenly realized that although she had spent every Monday night during the Season in his study next door for the last eight years, Phoebe had never been in his bedchamber.
Of course not. The Monday night games were, in and of themselves, highly irregular, rarely spoken of outside their families, and only allowed by the Duke of Abingdon because of George’s friendship to Phoebe since her infancy. George was like a brother to her. But even her rather permissive father would have barred her from ever being in this room. And he knew her mother disapproved of the chess games entirely. And, perhaps, of him.
Phoebe turned from his parents’ portrait and faced him. “I don’t have much time. What shall we do first? Will you undress me?”
Had he agreed to this?
The irrefutable and definitive answer was yes.
Yes, he had.
George was a man of his word. He had taken the wager. He had proposed the crippling odds that had not crippled Phoebe in the least. Now, he would have to pay the forfeit.
His wits slid back into his body as he scrambled to find a way out of his predicament. Shockingly, his mind came up empty even as his cock began to fill with blood.
“Well, traditionally, I would think,” he said, his throat suddenly tight, his voice hoarse, “one might start with kissing.”
“Oh, good.” She looked relieved. “I’d like to try that first. Go ahead, George. Kiss me.”
He stared at her mouth which suddenly looked like the most fragile of roses. Delicate and lush, at the same time. Full-blown. One touch and a petal would fall.
These were lips he usually saw compressed in a thin line as she considered the position of the pieces on the chessboard. Or moving rapidly as she recounted some madcap tale his own sister had told her. Or smiling apologetically when she came into his study late on Monday evenings and saw him sitting, tapping his foot impatiently, waiting for her.
Now, the lips were waiting to be kissed. They were pale and pink and plump.
Perfect.
He almost laughed. Perfect was not a word he had ever thought of associating with Lady Phoebe Finch. Her defining quality was her lack of perfection. Her hair that always escaped its pins, her nails that she used to chew down to nubs out of nervousness, her petticoats that hung down below the hems of her dresses, and her inability to show up for anything on time, a habit that drove him mad.
But her lips were perfect.
He started slowly, carefully, standing several inches away from her, leaning down, kissing those perfect lips with only the lightest of pressures.
Her face was tilted up to him, her eyes closed. She was no doubt imagining the Duke of Thornwick, her betrothed, in George’s place. That stirred something in him. Something dark and ugly and angry that had no place in his kisses with his best and oldest friend. He pushed the darkness away and made sure his kisses remained tender. Circumspect. Almost brotherly. Although he would never kiss his sister this way.
He was surprised to feel her arms around his neck and when he ended one of his light kisses, she held his head down and pressed her own lips against his. Hard. Hungry. Demanding.
He pulled away, breaking her grasp on his neck.
Her big brown eyes opened as her arms fell to her sides. “I just.” She was gasping a bit. “Wanted to kiss you back.”
“I see.” He felt he needed to be stern. He was the tutor here, after all. The senior. The one with experience. And besides, sternness was his usual mode of expression. “Your future husband might like that. He might not. You will have to gauge. The safest course is to do nothing and only receive what he gives you. Don’t give, just receive.”
Her face fell. “Oh.” Then, “Did you like it, George?”
“It doesn’t matter what I like, Phee.”
“It does to me. I don’t want you to regret giving me a lesson. After all, you are sacrificing your Friday afternoon.”
A good teacher was honest with his pupil. And his member had throbbed with the unexpected ardor of her kiss.
“I liked it,” he said. Unsmiling.
She turned her head on its side. “I liked it, too. May I do it again?” She put her hands up as if to throw her arms around his neck as she had before.
