She tried to ignore the gentle but stern whisper in her head that sounded so much like George’s low voice.
You’ve said that before, Bumblephee, and look where it’s gotten you.
Twenty-One
Phoebe was beyond relieved that her mother was coming to the house party. There had been talk that Andrew might come instead of the Duchess of Abingdon, but Alice also needed a chaperone and Andrew couldn’t be that for a young lady who was not his sister. So the duchess, Alice, and Phoebe had climbed into one carriage this morning with their three lady’s maids following behind in a second one.
Phoebe hoped her mother might be able to do what she herself had failed to do so far—secure a wedding date. And maybe Mother might be able to help Phoebe envision herself as a future duchess.
But as she gazed out a window while the carriage jolted down a country road, Phoebe felt the burden of some guilt along with her relief. The duchess had taken charge of the duke’s dyspepsia, and Phoebe knew her mother was worried her father would stray from his new regimen while his wife was away. No coffee or tea, no sweets, no pungent spices, no spirits.
“I’ll be good, Esther,” her father had promised last night at dinner.
“I suppose Andrew can keep a tight rein on you for a few days.” Her mother had turned to Phoebe. “I want to meet your future mother-in-law. And I must make sure we get the wedding plans underway.”
The wedding date was clearly her mother’s primary concern. But Phoebe had her own object in mind.She had to get Thornwick—Arthur—to show he felt something for her.
She had done as her betrothed had asked. She had lost at whist. Now, he should make her feel adorable and enchanting and . . . wanted. More than anything, she longed for that.
But he had been so hard to know. So aloof. So cold.
Maybe he thought she would not permit intimacies before marriage? That would be preferable to the horrible notion that he was repulsed by her. She must find a way to make him understand she would welcome his touch without breaking George’s dictum against giving.
Wait. Why should she obey that dictum? Because what did George know about husbands and wives and betrothals? Nothing. He knew nothing. He knew less than she did. She was the one who was engaged, after all.
She had been an idiot to go to him for help. But with the suddenness of her betrothal, she had been frightened about so many things. And until two days ago, George had always been her rock. He had always been the one to make her feel secure and safe. Praiseworthy. Competent. Even her father or mother or Alice couldn’t do that for her when she had worked herself up into an extreme state of anxiousness.
Oh.
All this time, she had told herself she had pushed off her debut until age nineteen so Alice could be with her. She had said she needed Alice. But that wasn’t true, at all, was it? It hadn’t been Alice she had needed. It had been George. As Alice’s chaperone, he would be with Alice at her balls. And since Alice would be with Phoebe, George would also be with Phoebe. Stalwart, shoring Phoebe up, giving her confidence.
Although that dribble of confidence had not resulted in any proposals, had it? Just scores of chess games as she stood by the wall with George and watched other young ladies dance with eligible gentlemen. But at least she had been able to stand and not crumple. She had been able to go to ball after ball, knowing he would be there, knowing she would see him even if no one saw her.
She squeezed her hands into fists in her lap. Thank goodness she was shut of George. She had relied on him for far too long. And when she had most needed him, he had failed her. Insulted her and injured her. And worst of all, it had been after he had bedded her.
That was real reason why coitus should be only for married couples. It didn’t have to do with sin or babies. It was because it was too terrible to be that way with someone, be that close to them, have that pleasure with them, and then have them hurt you.
As the carriage approached the Thornwick manor house, Phoebe gulped at the sight of the exquisitely manicured lawns and flowering gardens. Everything appeared to be blooming and at peak lushness.
This will someday be my home. She felt no excitement, only a brush of fear.Stop being such a ninny. Grow up. You’re the betrothed of a duke.
The ladies were met by Thornwick in the very grand front hall and ushered into the very grand drawing room of the very grand house to meet Thornwick’s mother. The interesting duchess. Would she match the house and daunt Phoebe as much as her son did?
“Your Grace, may I introduce you to the Duchess of Abingdon, Lady Phoebe Finch, and Miss Danforth,” Thornwick said.
Their hostess was a tiny woman, shorter than Phoebe and looking far older than a mother of Thornwick should look. Looking ages older than Phoebe’s own mother. Decades older than Lady Fitzhugh who had claimed her as a friend when they were younger. A wizened and haggard face, slumping shoulders, a shuffling gait.
And she was quite nervous for a duchess. Her eyes darted about the room, landing on her son, and then looking away.
“You are most welcome,” the duchess whispered.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Phoebe expected they would be invited to sit, to take some tea as refreshment after their journey. But no.
The duchess edged toward the door. “I’m delighted to make all of your acquaintances.” Her face belied her words. “I must . . .” The sentence was unfinished as she scurried out of the room.
Thornwick’s brows came together for a moment and then his face relaxed. “Let me show you the gardens.”
