“Oh, yes,” said Phoebe and stepped closer to him and took his arm. “I am ever so excited.”
He looked down at her arm linked with his. Oh. Oh, no. He had not offered her his arm. She had taken it. She tried to pull away but his hand came down and covered hers.
“As ever, Lady Phoebe, your enthusiasm is contagious.”
She had done as he had asked. He must have heard of her whist loss. And now, he would accept her affection. She smiled up at Thornwick, and he smiled back.
They strolled out to the back gardens, Thornwick leading the way, her arm in his, her mother and Alice flanking them. As Thornwick discussed the history of the gardens, pointing out this or that shrub or plant, she realized Thornwick could teach her things, too. She would learn all about weeds instead of words. Soil instead of chess. Pruning instead of grammar. Flowers were so much prettier and lady-like than those other things. Her future husband’s voice suddenly made her feel cozy and comfortable, and she hugged his arm more closely, letting her breast almost graze his elbow.
After the tour of the gardens, Lady Anne and Lady Grace Cavendish arrived with Lady Fitzhugh in tow.
“Lady Fitzhugh, my mother is indisposed,” Thornwick said after the new visitors were greeted in the front hall. “But Lady Phoebe told me of your friendship in the past. You’ll meet her again at dinner. She should be feeling better by then. Shall we go and see the gardens?”
Phoebe found herself at the tail end of the group and next to Lady Anne on this second tour of the gardens. Thornwick was again pointing out the plantings, saying the same things he had said to her and her mother and Alice just an hour ago. Surely, he should vary it since he knew three of them were hearing it for the second time?
Anne slowed her walk and spoke to Phoebe in an undertone as the rest of the party disappeared behind a privet hedge.
“I know it must seem peculiar we are here since my father’s death was only three months ago. But we went to my brother Jamie’s wedding two weeks ago. And I thought . . .” Anne chewed her lip. “Well, I am done with Seasons. I’m far too old for balls and should have given up years ago. But I must . . . after I heard of your engagement, I hoped to speak to you. On a delicate matter. And Catherine—I mean, Her Grace—is much more liberal than my mother and convinced Jamie we might come with a suitable chaperone. And Lady Fitzhugh was good enough to say yes.”
“I’m glad you accepted the invitation, Lady Anne.”
And Phoebe was. True, she had always been intimidated by the caustic Anne, the oldest of the seven still unmarried Cavendish daughters, but she also held a secret fondness for Anne and all her sisters. Although she would be loath to admit to this pettiness, it had reassured Phoebe that there were other daughters of dukes who couldn’t find husbands. And now she felt a twinge in her chest to hear Anne considered herself too old for balls. Anne must know all her best chances for marriage had passed her by.
That would be me if it weren’t for Thornwick.
Phoebe must help Anne in any way she could. She took her arm and gave her an encouraging smile. “What is the delicate matter?”
Anne spoke even more quietly than before. “I wondered how much you know of your betrothed’s past.”
Phoebe stiffened. This again. The mistresses. Exactly what George had brought up.
She tried to speak carelessly but could hear the brittleness in her own words. “I know His Grace is not a youth. He’s a man, isn’t he? I would be silly to think a lord of his age had not dallied.”
“But I wondered if you knew about the—”
“Here you are!” Thornwick rounded the privet hedge. “You’re missing the best bit about the roses, Lady Phoebe. You must keep up.” Thornwick took her hand and tugged her toward him.
Phoebe was torn. On the one hand, she did not want to leave Anne rudely, even though she wished to hear no more about mistresses. On the other hand, Thornwick had sought her out, was wanting her attention, was touching her. It was exactly what she had been longing for.
Torn? Why should she be torn? She belonged at Thornwick’s side. She gave Anne an apologetic look, dropped Anne’s arm, and tipped her face up and smiled at her handsome soon-to-be husband.
“I hope you won’t mind saying the best bit again, Arthur.”
He began moving her forward. “I think we’ll have to get you in the habit of walking a little faster, Lady Phoebe.”
“Yes. Just remember my legs are shorter than yours.”
He leaned down, his lips above her ear. “And I suspect they are shapely legs. I can’t wait to see them on our wedding night, sweet Phoebe.”
They joined the rest of the group, Anne following at a distance. Thornwick continued to hold Phoebe’s arm tightly to his side as he began his lecture on the roses all over again.
Shapely.Sweet. The compliments had not thrilled her or given her a warm tingle.
Her legs were not shapely. They were soft and round and plump, like her bottom. Thornwick would be disappointed. She shuddered.
And as for being sweet? She wasn’t. She was sour and resentful. Envious of Anne’s narrow hips, Grace’s perfectly coiffed hair, her own mother’s regal posture. Jealous of how Alice could tease Thornwick about repeating himself, getting him to laugh. Phoebe had never made him laugh at anything, let alone himself.
And the beautiful Lady Olivia Radcliffe was not even here yet to make Phoebe feel even worse about herself by comparison.
