At tea, Thornwick asked Phoebe’s mother to pour since his own mother was not present. Phoebe made sure to sit between her mother and Alice, far away from Anne. She dreaded Anne cornering her and telling her something she didn’t want to hear about Thornwick. Phoebe would have to avoid Anne for the rest of the house party.
Lady Olivia Radcliffe and her mother, the Countess of Titchfield, arrived after tea. Alice poked at Thornwick and laughed. “Are we to be all hens at this party and you the only rooster, Your Grace?”
Thornwick bridled. “No, there are gentlemen coming. Three to be precise.”
Dinner was awkward. Lady Fitzhugh tried to engage the Duchess of Thornwick in conversation, to remind her of mutual acquaintances, of long-ago balls and parties and picnics. The duchess gave monosyllabic responses, always looking at her son when she answered rather than at Lady Fitzhugh.
Phoebe felt herself dull and cloddish. Even Alice, normally so lively and well able to brighten any dinner table, was subdued.
Just after the table had finished eating their strawberry tarts and had gotten up and were moving out of the dining room into the grand front hall, two more carriages came up the lane. The first one stopped at the front door, and three gentlemen got out and entered the house.
Edmund Haskett, the extremely large and tall and surly Lord Longridge, heir to the Marquess of Sudbury.
William Dagenham, the Viscount Dagenham, usually so dashing, but looking a little tired and worse for wear.
And George. Wigless, with his gleaming scalp and perfectly formed skull on display. Pressed and starched with an impeccably tied cravat, his jaw set, and his dark eyes unreadable.
Phoebe’s vision blurred. The gall of him to come when he knew she didn’t want to see him and didn’t want to talk to him.
Of course, she had said nothing to Thornwick to make him rescind the invitation to George. What could she have said? She couldn’t reveal how badly George had hurt her. But she never imagined George would come to the house party after what he had said on Thursday.
Another person, besides Anne, to avoid. A person who had once made her feel brave but now cowed her since she knew the real truth of the matter. He despised her.
Wasn’t she nervous enough? How was she going to survive this treacherous gauntlet of a house party?
She must. That was all there was to it. She must don her armor, put her visor down, and get on with it.
She raised her thumb to her mouth, found her last remaining fingernail and bit down.
Twenty-Two
George retired early. He was hamstrung. There was nothing he could do or say, no move he could make right now that would have any effect or do any good.
Phoebe would not look at him. It was not pointed, would not have been remarked upon by anyone. When he had spoken in the company, her face had swung toward him, but her eyes had been pointed over his shoulder, unseeing.
On the other hand, Phoebe’s mother had watched George constantly throughout the evening. The Duchess of Abingdon had always treated George with barely veiled suspicion. Well, now the suspicion was flagrant. And, he admitted, totally warranted. After all, George was here to end her daughter’s engagement.
Because I want your daughter, Esther Mary Bevington Finch. I want her by my side, across my chessboard, in my bed. I want her to have our babies. I want her all the ways a man can want his woman. And I’m going to make sure she knows it. And you can’t stop me.
But Phoebe could stop him. This evening, she had been careful never to let George get close to her, never to be alone where he might grasp her elbow and turn her to face him. Force her to look at him. To listen to him.
He had attempted to provoke her. He had used the wordnauseatedincorrectly, commenting that the carriage ride from London had made himnauseated. Not that the carriage ride was nauseating or that he was nauseous. He himself wasnauseated. The misuse of this word was one of his bugbears, and he had thought it was one of hers.
She had heard him. He knew she had heard him. He waited for her to contradict him, to correct him. She didn’t. She kept her face neutral, pleasant even, as if what he had said was commonplace for him. When sheknewit wasn’t. And, of course, no one else remarked on what he had said.
He went to his bedchamber, the one that had originally been Alice’s and that adjoined Phoebe’s. The one Alice had insisted he take upon his arrival at Thornwick’s house because it faced east and she could not have a room that faced east as the bright morning sunlight would wake her far too early, never mind the heavy drapes. Alice would take her brother’s much smaller room in the other wing, thank you very much.
The housekeeper and the chambermaids and the footmen who had carried the trunks from one room to the other knew, of course, the switch had been made. As well as his own valet Morton and Alice’s lady’s maid Clark. But had Thornwick or his mother been made aware? Did Phoebe know? Didhermother?
He stood in front of the door that connected the two rooms. Very quietly, very slowly, he unlocked his side of the door. He put his hand against the carved and painted wood. He knew Phoebe was still downstairs, laughing with Alice, smiling at Thornwick. But still, he felt this was the closest he had been to her in days.
George stood there a long time. Finally, he broke away and went and opened the drapes and pushed open a window. A breeze filled the room, cooling him slightly and tickling his head. The moon was full. He could smell the rose garden beneath the window. He thought of Phoebe’s lips, so like a rose.
It was a night for romance. For lovers. But not for him. Not for George Danforth.
He deliberated putting a nightshirt on. If he were naked in the bed, it would keep him from getting up in the middle of the night and going to her. He didn’t want to do that, didn’t want to scare her before he could make his apology. But, if by some miracle, she came to him, his unclothed state might make her flee, make her think the only thing they now shared were their bodies. That coitus was all he wanted from her.
Why hadn’t he made her listen to him on Wednesday night? Why hadn’t he taken her in his arms again in her bedchamber and made sure she knew she had his heart and his devotion, not just his cock and his chess game? Then he never would have wounded her feelings so grievously and crushed his own chances so thoroughly.
