George’s jaw dropped. His hatred of the man came flooding back to him. And yes, he hated that Thornwick would have a wedding night with Phoebe. But it was more than that.
What a shit Thornwick was. An unmitigated shit.
George could imagine Phoebe’s reaction. Her, perhaps naked in the bed—no, he couldn’t think of that. Her in a nightdress, in the bed, thinking her husband was about to give her a romantic gift, a symbol of their union. Her face when she saw her punitive present. A gift intended to correct her. Fix her.
Surely, Phoebe’s expression would match the one she had had when George had told her there must be something wrong with Thornwick because he wanted to marry her.
Which reminded him that he was a shit, too. Because in addition to that insult, hadn’t George bemoaned Phoebe’s lateness a million times himself?
That’s different.I wouldn’t give her a watch for a wedding present.I’d give her . . . what would I give her?I’d get Alice to tell me what to give her. In fact, I’d get Alice to buy it. How is that for romantic?Maybe I’m an even bigger shit than Thornwick.
George almost turned and left the lawn then. But here Phoebe finally came, tripping over the grass in a green dress that did not look much different to George’s eyes than the dress she had worn to church.
Don’t hurry, Phoebe. Don’t give the shit the satisfaction.
And Phoebe didn’t hurry. She walked as she always did, straight ahead, bouncing a bit on her toes. A short stride to match her height, her arms swinging easily at her sides. George had always liked her walk. None of Alice’s boyish swagger. None of Lady Starling’s swaying. A sensible, sweet walk.
She was wearing the leather shield. He was glad of that and her smile when she joined the group. He had been right to stay.
Phoebe chirruped, “My apologies for keeping everyone waiting.”
Thornwick smiled back, his irritation seemingly erased. “It’s all for you, Lady Phoebe. Let’s have you select a bow.”
“What is that odd thing you’re wearing, dear?” The Duchess of Abingdon stepped closer to Phoebe and fingered one of the straps.
“Oh, it’s just something—” She drew her mother aside and whispered in her ear. The other women came closer, and Thornwick engaged William and Edmund in some chat about a horse race he had seen two weeks ago.
Lady Grace Cavendish said, “May I?” and reached out. When Phoebe nodded, Grace touched the shield. “This is very clever. I should have one made myself.”
George would have to tell Alice where it had been made so she could tell Phoebe.
Lady Anne said, “If I had known such a thing existed, I might have taken up archery myself. But I had always thought it impossible.” Lady Anne was narrow everywhere except her breasts, which George could admit were things of surpassing beauty. But not surpassing the beauty of Phoebe’s breasts. Because, of course, Phoebe’s beasts were attached to Phoebe now, in a way they hadn’t been when he was seventeen and had dreamed about them.
Phoebe went and selected a bow.
And then George felt if he had not already been in love with Phoebe Finch, he would have fallen in love with her on the south lawn of the Thornwick estate.
She was . . . he didn’t know what she was. The words he had used before—beautiful and magnificent—could not come close to describing Phoebe with a bow and arrow. She was not of this earth.
Her head tilt. Ah, that was where that head tilt had come from. The curve of her back when she took her stance. The very slight poking out of her pink tongue. The last second when she closed her eyes. To feel the breeze, he supposed, to sense the influence of the wind. And then the sure and suddentwangof the bowstring. The arrow itself, a glorious missile through the air. Thethudof it hitting the target.
Even when a sudden gust blew her arrow off course, causing her to miss the target, one could see the path of the arrow had been perfect until the very last moment. And her laugh at the wind had more than compensated for the lack of a thud.
William Dagenham and Lady Grace had also chosen bows and were shooting arrows at the other two targets. But George only had eyes for Phoebe.
“Let’s lay a wager,” William called out. “To make it interesting.”
George snorted. Clearly, William had not been paying attention to Phoebe’s skill. But the Viscount Dagenham was an inveterate gambler. Everyone knew that.
“I thought you were here to get away from your losses, Dagenham,” Thornwick said loudly.
William was not in the least abashed. He shouted back, “Not money. Some other kind of wager.”
Thornwick walked over to him, and the two men put their heads together. Thornwick said something. William laughed. Thornwick laughed. The two women—Lady Grace and Phoebe—came over and joined them.
George could tell from Phoebe’s reddening face and her gaze directed at the ground that she didn’t like the stakes at play here. He almost walked over himself, but he suddenly felt the Duchess of Abingdon’s hand on his forearm, restraining him.
“I’m surprised to find you here, Lord Danforth. At a house party. From what I understand from my daughter, you lead a very regimented life. You do certain things on certain days. Surely, you are missing duties and appointments by being here?”
