No, damn it.
He took off running, knowing the duchess would not make a scene by shouting after him. And the lady’s grip might be strong, but she would never be able to keep up with George’s legs.
Twenty-Four
Thornwick dragged Phoebe deep into the forest. He did not speak but took long strides, pulling her by her elbow until they reached a large clearing.
She knew he was in a rage. She had deliberately disobeyed him twice and had been fully prepared to disobey him a third time. But she could not and would not face the crowd of people after dinner tonight and attempt to sing. She would be mortified, humiliated, and certain to cast up her accounts in front of everyone.
And . . . and it would mean performing badly in front of George. Twice. With first her archery and then her singing.
She had only accepted the wager because she had been confident that she would win. But Thornwick had ordered her to lose and not embarrass Lord Dagenham. But surely Lord Dagenham wouldn’t be embarrassed to lose to her just because she was a woman? The men in her life had always liked her to win. Her father, her brothers, and, of course, George.
But perhaps the Finches and George were anomalies. Perhaps other men really were that fragile. Perhaps that was why other young women had an easier time finding suitors and husbands—they understood and accommodated this mystifyingly delicate male pride.
But now Phoebe needed to find a way to appease her future husband.
“Please, Arthur, let go of me. I won’t run away.”
“I am holding your arm, Lady Phoebe, so I don’t do something else with my hand. Like smack you.”
She had never been struck by anyone. Not even spanked as a child. She blenched and pulled away, but he held her fast. She whimpered. Like a child. And tried to think.
She should push him away or pry his hand off of her. But she had no free hand herself. She still clung to her bow and arrow as if somehow she still needed them.
I do need them. So I can stab Thornwick with the arrow if it comes to that.
The notion strangely calmed her and her whimper petered out.
Thornwick’s face was red, his nostrils flared. He had creases around his downturned mouth. His normal placidity was gone. His whole expression . . . it wasn’t just anger. It was some kind of hate. She had never seen its like.
“You agreed, Lady Phoebe.” He shook her arm and the violence of it made her whole body flail. “You agreed to miss the target.”
“But I lost at whist, just as you asked, Arthur.”
“Your Grace!” he screamed. “I am Your Grace.” Flecks of saliva collected in the corners of his mouth. He shook her again. “You thought you could trick me into marrying you by making a gesture? You didn’t think you needed to continue to obey me? You’re like all the rest!”
“All-all the rest?” she squeaked out.
“All sweetness and softness until you’re asked to do something you don’t want to do. Lying, deceiving bitches. All of you.”
A deep rumble, verging into a roar. “Let go of Lady Phoebe.”
George. She looked over her shoulder. He was standing at the edge of the clearing, all shoulders and chest and dark eyes and smoldering rage.
She hung her head, unable to keep her eyes on him. How shameful for him to see her like this, being treated like a child by Thornwick. Being cursed at and yanked.
“The law in England is that I can do what I like with my wife.” Thornwick’s voice was suddenly controlled and calm.
“Lady Phoebe is not your wife,” George answered.
“She will be.”
“Will she?”
“If she wants to be a duchess, she will. And she will learn to do as she’s told.”
“Your Grace.” She looked up at Thornwick and spoke quietly so George would not hear. “If you let go of me, I will convince Lord Danforth to go.”
