“I’m to blame for all this. I wanted George to marry you. He loves you, Phee. He’s just . . . he’s George. So I got Thornwick to come after you. To make George jealous. I thought my brother would see Thornwick paying attention to you and it would spur him into action. But then he was away and didn’t see Thornwick courting you and it all moved so much faster than I thought it would.”
“I see.”
“But I picked badly.”
“You picked. For me.”
“You love George, you know you do.”
“No. I don’t know that.”
“Well, I do know.”
Phoebe took a deep breath. “You seem to think you know an awful lot, Alice Danforth.”
“Phee—”
“You put George in the room you were meant to be in last night.”
“Yes. I wanted you two to talk.”
“I see.”
“Phee, please break it off with Thornwick and give George a chance.”
Phoebe was silent.
“Say something.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I’m not going to say something. I don’t have anything to say to you.” She didn’t recognize her own voice. It was full of venom, like Thornwick’s had been when he had upbraided her in the clearing.
“Don’t be angry—”
“Here I thought I had friends. But I don’t. I have puppeteers instead of friends. And you’re even worse than George.”
“I did it because I love you both—”
“Go away, Alice. I’m going to tell you what I told your brother. Leave me alone.”
Twenty-Five
Spring, 1819. London.
Phoebe was two and twenty and older than most unwed maidens of theton. She had no intention of having a fourth Season, of exposing herself to rejection yet again, but Alice persuaded her, saying she would be quite bereft if Phoebe were not by her side.
“Who will distract the other gentlemen while I slip off to the terrace for some fondling with one gentleman in particular?”
Phoebe frowned. “I distract no one.”
Alice eyed her. “Your breasts distract them.”
It was true. Phoebe had breasts. Alice had almost none. But Alice said men loved her small breasts. They longed to see them, she whispered to Phoebe, and would become quite desperate when she hinted she might unbutton enough for them to catch a glimpse of her bosom.
“That’s how I got Hadrian.” Hadrian was her gelding, the very horse she had ridden in such a scandalous manner with the Earl of Temblebury. “I made a wager with Lord Dagenham. If I won, I got Hadrian. If the viscount won, I had to show him my breasts. I won, obviously. But then the poor man looked so sad, I showed him my breasts anyway.”
