Chapter 16

                                    

                                          
As the others drifted away, Thorne took two steps to Georgie's side. On closer inspection, Thorne thought the gown wasn't all  bad. If one liked outrageous birds.
                          
Georgie must have read his face for her mouth pinched, and the closer Thorne came, the more red her cheeks colored.  Her whispered words came from the side of her mouth, so low, only Thorne could hear it. "Don't. You. Dare. Laugh."
                          
Thorne met her eyes, determined to be the epitome of sobriety.  He chirped, "I wouldn't dream of it!"
                          
Georgie sighed, biting her tongue and twisting her shoulders to get a view of the back. Unfortunately, the ruffle latched to her throat only allowed her to move so far. She looked like a nun forced to the altar. So put out, that Thorne cast a quick look at Lady Elizabeth before an idea struck.
                          
"Suzanne," he called over his shoulder. His eyes never released Georgie's in the mirror. "Is it Lord Byron who writes that horrid-," Thorne stopped abruptly, remembering his purpose, and cleared his throat.  "Beg pardon. Was it Lord Byron who writes that horridly lovely poetry?"
                          
Thorne expected to break out in boils at the lie.
                          
Suzanne eyed him suspiciously. Her fingers released the  bolt of sapphire fabric she had been perusing. "Why, Brother?"
                          
"Does this gown, do you think," he said, gesturing to Georgie, "make you wish to write poetry as much as it does me?"  
                          
Bernie choked in shock, about hacking up her stomach, and Georgie turned towards him so fast, she wobbled, almost toppling from the pedestal. Thorne steadied her with a hand on her waist. It was as if he had placed his arm in a furnace and wanted nothing more than to embrace the blaze. 
                          
He released her.
                          
"Are you sure you aren't suffering from the ague?" Suzanne asked. Walking to him, Suzanne placed the back of her hand against his head, checking for a fever. 
                          
Thorne's lips wobbled, barely perceptible, but it was enough for a look of understanding to cross Suzanne's face, before she bit her lower lip, giving a furtive look to the interested occupants in the mirror behind them.
                          
Suzanne stepped back and took a moment to view Georgie. "Why yes...I can see why it would lend itself to your..." she pressed the tip of her finger to her lip, finishing with, "imagination."
                          
Thorne cleared his throat, begging Georgie to play along, as he began to walk circles about her. "I believe that romantic poet would compare this gown to....a..." he thrust a finger in the air, "a flock of glorious doves!" 
                          
"Doves?" Georgie asked. The shock in her voice had him tightening his lips, as she spread her arms, viewing the heavily plumed gown.
                          
Thorne nodded. "Yes, doves, but do try not to interrupt, my dear, I'm in the middle of producing lyrics in your honor."
                          
Georgie glared, and Thorne bent down slightly, pretending to pay undue attention to the frilled sleeve. He winked at her, smiling. Comprehension lightened her features then, but Thorne continued, unheeded, his strides sure and strong as he circled her. 
                          
"Doves. Quite right. I can just imagine that flock of doves," Thorne dove, spreading his arms out as he pretended to fly, "coming through this very shop, dancing and twirling, and swooping," he dove further below, delighting in Georgie's shock of laughter, "and diving."  He heard a giggle in Lady Marianne's direction, but Thorne pretended not to hear, so enthralled was he in his ode. 
                          
"Flying so fast around your beauty," he continued, "that it sprinkled you in their many feathers." Circle completed, Thorne stopped at Georgie's side.