He waited several minutes, not sure what to do. Follow her? Wait here? She had promised not to run away, but he didn’t want her to feel alone. But would she want to see him when she was so upset with him?
Why did he continue to be so stupid with her? Why had he chosen to tell her just now about his keeping suitors away from her? Things had been going so well. They had been in bed together and she had been so responsive to him, so wanting him, and she hadn’t cried. They had eaten a meal together for the first time as man and wife. She had asked to play chess with him.
He went upstairs and knocked on her door and entered after she said “Come in.”
She was sitting on her bed. He could see she had been crying.
She smiled weakly. “I suppose I should feel better that it wasn’t my fault no one wanted me, but I don’t.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She shrugged and started to say something but it was interrupted by a sob bursting out of her.
Thirty-Four
She woke up surrounded by George. Phoebe was on the very edge of the bed, facing out, and one of his arms was under her, the forearm coming up between her breasts so his hand cupped her topmost shoulder. The other arm banded around her waist. His leg was thrown over hers. He was solid, heavy, warm.
He had taken out her hairpins and removed her clothes and put her in her nightdress last night as she had sobbed. What a baby she had been. Crying like that.
Then the reason for her tears came back to her and sadness clutched at her chest even more tightly than George’s arm.
I felt so badly about myself for three years and it was his fault.
But she couldn’t let herself think about that. She couldn’t let herself fall down that well of despair again. She felt George’s hardness behind her, pushing at her, provoking a wildness in her she couldn’t name.
It wasn’t desire. What was it? It wasn’t rage, although it felt akin to that. It was hunger, it was wanting, it was violence . . . it wasdesirefor desire.
He was holding her too tightly for her to be able to move much, but she pushed back against him with her bottom. She took George’s hand off her collarbone and molded it around her breast. Now, finally, he was beginning to stir a little.
“Phee,” his voice croaked from behind her and his leg came off of her.
“Shift over. I’m on the edge.” She had always slept in the middle of the bed, having a fear of falling out as she had when she was five. She had no idea how she had wound up so far over.
His warm body came away from hers, his hand released her breast, his arm came off her waist and she was able to turn over and face him.
George had a look of alarm on his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—you kept getting away from me, and I promised you I would hold you all night.”
“Did you?” He was in his shirt and trousers. She pulled his shirt out of his waistband and got her palm against the heated skin of his hard stomach.
“Which?”
“Did you hold me all night?” She moved her hand higher and brushed the trail of hair from his navel to his chest with her fingertips.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good.” Her hand went down to the fall of his trousers and she stroked over his hardness.
“Phee.” His voice was edging into a groan. “We need to talk about what I did. How I hurt your chances with other men. How sad you’ve been.”
“I don’t want to.”
“What then . . . what do you want?”
She looked up at his troubled face. “You know what I want.”
“Phoebe—”
“It’s the only thing I want from you.”
