“Cut.” Alice shoved the cards at Phoebe who obeyed. Alice took the cards back and began to deal around the table.
Lady Fitzhugh looked confused. “Hint?”
“Soap under my fingernails.” Phoebe lifted her hands and showed the backs of them to Lady Fitzhugh and fluttered her fingers. She had left a glove somewhere—probably in George’s study—and had abandoned the other one, as one glove looked quite odd. “I apply the white soap three times a day, just as you advised, and I have been able to stop biting them. Finally, I have nails.”
Lady Huxley leaned forward, her eyebrows beetled. “You think Thornwick proposed because of your fingernails?”
Phoebe laughed nervously. “Well, he certainly wouldn’t have proposed if I were still biting them.”
No one else laughed. Lady Fitzhugh smiled again. “You entirely misunderstand me, my dear. Of course, the Duke of Thornwick would want you as a wife. Although it’s hard to believe he had the courage to make a proposal. No, no, my surprise is entirely related to the fact that you accepted him.”
“But—” Phoebe gulped. “He’s so perfect.”
“Yes.” Lady Fitzhugh seemed far away. “But, you see, we all thought—no, no, never mind.”
Lady Huxley harrumphed. “Never mind your surprise, Lady Fitzhugh. Pick up your cards, Lady Phoebe.”
“Yes,” Alice snorted. “Pick up your cards. You are delaying play. And Lady Fitzhugh is entirely right. There can be no surprise whatsoever that His Grace wants to marry you. You are wonderful. Always late, but wonderful. I am sure heaps of lords are envious of him.”
Phoebe felt her face growing hot as she picked up her cards. She was ashamed now she had come to the whist party angry at Alice. She had no business being angry at Alice. How terrible Phoebe was. And, in stark comparison, how kind Alice was. To make sure Phoebe was invited to parties like this. To assist her in finding a husband. To compliment her in front of Lady Huxley and Lady Fitzhugh. To say Phoebe was wonderful when Phoebe had been so quick to blame Alice for her own stupidity.
Phoebe had left the Danforth town house an hour ago through the back garden, buoyed with equal parts exhilaration, relief, and delight.
Exhilaration because . . . George, oh, George. He was so beautiful. No. Glorious. And he would never know how much . . . it had all worked out wonderfully. And they would be friends forever. She had giggled to herself at her cleverness as she had walked out of the alley.
The relief had come from the discovery that coupling—at least with George who had kissed her and touched her body just as she had wanted—was intensely pleasurable. Any discomfort had been slight and fleeting, more than adequately compensated for by the thrill she had felt. And so far, coupling did not seem to require any special skills on her part. It had all seemed based on want and instinct. With George.
And the delight? Well, there was the sense of well-being she still felt throughout her entire body from her climax. But she was over-the-moon knowing there was a release possible when she began to ache and pulse in her nether regions. She had thought coupling would relieve that ache, but the revelation from George that her own hand could do so? It was akin to a miracle.
But why had no one told her of this? Her delight had turned into resentment and then anger as she had walked the five streets to Lady Huxley’s. Anger at her mother, her married older sisters, her other lady acquaintances. And most of all, anger at Alice.
The way George talked, it seemed it was common knowledge no one had bothered to share with her. And she was a maiden of an advanced age. Two and twenty. She should have been told of this. The years she had wasted, curled up in her bed, her thighs pressed together, aching and pulsing and wanting and needingsomethingand thinking she would never find peace until she married. It had taken George to teach her what other women should have told her long ago.
She arranged her cards. Dear George. Maybe she would still give him her first editionAlphabeticall Tableeven though he had lost the wager. After all, he would need some consolation when she became far too busy as the Duchess of Thornwick to play chess with him on Monday nights.
And dear Alice. Phoebe should never have harbored any resentment toward her. Alice must have assumed Phoebe already knew about touching herself. Or perhaps Alice was as uninformed as Phoebe had been? No. Alicemustknow everything there was to know about amorous pleasure.
Alice cleared her throat. Phoebe jerked. It was her turn. Thank goodness whist was so easy. Almost mindless. Almost.Concentrate, Phee, concentrate.George’s voice in her head, counseling her. This was the first trick. Trump was spades. She had very few. She played a refuse card. Alice picked up the nine of spades that had declared the trump and then played it and took the trick.
Lady Huxley glared at Phoebe.
“Have you set a date, my dear?” Lady Fitzhugh asked.
“N-no.”
“I think long engagements are best, don’t you?” Alice said in a very definitive fashion and thumped down the first card of the next trick. Phoebe looked at her friend. She had not known Alice had any opinion on engagements, long or short.
Lady Huxley scowled at her cards. “Why is that, Miss Danforth? I would think you, of all people, would believe in a headlong rush towards passion.” Lady Huxley laid down a card.
“You think that despite the fact I am unmarried?” Alice sniggered. “You must believe the worst of me.”
Lady Huxley cackled back. “If I believe anything, it is only what you have led the entiretonto believe.”
“What does your betrothed have to say on the matter of the length of your engagement, Lady Phoebe?” Lady Fitzhugh played her card.
“Thorn—” She stopped herself. George had thought it odd she called Thornwick by his title. “His Grace has not said anything, as of yet.”
“Have you made the acquaintance of his mother?” Lady Fitzhugh asked.
