Very quickly, George lost his surety that he would win. Even with no queen, Phoebe’s play was nimble. He, on the other hand, seemed to be playing in a heavy fog, one that confused him and twisted his thoughts.Hewas the one that was distracted today.
Because now when Phoebe moved a piece on the board, he saw her hand and thought of those fingers—with their nails she had worked so hard to grow—clutching at his back as he lay atop her, thrusting into her.
He was vile. Vile.
He looked only once at her face during the game. He saw two strands of her dark blonde hair which had escaped her hairpins, her serious mouth, her pink cheeks, and he was adrift in a sea of fantasy that involved her hair tumbling down completely, her mouth moaning in ecstasy, her cheeks flushing a deep red.
It was madness.
And then she looked up at him, fierce and angry about something, her brown eyes boring into him, and he had to close his own eyes and when he opened them again, he made sure to look at the chessboard and only at the chessboard.
Utter madness.
She was the most aggressive she’d ever been in the game, attacking him relentlessly, fearlessly, her pawns brutally battering his king into submission.
She won.
Of course, she did. The real question was—did he let her? He didn’t think so.
He finally looked at her again as she checkmated him. Her face was still creased with anger, an emotion he wasn’t used to seeing there, especially after she had won.
She leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers.
“I didn’t know I was so unattractive.”
“What? You’re not—”
“You offered me a handicap that guaranteed you were almost certain to win, George. You must be very averse to bedding me.”
He wondered if he should reveal that he thought he might have, without meaning to, let her win. But he couldn’t do that without insulting her chess play which had been brilliant and ruthless this afternoon in a way that his own had never been and never could be.
And he knew it wasn’t true. He hadn’t let her win. He just had not been capable of winning today.
He leaned back in his chair and steepled his own fingers, mirroring her. Surely, she had learned that unfeminine pose from him since he had assumed it so often during her chess lessons when they were children.
“There are two alternate theories. First, you are such a good player that even queen odds could not prevent your win. My mistake was not making your handicap more severe, say queenside odds.” Phoebe would have lost all her pieces on the side of the queen, save her pawns.
She let out a little snort of disbelief.
“My other theory as to why I might have lost is that you are . . . uh . . . actuallytooenticing and the gentleman in question—that is, me—was preoccupied by the possibility of what might happen after the game.”
Phoebe tilted her head and scrutinized him. “Your playwaspoor today. Did you lose on purpose?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“I must wonder. But I remind you that I lost even after you gave me queen odds. And I assure you that whatever the cause—your skill, my preoccupation with the outcome, my possible secret wish to lose—all only reflect on you in the most complimentary manner.”
He thought now she would laugh and tell him this had been an ever-so-good joke on him. She’d say his sister Alice had put her up to this prank. Phoebe was unpredictable at times; one more reason why she was such a good chess player. Given her frank and honest nature, a drawn-out joke like this would be a stretch for her, but not an impossibility. Yes, now she would giggle and gloat over her win and get up and go out the door, leaving behind one of her gloves and he would have to put it in his desk drawer until she returned on Monday for their regular game. When she would leave a different glove behind.
But no.
She stood suddenly. “Let’s go into your bedchamber.”
This was no joke.
George’s mind floated free, detached. It watched his body stand and walk and open the door that connected his study to the room where he slept. And where he bedded his mistresses.
