She wouldn’t come to him tonight. That was the wish of an arrogant man. And anyway, it was too hot for a nightshirt.
He took off his clothes and got into the bed, pulling a sheet over him. He did not blow out the candle by his bedside. He couldn’t bear to be in the dark. He lay on his back and stared at the flickering light on the underside of the bed canopy.
Edmund’s bedchamber was next to Thornwick’s, and he had promised to keep awake and vigilant, to go into the hall if he heard Thornwick leave his own room or if he heard someone in the hall coming toward Thornwick’s door.
Phoebe would not be compromised by Thornwick tonight. Edmund was watching out.
George woke to the opening of a door. His bedchamber was now lit only by the moon shining through the open window, the candle having long since guttered out. He saw a white form.
A whisper. “Alice? Are you awake?”
He willed himself to say something, to tell Phoebe it was him. He cleared his throat. She spoke before he did.
“I’m scared, Alice.”
She came closer to the bed.
“I am. It isn’t . . . it isn’t what I expected at all. Being engaged. And now with George here . . .”
His heart lurched in hope. He meant something to her.
“All I can think of is what he said.” Hope crumbled into despair. “I don’t measure up. I don’t think I can be a duchess.”
She was right next to the bed. He had to make her aware.
“It’s me, Phee.”
She jerked. A squeak. His hand reached out to hold her, to keep her in place. He caught the sleeve of her nightdress.
“Please—” They both said the word at the same time.
He sat up, using his other arm to make sure the bed sheet covered his lower half. Her face was clearly visible to him in the moonlight now.
“Don’t go,” he begged her. “Let me tell you how sorry I am.”
Her fearful expression did not change. “I can’t be here.”
“No one will know.” She was safe with him, didn’t she know that?
She bit her lip. No one will know. Never a wife. Just a secret. That’s what he wanted from her. To keep her hidden away, even more hidden than his mistresses. At least Thornwick had acknowledged her and had made it clear to the world what he wanted from her. Even though it wasn’t quite how she wanted to be wanted.
But it was silly and girlish of her to think she could have any say in how she was desired. She had no control over that.
It was what her whole life had been, hadn’t it? Having no control. Finding her fingers in her mouth, with her nails bitten down. Her plate too full at breakfast. Her hair a disordered mess. Always late, scattered, worried.
And yes, weak and bending both to George and to Alice. Those powerful Danforth personalities that had ruled her life far more absolutely than her mother and father ever had. Going along with George’s unconditional certainty and Alice’s harebrained schemes.
Because this must be Alice’s doing. George here, in Alice’s bed, capturing her. She should have known. She had smelled him as soon as she had come into the room. He carried the scent of everything that was home to her. And now everything that was arousing to her.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
“I know. But I don’t hate you, Phee. In fact—”
“Why would you hate me? Haven’t I done everything you’ve ever asked of me?”
He was silent.
“Haven’t I stayed a little girl for you? A pupil for you? Haven’t I cried out of your sight so you wouldn’t be upset? Haven’t I learned to beat you at chess in a high-necked dress so I could keep your interest? If only for an hour or two over the chessboard. Because I could never keep your interest any other way. Tell me what you want from me now, George. Tell me what you want so I can give it to you and you’ll leave me alone.” She heard the plea in her voice and hated herself.
