Pleasure resonated through her at a clarion pitch, and this time he didn’t stop, guiding her right into the feeling and through it. Her vision was flooded with brilliance, her muscles spasming, jerking. He took her low cry into his mouth and kissed her as hard and long as she wanted, and he didn’t stop stroking and teasing until the shudders had eased to shivers, and the shivers had faded to quiet trembling. Very gradually, the long, flexing fingers eased out of her body. He held her, cradling her against him, while she gasped for air and slowly returned to herself.
Sorting through the exhausted muddle of her thoughts, Phoebe wondered what would happen next. From the way they were entangled, she could feel that he was still aroused—would he want satisfaction? What should she do for him, and how? Oh, God, her mind was all blurred and comfortable, and her body was as limp as a sack of crushed salt. She felt excruciatingly shy about what they’d just done, but also grateful and close to tears. Nothing had ever felt as good as this, being gathered in by his arms, every part of her safe and warm and replete.
Carefully West reached into the wild disorder of her clothes and began to pull garments into place, tying and fastening her clothes expertly. All she could seem to do was lie there like a discarded doll, dreading the return to reality.
He eased her up to a sitting position. When he spoke, his tone was dry and amused. “About those feelings you no longer have. You were saying . . . ?”
Phoebe glanced at him in surprise and stiffened as if he’d just thrown cold water in her face.
It wasn’t what West said that shocked her, it was his detached expression, and the way one corner of his mouth curled upward in an arrogant smile. The tender lover had vanished, leaving her with a sardonic stranger.
All the feelings of warmth and connection had been an illusion. He hadn’t meant anything he’d said. All he had wanted was to prove that she still had physical needs, and he’d succeeded spectacularly, humiliating her in the process.
Her first intimacy with a man other than her husband . . . and it had been a game to him.
Oh, she felt so foolish.
“I hope we’ve learned our lesson,” he mocked lightly, making it even worse.
Somehow Phoebe managed to cover her hurt and fury with a stony fa?ade. “Indeed,” she replied curtly, unable to look at him as she rose to her feet. “Although perhaps not the lesson you thought you were teaching.” She yanked her bodice into place and straightened her skirts, and nearly leaped away like a startled doe as he moved to help her. “I require no more assistance.”
West stepped back at once. He waited silently as she finished putting herself in order. “Phoebe—” he began, his voice softer than before.
“Thank you, Mr. Ravenel,” she said, ignoring the weakness of her legs as she strode to the door. They were no longer on a first-name basis. As far as she was concerned, they never would be again. “The afternoon was most instructive.” She let herself out of the study and closed the door with great care, even though she longed to slam it.
Chapter 19
On the surface, dinner that night—the last gathering before the Challons departed in the morning—was a sparkling and lighthearted affair. The wedding and subsequent visit had been a great success, deepening the acquaintance between the two families and paving the way for more interactions in the future.
For all the enjoyment West derived from the evening, he might as well have spent it in a medieval dungeon. The effort to appear normal was almost face-cracking. He couldn’t help but marvel inwardly at Phoebe, who was perfectly composed and smiling. Her self-control was formidable. She was careful not to ignore him entirely, but she gave him no more than the minimum of attention necessary to keep from causing comment. Every now and then she glanced at him with a bland smile, or laughed politely at some quip he’d made, her gaze never quite meeting his.
It’s for the best, West had told himself a thousand times since the torrid scene in the study. It had been the right decision to make her hate him. In the moments after her climax, as he’d cradled her in his arms and felt her beautiful body nestle trustingly against his, he’d been on the verge of pouring out everything he thought and felt for her. Even now, it terrified him to think of what he might have said. Instead he’d deliberately embarrassed her, and pretended he’d only been amusing himself with her.
Now there would be no expectations, no longing, no hope on either side. Now he didn’t have to fear that he might go to her in a moment of weakness. She would leave tomorrow, and everything would go back to the way it was. He would find a way to forget her. The world was full of women.
Years would pass, while he and Phoebe led separate lives. She would marry and have more children. She would have the life she deserved.
Unfortunately, so would he.
After an abysmal night of broken sleep, West awakened with a lump of ice in his stomach. He felt as if someone had parked a traction engine on his chest. Slowly he went through the rituals that began every morning. He was too numb to feel the heat of the towel he used to soften his beard before shaving. As he passed the unmade bed, he was tempted to climb back into it, fully clothed.
Enough of this, he told himself grimly. It was unmanly, this moping and languishing. He would go about his day as usual, starting with breakfast. The sideboard would be laden with broiled chops, eggs, rashers of bacon and ham, potatoes hashed with herbs and fried in butter, bread puddings each in its own puddle of sauce, a platter of crisp radishes and pickles on ice, dishes of stewed fruit from the orchard topped with fresh cream—
The thought of food was making him nauseous.
West paced, sat, stood and paced some more, and finally stopped at the window with his forehead pressed against a cool pane of glass. His room afforded a view of the stables and carriage house, where vehicles and horses were being readied to take the Challons to the estate’s private railway halt.
He couldn’t let Phoebe leave like this, hating him, thinking the worst of him. He didn’t know how things should be left between them, but not this way.