Marie stared at her betrothed. All she wanted to know was why they couldn't at least have dinner together tonight. He'd said he had to work, but it was Friday, and he had to eat anyway. But her persistence had made him lose his temper, and now she was rapidly losing hers. "I'm sorry having dinner with me is such a burden on you," she snapped, turning to leave.
Davis grabbed her arm, pulling her around to face him. "Don't talk to me like that!"
"You shouted at me!"
"You deserved it."
She glared at him, trying to wrench her arm free. "You're hurting me."
"Maybe that will remind you not to talk back to me." He released her with a slight shove and turned to stalk off.
Marie's anger dissolved into pain, and she hurried to her room to hide her tears. She and Davis had been betrothed for just over five weeks, and during the last couple of weeks he'd lost his temper with her twice. Three times counting tonight. She didn't understand. Up until the last couple of weeks, he'd almost always been sweet and considerate. He had never been unkind to her before they'd become betrothed. Of course, both times before when he'd shouted at her, he'd come to her to--
"Marie?" Davis called as he tapped on her door. "Darling, I'm sorry. Please come out for a minute."
She went to open the door. "You hurt my feelings. And you hurt my arm."
"I'm sorry. I'm under a lot of pressure at work, and I took it out on you." He took her hand and raised her arm so that he could kiss it where he'd squeezed it. "Better?"
"Yes," she breathed. He'd never kissed her arm before.
When he was gone, she dropped onto her bed with a smile. But it slowly became a frown. She was beginning to think she didn't understand her betrothed at all. She'd never seen him get angry before he’d proposed. And she'd thought that being betrothed would mean they'd spend more time together, but they were actually spending less time together. He had dinner with her family two or three times a week, but he and her father always retired to her father's study for the rest of the evening. And they'd only gone out alone twice.
Considering the pattern of the past five weeks, Marie was thrilled when Davis told her that he was taking her out to dinner the next Friday evening. But it turned out to be completely unlike the night of their betrothal. Davis was in an abominable mood, complaining about the food, the service, even the color of the tablecloth. And he was too tired to go dancing after dinner.
"Can we at least go for a walk by the river?" Marie asked as they left the restaurant.
"I'm not up to it. I happen to have put in a long day of work while you were out with your friends. There's more to life than parties and shopping, Marie."
"I'm sorry." Partly for him but mostly for herself. What would he say if he knew that she sometimes went to a speakeasy? He'd probably kill her.
Davis, having missed the irony in her tone, took her hand. "Why don't we go back to your house and listen to the radio?"
That idea appealed to her very much. Her parents were out, so she and Davis would be alone. Normally, she wouldn't dare be alone at home with a man--her father would be furious. But he trusted Davis with her.
They sat close together holding hands as they listened to a mystery program. Marie wasn't paying attention. She was trying to think of a way to get Davis' arm around her. Or her head on his shoulder. Preferably both. Maybe . . .
She yawned. Her eyelids began to droop. Her head nodded. It grazed Davis's shoulder.
He looked down at her. "Are you sleepy?"
"A little."
He put his arm around her, drawing her head onto his shoulder. "I guess it's a good thing we didn't go dancing."
"Mmm." She snuggled up against him, smiling smugly.
He squeezed her closer, burying his nose in her hair. "Your hair smells nice."
"Thank you."
He'd never held her pressed so close to him. He'd been careful—he knew what her father expected of him. A virgin on their wedding night . . . but then she'd be his to do with as he pleased. September 18 . . . three months away. He had to have at least a small sample now.
Tilting her chin up, he smiled at her. "You're beautiful, Marie."
She caught her breath, unable to respond. To her delight, she saw that he was going to kiss her. She closed her eyes, savoring the anticipation and then the sweetness of his lips on hers.
When, after a few seconds, he didn't end the kiss, her heartbeat sped up. He'd never kissed her this long before. But her eyes flew open when she felt his hand slide under her skirt to squeeze her thigh. Panicking, she tried to push him away. But he pinned her against the back of the sofa, his mouth becoming rough. She tried to break away from him because he was kissing her so hard that her teeth were cutting into her lips; she could taste the blood. But he wouldn't let her go. And then he pushed his tongue into her mouth, and shock and disgust fused with the pain to give her the strength to shove him away.
Marie could only stare at him as she raised trembling fingers to her bruised and bleeding lips. Davis was breathing hard. She didn't take her eyes off him as he stood up. "Make sure your mother tells you what your duties are once we're married." He strode out of the house, heading for Mae's.
Marie stared after him. She knew about sex. But-but . . . she'd thought it would be something pleasant. Was the harshness of his kiss indicative of what sex would be like?
She couldn't sleep that night. After tossing and turning for hours, she got up and took a long bath. By the time she'd dressed, it was dawn. She was restless, but she didn't know what she wanted to do. Finally she decided to go for a walk in the garden to see if the quiet stroll would help her sort out her thoughts and feelings.
Davis seemed like a different man since they'd become betrothed. He didn't have much time for her, and when they were together, he shouted at her. But he always apologized. Maybe that was part of being a wife--letting him take out his frustrations on her.
Marie stepped carefully around an azalea bush. It was so foggy this morning that she could barely see three feet ahead. Plucking one of the magenta blossoms, she raised it to her nose as she continued her stroll and her thoughts.
She loved being held. Last night was the first time he'd held her except when they were dancing and during their brief kisses. And she'd had to trick him into it. Didn't he like holding her? That was a silly idea—he loved her. And he certainly liked kissing her. Marie frowned. Last night’s kiss hadn't been pleasant at all. It had hurt. Was that what married kisses were like? Her mother had told her that Davis would have a harder time controlling himself now that they were betrothed. Maybe he'd just lost control of himself.
Was that a patch of marigolds? She didn't remember any marigolds in the garden. She must have been strolling around the garden for at least an hour, and it was so foggy . . . could she have wandered into the neighbors' garden by mistake?
She retraced her steps, but everything looked even less familiar than the marigolds. She knew there were no white roses in their garden. She was sure that the house was in this direction. The pond should be right over there . . . but it wasn't.
Jittery, she stopped to try to get her bearings. She couldn't have gotten lost in her own garden! She'd just gotten turned around. Listening carefully, she could detect the sound of splashing water. So the pond must be over that way . . . although she didn't know why there would be splashing. She could worry about that when she got there.
She slowed down as the splashing grew louder. There was no pond here. The water was . . . the water was coming out of the mouths of stone frogs and splashing over stone flowers.