The Marrying Season (12 page)

She was like a boat tossed about upon a vast sea. However pleasant—well, more than pleasant—however stirring those sensations were, they were completely out of her control. And that was not the way she wanted to live her life. She drew in a breath. This simply would not do. She needed to regain her calm. Her control. She could not allow Myles to send her off course.

The inn was not as terrible as it had seemed last night, she decided as she went downstairs. Though small and low-ceilinged, it appeared brighter with the sun coming
in through the thick, leaded-glass window at the end of the corridor. It was almost quaint. Everything appeared much better this morning.

The door was open to the private room, and Myles was standing by the window, sipping a cup of tea. She paused for a moment, watching him. The sun coming in the window turned his hair almost golden. His jacket hung perfectly on him, and his breeches were well fitted to his long, muscular legs. He had, she thought, exactly the form most pleasing in a man—not that such things were important.

She must have made a noise, for he turned and smiled. “Genevieve. How lovely you look.”

He set down his cup and crossed the room to her, bending slightly to kiss her cheek and lightly stroking his hand down her arm. A shiver ran through her, setting up the tangle of nerves in her stomach that she had so carefully smoothed away. He escorted her to the table, seating her, then began to dish up a choice piece of meat for her, urging her to try this dish or that.

“Really, Myles, what are you doing?” Genevieve asked sharply. “Why are you fluttering around me?”

“Genevieve! Are you criticizing my attempts to spoil my bride? I am devastated.”

“You are ridiculous,” Genevieve corrected.

He laughed and sat down. “My love, will you not let me play the attentive groom? I think I have a calling for it.” He tore off a piece of buttered bread and popped it into her mouth, then ran his thumb along her lip to remove a dot of butter.

A flutter started in her stomach, and Genevieve hastily turned her attention to her plate. Normally she would have tossed back a tart response, but her mind had gone blank. Her eyes strayed to Myles’s hands, efficiently spreading the pale butter on another bite of bread. His fingers were long and agile. She thought of them sliding down her arm, bringing all the nerves beneath her skin to life.

Genevieve cleared her throat and set about making wifely conversation as they ate. “I know very little about you, I fear. I have not met any of your family.”

“No reason for you to,” he said with a careless smile. “My mother has never liked London overmuch, and since my father’s death, she never comes to the city. You may have met my sister Meg; she is the next one down from me. She married Lord Devonbrook and spends most of the Season in the city, though no doubt in different circles. But the eldest, Amelia, married the local squire’s son, and she rarely leaves the area, for how else could she manage the lives of everyone around her? Daphne married a clergyman with a living in Devon. Amelia and Daphne each have four children, and I shall not bother you with their names, for there are too many to remember.”

“Oh, my. You do have a number of nieces and nephews.”

“That is only the beginning. The next sister down, Phoebe, married a military man, and she has three little ones, whom you will meet. While her husband is with his brigade in Portugal, she has brought her brood home to
the Park to live. There is another on the way, you see, and she wants to be close to our mother.” He laughed. “No, you need not look alarmed. It will not be such a crowd. Thorwood Park is no Castle Cleyre, but it is a rambling old house with plenty of room for everyone. The company is nice for my mother.”

“I believe Grandmama said your mother was related to Lord Aylesworth?”

“She is his sister. Their father was not well pleased when she told him she would marry the son of a lowly baronet and no other.”

“What did he do?” Genevieve asked.

“What could he do? He made them wait for a year before he finally gave his permission, but in the end, of course, he gave in.”

Genevieve thought that her own father would have found a great number of things that could be done to impose his will on a recalcitrant child, but she did not say so. She glanced down at her plate, a little surprised to see that she had eaten everything on it. She took a sip of her tea. “Your parents were a love match, then?”

“Very much so.” He nodded, setting his plate aside. “My father adored her, and she him. He had a rose arbor built for her, all white roses, so that, he said, they would form a perfect backdrop for her beauty. When they are in season, she always puts a bouquet of the roses at his grave.”

“That’s very romantic.”

“It is.” He gave her a bittersweet smile. “But ’tis sad, as
well. She has never been the same since his death. She enjoys life; I don’t mean to imply that she does not, or that she does not love her children and grandchildren. But she has been . . . incomplete, I suppose. I think she will not be whole again until she joins him.”

“I cannot imagine that.”

“And here I thought you would greatly mourn my passing,” he replied lightly.

“Don’t be nonsensical.” She frowned at him. “You know I would be quite sorry if you died. But it is hardly as if we are a love match.”

“It’s true. Still . . . we have time.” He linked his hand with hers, bringing it up to his mouth to press a kiss upon the back.

She wondered if he was teasing her again. Surely he did not expect them to fall in love. She shifted a little uncomfortably. “Myles, I do not think—I mean, I am not the sort of woman to—oh, you know what I am!” she finished crossly.

“My dear girl, what do you mean?” His brows rose slightly.

“Don’t put on that expression with me. You are quite aware what I mean.” She straightened, and her expression became one of a person taking her medicine. “Myles, I promise you I will be as good a wife as I can be. I will manage your household and visit your sick tenants and call on the vicar’s wife. I will make needlepoint pillows and plan any sort of party you wish. I will be polite to your friends, even that frivolous Alan Carmichael, and I
shall not fuss about you going off with them to your club or to watch men beat each other about the head or to tramp about the moors shooting things, for I am well accustomed to that with Alec.”

“Ah, Genny.” He chuckled. “What an interesting view you have of a wife’s duties. However, I must tell you that I have no need for needlepoint cushions, though I shall appreciate your effort to be civil to poor Alan. And, alas, the vicar does not have a wife, only a daughter of rather youthful years.”

“Myles, be serious for once.” She leaned forward, her eyes fixed earnestly on his face. “If you expect me to be a . . . a frilly sort of wife or someone who hangs on you and never says a sharp word to you, I fear you will be doomed to disappointment. I have the heart of a Stafford, not that of a loving woman. You know what I am like, and I don’t think I can be changed into another sort of person. I should have explained all this; I was wrong to accept your offer without your truly understanding that I am lacking in such attributes. Perhaps, if you wish it, well, perhaps we might be able to get an annulment, not having . . . you know . . .”

“Consummated the marriage?” Genevieve nodded, not looking at him. He leaned closer to her, planting his elbows on the table and tilting up her chin so that she had to look into his face. “My dearest Genevieve, you are right. I do know you, and I knew your nature when I offered for you. I have seen ample evidence over the years of the heart you carry inside you, and while I think you
wrong yourself, I would not try to make you into something you are not. I have no interest in frills nor any need for you to have only sweet words for me—though I will admit that one or two now and then would not displease me.” He smiled into her eyes and bent to press his lips gently against hers. “I have no desire for an annulment. I confess that I am looking forward to consummating our marriage.”

Genevieve felt as if every nerve in her body had awakened and was waiting, tingling, for what he would do next. His breath was warm, its touch like a feather against her skin. His mouth was only an inch from hers, and she could think of nothing except the way it had felt upon her a few minutes ago in their bedchamber. He raised his hand and slowly drifted the tips of his fingers down her cheek and onto her throat, curving around to cup her neck.

Then, with a sigh, he released her. “Unfortunately, ’tis hardly the time or place to continue.” He rose to his feet and extended his hand to her. “I fear that we must be on our way.”

They set out again for Thorwood Park, traveling at a better pace than the day before. With the curtain open to the soft summer day, Genevieve watched the landscape roll by while Myles described the people and places around Thorwood Park. He painted the nearby village of Hutchins Gate in comic tones, but his affection for the place and the people who lived there was clear in his voice. And when he spoke of the lands and
tenants that his estate comprised, it was just as evident that he understood and enjoyed both the people and the business.

“I am surprised you know so much about it,” Genevieve told him.

“About what? The people who live where I grew up?” He looked puzzled.

“No. Well, yes. I mean, that you know so much about the details. What your tenants raise, who their families are.”

“Does not Alec?”

“Yes, but he is not like other young men that way. Not many gentlemen regard their tenants as ‘their people,’ as Alec does. Most see their estate as merely a well of money for gambling and drinking and clothes.”

“Mm. I confess I am not as proprietary as Alec. My family was never their ‘liege lord’ in the way of the earls of Rawdon. But still . . . it makes little sense to ignore the details of what enables one to live as we do. That ‘well,’ as you say, can run dry. I should hate to wake up one morning and find myself destitute because I had not paid enough attention to my tenants.”

“I am very impressed,” Genevieve told him honestly.

“That I am not completely frivolous?” His smile took the sting from his words, but Genevieve blushed, fully aware that she had misjudged him.

She started to protest, then stopped herself. “Yes. You are right. I am sorry.”

Now it was his turn to look surprised. “Genevieve . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh, hush. You would think I had never apologized to anyone. Anyway,” she added rather crossly, “it isn’t as if you’ve ever talked of such things before.”

“True. I am not inclined to mention crops and rents and such at a gala or the opera.”

“Or to a woman.”

“I admit, ’tis not the first thing that crosses my mind.” He smiled. “Had I but known it was the way to your heart . . .”

“Don’t be foolish,” she told him severely, but honesty impelled her to add, “At least you were willing to tell me instead of warning me to mind my knitting.”

“My dear, I would never tell you that. I have seen the scarf you made for Alec.”

Her eyes widened, and a hot retort came to her lips, but instead laughter tumbled out. The time passed far more quickly than Genevieve would have imagined possible. Their conversation roamed far from the subjects she was accustomed to—and she felt sure that some of it was not in the least appropriate for him to discuss with a lady. But she could not deny that it made conversation with him far more interesting.

Late in the afternoon their chaise rolled into the yard of a prosperous-looking inn. They were clearly in a more substantial town than any they had passed before. Genevieve could see the spire of a cathedral over the treetops and roofs, and the road had turned into a cobblestoned street.

“Are we stopping here for the night?” Genevieve
asked, and the nerves in her stomach, which had been quiet during the ride, began to set up a jangle once again.

“Yes, it is too far to reach the Park tonight,” Myles said. “I think you will find the Three Swans much more inviting than the accommodations last night.”

As they entered the large stone inn, the innkeeper hurried forward to greet Myles, who was obviously an honored guest. Within moments a maid had whisked Genevieve up to a large, well-appointed bedchamber. The girl completed Genevieve’s pleasure in the room by saying, “Shall I light the fire and bring up the slipper tub, ma’am?”

“A bath?” Genevieve smiled at the thought of washing away the grime of travel. “That would be delightful.”

Within minutes, two maids had brought in a small slipper tub and placed it in front of the fireplace. As the girls bustled in and out, filling the tub, Genevieve pulled the pins from her hair and began to brush it out.

Myles strolled through the open doorway and stopped short. His eyes went to her hair, tumbling over her shoulders, then flickered over to the tub. His eyes darkened, his face changing subtly. He started toward her, and Genevieve jumped to her feet, setting the brush aside, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest. Of course. How could she have forgotten? Her room was no longer her own.

“Myles! I, um, was about to . . .” She glanced toward the tub, irritated that she could not keep the blush from rising up her throat. She looked away, and her gaze fell on the bed, and the heat under her skin increased.

“Yes, I see.” He raised his hand to trail it down her hair to her shoulders.

Genevieve swallowed, and her eyes came back to his face. His mouth had a soft sensuality. She remembered the pressure of his lips against hers, the teasing of his tongue.

“Perhaps I should stay to help you bathe,” he murmured.

“Myles!” Genevieve glanced over at the tub, where the maid was pouring water from a steaming kettle. “The maid . . .” She kept her voice low.

He grinned, following her gaze, and his eyes danced. Leaning closer, his lips inches from her ear, he whispered, “She cannot hear us.”

His breath drifted across her skin, igniting little shivers, and Genevieve had to brace herself not to show it, taking a hasty step back. The maid turned and bobbed a curtsy toward Genevieve, her eyes going to Myles with obvious interest.