Jo Beverly (20 page)

Thalia spotted her and shooed her away. “Genova, what are you doing? You must go out with the young people!”

“I’m here to look after you—”

“Fie on that! There’s a footman near every door. Away with you.”

Genova retreated. She considered slipping away until everyone left, but she could imagine the result. Someone, probably Ashart, would start a hunt, and he’d know she was hiding specifically from him.

She went upstairs for her outdoor clothing, taking her time in the hope that the party might leave without her. When she returned to the stairs, however, people were still milling about in the hall.

Ah well, she thought as she went down, pulling on her gloves, she had guineas to earn and had thought of a way to speed the process.

Most of the ladies now wore cloaks or heavy caraco jackets. Most of the gentlemen wore long redingote coats. Everyone wore hats, gloves, and sturdy footwear. None of them looked the slightest like country laborers.

Genova was probably the one here most familiar with hard work, which might be why she didn’t feel as if she belonged. She hovered, pretending to admire a classical statue until she realized that studying a naked man could not improve her reputation.

She turned away, looking for Portia, or even Lady Arradale, and saw Ashart coming down at last, but with Damaris Myddleton on his arm. The heiress’s eyes seemed to seek out Genova’s so she could signal her triumph.

Ashart had added only gloves and hat. Perhaps he had no extra layer other than his riding cloak, which would be too heavy for a stroll. Would a marquess spend Christmas with only the contents of a saddlebag? More Trayce eccentricity.

Miss Myddleton’s waist-length cape was trimmed, and probably lined, with fur. Genova guessed mink. She hoped the heiress was wearing woolen stockings
and an extra petticoat or two. Such a shame if she got chilblains.

Trying not to think catty thoughts, Genova strolled over to meet the two at the bottom of the stairs, to claim Ashart’s other arm. He raised her gloved hand and kissed it.

“A guinea, please,” she said.

With a cocked brow, he produced one and gave it to her.

“You
charge
him for kisses, Miss Smith?” Miss Myddleton asked.

“In a game.” Ashart’s eyes never left Genova. “Something like the mistletoe bough. Does that really count as a kiss, Miss Smith?”

“If you need lessons, sir…”

“A definition, perhaps?”

“That would be as difficult as defining a true husband.”

“Vows said before a minister,” inserted Miss Myddleton, tightening her paw—hand—on Ashart’s sleeve.

Genova suddenly felt sorry for the young woman. “What if the vows are broken, Miss Myddleton? The law doesn’t allow a lady to end a marriage for that.”

“It’s remarkably hard for a gentleman,” Ashart said. “Thus, the bonds are best considered binding, no matter what becomes of the vows.”

“Is that why you’re not bound, Ashart?” Miss Myddleton demanded.

“But I am. To Miss Smith. My word is given and will be kept unless she insists on her freedom.”

It was cruel as a blade, and Genova winced. Miss Myddleton snatched away her hand, a spot of angry color in each cheek. Had she not heard before? Or chosen not to believe.

“I must wish you both happy then,” she said, pitch too high.

“Must,” Ashart echoed, eyes on Genova.

“Must,” Genova replied.

When the heiress marched off to talk to others Genova said, “That was unnecessarily cruel.”

He dropped the amorous manner. “Is your soft heart touched? Damaris Myddleton wouldn’t be trying to sink cat’s claws into plain Mr. Dash.”

“I wonder.”

He was probably right, however. Miss Myddleton might be attracted to handsome Mr. Dash, but she wouldn’t invest her fortune in him.

The young officer came over. “We’re planning the correct handling of the Yule log, Ashart. Hoping you’ll give your advice.”

He’d probably been sent to drag in the unwilling bachelor. With a bow to Genova, Ashart went to join the other men.

Lady Arradale and Portia had not come down yet. It was possible they wouldn’t be joining the party at all, since traditionally only unmarried people brought in the greenery. Lord Bryght seemed to be part of it, however, and she saw Lord Rothgar join the men.

“Miss Smith.”

Genova turned to find Damaris Myddleton approaching and suppressed a sigh.

“I understand you’ve spent time at sea,” the young woman said. “How fascinating. I hope to hear some of your stories.”

Genova recognized a masterly tactic. Open rivalry would get Miss Myddleton nowhere, so now she angled to become a confidante.

When the stars fell into the sea.

“I would be delighted to share them,” she said politely, “but your life would be as fascinating to me, Miss Myddleton.”

“Then I will trade stories of fashionable circles for your stories of foreign parts.”

Miss Myddleton’s smile was an excellent simulation of warmth, but there was acid in the word
foreign.
Genova, it was made clear, did not belong. The fact that she knew it did not improve her temper.

“I’m sure that will be delightful.” She did not try to sound sincere.

The slanted eyes narrowed. “Lady Thalia said you fought off Barbary pirates.”

“She does tend to exaggerate.”

“But not by much, I think. She also says you are redoubtable. I’m sure you are. I must tell you, however, that I intend to marry Ashart, and I believe I can get what I want.”

Perhaps a better woman would tell the truth, but Genova fired back, “You’re welcome to try.”

“Oh, I will. I have his grandmother’s approval.”

That was a heavy gun and Miss Myddleton clearly knew it.

“I didn’t expect to meet him here, of course,” she went on, looking at her quarry across the room, “but it seems an excellent opportunity to settle matters.”

Genova found herself fascinated and even admiring in a way. Most well-bred women were trained to take the indirect path, to get their way by coyness and wiles, or to depend on a man to win them what they wanted. She had to like one who fired directly at her target.

“Will it not be difficult for you to marry into a family so at odds with the Mallorens?”

Miss Myddleton looked back at her. “I’m not a Malloren, and anyway, with Ashart here, the feud must be over.”

“It isn’t. Don’t do anything to create more difficulties.”

The young woman studied Genova, looking alert and intelligent. She might even make Ashart a good marchioness, especially if she drew back and made him hunt her and her fortune.

“Difficulties for whom?”

“For everyone, but particularly for Ash.”

The intimate term slipped out and shattered any hope of accord.

“I will never create any kind of difficulty for Ashart, which is more than can be said of you, Miss Smith. One bitter rift may be ending here, but the wrong
marriage will create another. You will alienate Ashart from his grandmother, from the woman who raised him. They are devoted to one another.”

With that salvo, Miss Myddleton stalked away and Genova struggled not to show the effect of her words. The hunting cat, damn her, was probably right.

Then she came to her senses. None of this mattered because this betrothal was
false.
Ashart probably would marry Damaris Myddleton, and at least the heiress had spine enough to stand up to him. He needed that.

The doors were flung open then for them to leave. Fresh, cool air and sunshine were a brisk relief.

Ashart came over. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course,” she said composedly, linking her arm with his. “Perhaps a little dull from food and wine.”

It was time to put her plan into action. She didn’t think she could endure this mock betrothal much longer.

“Some brisk exercise in the open air will be just the
must
ard,” she said.

With a laugh he kissed her quickly and slipped the guinea into her pocket, out of sight of others but in a sliding touch that she could not ignore.

She almost faltered, but pursued her plan. “I’m so grateful that Englishmen don’t wear
must
aches,” she said as they went down the steps. “So ticklish.”

“Vast experience, I gather.” But he stopped her midflight and kissed her more thoroughly, the slide into her pocket firmer and more challenging. “You’re cheating, my pet.”

“We established no rules.” As they continued down the steps, Genova saw that all eyes were on them, but the mood seemed indulgent. “So you
must
not object. Am I taxing your fortune?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said as they reached the gravel and he drew her into his arms. “I can
must
er the price.”

As his lips met hers, Genova recognized a familiarity. Her own lips, her body, shaped themselves to his
without thought. She’d come to this stage with Walsingham. It had taken weeks.

She pulled away. “You stole one I’d prepared, but that doesn’t matter. It only needs the word.
Must, must, must, must, must!
”

She danced away as she said it. He pursued and captured her, his eyes bright. This would, she realized, work perfectly to convince everyone they were besotted lovers.

She waited for five more kisses.

He kissed her hand, then up her sleeve to brush the last kiss against her sensitive neck. It seemed time paused for a heartbeat at the sweetness of it.

“To spill out guineas might raise questions,” he whispered near her ear. “What
must
I do?”

Genova disengaged, adjusting the set of her cloak. “I will remember what you owe me.”

He smiled. “I’m sure you will.”

“It’s a lovely day,” Genova said, taking a step away and looking around at the sun-gilded estate. She needed recovery before the next foray. “Exercise in the fresh air is so invigorating.”

“Indeed.”

With memories of Malta, she understood his innuendo. She gave him a look. “Not in England in December, sir.”

“But you give me hope for summer.”

“By summer, I gather you will be married to Miss Myddleton.”

His brows rose. “Do you? I look to you for defense.”

“Come now. You want to continue this mock betrothal for six months?” It would shatter her. No, melt her. Evaporate her.

“Why not?” he asked. “A suit of armor is always useful.”

“I’m afraid I can’t oblige. I have a mind to marry, and soon.”

“Why?”

“I’m twenty-three years old.”

“But hardly desperate.”

She saw no harm in telling him the truth. “My father has remarried and I’d like a home of my own. In fact, I hoped to meet suitable gentlemen here.”

“And I’m in your way. I see, but selfish aristocrat that I am, I intend to hold you to your bond.”

It caused a frisson, but of course he meant only for the next few days. Genova saw Miss Myddleton eyeing them and prayed she never let her hungers show like that.

“Don’t marry Miss Myddleton unless you love her, Ash.”

Now, where did that completely inappropriate statement come from?

He seemed to be wondering the same thing. “She wouldn’t thank you for that.”

“She might. One day.”

“Does it not occur to you that I would try to be a good husband?”

Surprised by his sharp tone, she studied him. “I’m sorry. But she’ll fall in love with you, you see. Don’t you understand the powers of your attractions?”

“I must marry. What solution do you present, O fount of wisdom?”

His tone stung, so she stung back. “Pray for love, my lord, but in the meantime, try chastity.”

He laughed. “I think that would more likely engender desperation. And then what folly might I tumble into?”

Unfortunately, Genova knew exactly what he meant.

The group was finally in order and were being marshaled to walk across the lawn toward a distant stand of trees. For some reason, perhaps romantic tact, she and Ash had not been shepherded along with the rest.

That would not do. Genova hurried after them.

B
 reath still misted a little in the air, but the sun was warm on her skin. The air was sharply fresh as it never was in summer. Geneva inhaled, trying to clear her mind of madness. The cause of her madness fell into step beside her.

“Running away? Were nine kisses too much for you? Do you want to end the game?”

“I will end the game if you agree to support…that child.” Diplomatically, she avoided saying “your child.”

When he didn’t reply, she glanced at him “Why not? I know you already support other bastards.”

“Who the devil told you that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Probably not. I can’t take responsibility for Molly Carew’s child.”

She stopped to confront him. “
Why not?
”

She saw anger flare. “Because to do so would be seen as an admission that Molly was telling the truth. That the child is mine. And he is not.”

“How can you
possibly
be sure?”

“I have no intention of explaining myself to you, Miss Smith. You must simply take my word.”

If the thought wasn’t ridiculous, she’d want to shake him. “You needn’t protect my innocence. I know the ways men seek to avoid fathering a child.”

At his look of shock, she wished the words unsaid, but why did the world insist that unmarried meant abysmally ignorant?

“How?” he asked.

She turned and marched on. “I have no intention of explaining myself to you, my lord. You must simply take my word that I am not a ruined woman.”

He fell into step beside her. “I said nothing about ruin. If you’re not a maiden, Genova, the next few days could be a great deal more interesting, and you must know it.”

“Must?”

“I pay no forfeit for that, but you, on the other hand, do.”

He stopped her, kissed his own gloved fingers then brushed them across her lips. “Seven owed,” he said.

How could that touch be as devastating as a passionate embrace?

Genova turned and hurried on. She’d given him a wrong impression and now felt as if armor had been stripped away. Heaven knows what he’d do next, or how she’d respond.