Jo Beverly (33 page)

“Good for her!” she spat. “You probably promised her the earth, too.”

“Blast your eyes, I did not! I’ve never promised a woman more than I will do. Including you. Genni, sweetheart”—his voice softened—“I hoped you’d become my mistress. A permanent mistress, with a house, a carriage—everything you could desire.”

Her stomach rebelled. “What I desire, my lord, is a
husband.
A true husband, a loving home, a safe, secure world into which to bring
legitimate
children.”

“I thought you a kindred spirit.”

“You were wrong. Let me go.”

He moved off her and she scrambled away, grabbing for clothing. She heard the curtain rings rattle and turned at bay as she struggled into her shift.

He’d pulled on his breeches. “Barbary pirates,” he stated. “A wanton response to kisses. A familiarity with men’s chests. A bold way with words. Don’t claim to be a violated saint!”

Dear God, he saw her as another Molly Carew.

She managed to hook her stays up the front, which
wasn’t easy with the laces still tight. “I’m sure you were dreadfully misled. This is all my fault. Just help me dress so I can get out of here. You don’t need to be afraid,” she threw at him. “I’m not a Molly Carew. I would die before trying to hold a man who doesn’t want me.”

He handed her the petticoat and she stepped into it and tied it at the waist. She was fighting tears, but one escaped, running down her cheek. She dashed it away.

He had her dress ready and she shrugged into it, fastening the clasp at the waist. She was still in her stockings. After all this, she was still in her stockings! She went to her shoes and put them on.

She turned to the mirror to see a blowsy wanton, her thick hair a tangle. She grabbed his comb and dragged it painfully through knots. She had to restore order. No one must ever know.

He took the comb from her and held her shoulders. “I’m truly very sorry if I misled you. Believe me, I care. More deeply than I should. I made a serious mistake, but I’ll do my best to save you from disaster. Sit.”

Genova obeyed, mostly because her knees were failing her. He began to gently tease the tangles out of her hair. That gentleness was perhaps the cruelest blow. He did care. But under his coldhearted code, that weighed very lightly in the balance.

She’d come here knowing this, but she’d put the blindfold on herself and raced to ruin.

She kept her eyes on her hands and rolled the ill-fated diamond. She longed to take it off, but even in her distracted state she knew that would be exactly the wrong thing to do. Their split must be in public, not here.

He was drawing the comb through her hair now. It was, as always, soothing. She swallowed tears, accepting her own responsibility.

She knew her free-spirited ways gave people an impression of improper boldness, and why on earth had
she said that about naked chests? What was a man to think? He wouldn’t consider shipboard life.

She’d responded to his kisses like a wicked woman from the start, without a scrap of maidenly modesty. He’d not forced her into his bed, or seduced her with promises. She’d left the ballroom willing to make love to him and he knew that.

He gathered her hair on the top of her head and pushed pins in, as deftly as the finest maid. He even found and added the discarded spray of silk roses. She looked in the mirror. Not up to Regeanne’s standards, but it would do.

She stood, putting all her purpose into being calm. She wouldn’t flee this room like a devastated virgin, even if she was one. Thank heaven, thank heaven, for a fragile maidenhead.

She found her fan and slipped the ribbon on her wrist, then checked that she’d left no other evidence. Evidence! The rumpled bed and sweet, mysterious smell would tell the servants someone had been his lover.

Not who, however.

Though the thought choked her, she’d have to return to the party and hope no one had noticed their absence.

“Genova.”

She turned at the door.

“I’m very sorry.”

She knew what he meant, but she deliberately misunderstood.

“Please don’t worry. I won’t let this trap you.”

Once outside, she hurried away, but all her willpower couldn’t stop tears. She turned toward her room and almost ran into it.

And there she wept until she was limp, until she was drained of everything, even pain. For now. Grateful for generous hosts, she poured herself a glass of the sweet ratafia Thalia liked.

Thank heavens it wasn’t brandy. She might never be able to drink brandy again.

As she drank, she became aware of her body, of soreness and lingering sensitivities. Then it struck her. What if she was with child?

She drained the glass, accepting that the possibility had been there all along. If she had conceived, it was his fault as much as hers, but she wouldn’t make it into a chain to bind him.

He would never know, because if he did he probably would insist on marrying her. She was the antithesis of Lady Booth Carew. She could not bear the thought of marriage by force.

For now, she must do her best to undermine any suspicion. She checked her appearance again, then dabbed at her eyes with a cold cloth. She’d go to the dimly lit ballroom, where the ravages of the night might not show, and dance her cares away.

A
 sh stood in his room half dressed, feeling strangely at a loss. His earlier euphoria at being free of Molly’s schemes, and the growing hope of an end to the conflict with the Mallorens, now seemed like dust.

Genova.

He had lost her.

No, he’d thrown her away.

After only a few days, he couldn’t imagine life without her, but that was his course, it would seem.

She’d played such a crucial part in clearing his mind and clearing his name. Without her, he might hot have broken free of hatred. Without her, he would not have learned the truth about Molly.

Despite her delusions, he would have left the child to the care of the parish charity in Hockham. He would have left money, certainly, but he wasn’t sure he’d have given the child a thought thereafter. He certainly wouldn’t have been around to discover the truth, that Molly had never been pregnant at all.

He should be celebrating. His life was now in order again. He would soon be able to move forward with his plans to restore his property and powers. Grandy would hate peace with the Mallorens, and perhaps resist his other plans, but he would deal with that.

He should be celebrating, but he felt dull in the extreme.

Or perhaps simply unhappy.

Devil take it—he smashed his hand into an oaken post of the bed—he couldn’t marry Genova Smith!

The bed only shook, but his hand hurt like Hades. He welcomed that. He deserved that.

She brought nothing with her.

Except herself, her wits, and her courage.

How many women would have been able to make a dignified exit from this room? None that he knew.

And she’d shot a man. He should be grateful there were no pistols to hand here. But no. He corrected that flippant thought. She valued justice, his Genova.

His
Genova.

Damn and blast!

He could smell her perfume, and her, but it wallowed amid the smell of lust, and devil take it, Fitz would be coming up here soon. He couldn’t be expected to put up with this.

Ash tugged on the bellpull, frustrated by not being able to hear it ring. Pestilential idea. He yanked again and the wire came off in his hand, staggering him back.

“Hell and damnation!” He hurled the thing into a corner.

Henri, his valet, rushed in, jacket disordered, his powdered wig askew. “M’lord, I thought you with the dancing!” He looked around and Ash saw his expression. It said,
Not again.
“The sheets, they need changing, m’lord. I will see to it, m’lord. And your clothes…”

Henri went to the bell, then stared at the hole. “Your indulgence, m’lord,” he said, bowing out to find servants the old-fashioned way.

Ash didn’t want to be here when they arrived. He dressed himself and found a button missing from his waistcoat. He unbuttoned all the rest so it wouldn’t show. There would be plenty of other disheveled revelers. He combed and tied his hair, his mind tangled in combing Genova’s….

After a quick check in the mirror, he escaped. He couldn’t face company yet and went to the picture gallery, cold and quiet as it had been the last time.

“
Is this a damsel that I see before me?
…”

He didn’t even have the excuse of meddling witches for the bloody mess he’d made of everything.

The moonlight was dulled by clouds, making the paintings more ghostly than before.

Damn your prosy faces! If you were my ancestors, you wouldn’t want me to marry a penniless nobody. I’m trying to do the right thing. To do my duty!

The portrait of a young, wary Rothgar seemed to accuse him. Of what? Rothgar would laugh to see the Trayce family stuck in such folly.

Then Ash remembered peace. Damn peace.

It was all very well for Rothgar to disapprove. He had a thriving marquessate and a large, loving family.

There was a date on the scroll tumbling off the table by his cousin’s pale hand. Ash went closer and read,
1744
. The year the Marquess of Rothgar and his wife had died of some virulent fever. The year Ash’s cousin had inherited the title.

Ash knew the Malloren family tree as well as his own. Rothgar had inherited at nineteen, which was young, but not as young as inheriting a title at eight.

For the first time, however, Ash considered what that must have been like. Rothgar had had no grandparents to take care of everything. His mother’s family had been alienated—were, in fact, active enemies. His paternal grandparents had been already dead. His stepmother’s family was French.

Rothgar’s half brothers and sisters would have been children, not support. Elf Malloren and Ash were of an age, so she and her twin brother would have been seven.

Ash remembered the day when the news had reached Cheynings that his grandmother’s bete noire, her Malloren son-in-law, had died. She’d ordered a feast and sat Ash at the table to enjoy it. At last, she’d crowed, justice had fallen on the monster’s head. The hand of God had struck, blasting him and his wife, leaving the house of Malloren in the hands of a wild youth.

She’d made Ash drink toasts, so even though they
had only been watered wine, he’d become woozy. He remembered being happy because she was happy. The Mallorens were evil and a blight upon the land. Anything that destroyed them was God’s work.

Children believe what they are told.

When Grandy heard that the new marquess was insisting on keeping his half brothers and sisters in his care, she’d danced around the schoolroom with him, singing, “We’ve won, we’ve won! They’re doomed.”

Soon, however, his father’s death had loomed larger than the affairs of the Mallorens, who were only names to him. He didn’t miss his father, but he’d minded being moved from the schoolroom to the marquess’s suite of rooms. At least he’d been allowed to bring his nursery governess down with him.

He’d had to go to court at eight to be presented to old George II, who’d pinched his cheeks and teased him about women. Grandy had pointed out Rothgar in a whisper of hate. Ash had seen a man looking very like this picture, and to an eight-year-old, Rothgar had seemed terrifyingly tall and adult.

“He’s a devil,” his grandmother had whispered, turning him away. He hadn’t know then that Rothgar’s success in holding his family together and continuing the Malloren prosperity was already burning into his grandmother like acid.

He hadn’t known she was actively seeking to balk Rothgar’s work until he was sixteen. His grandmother had rounded off a lecture about gaming with the gleeful news that Bryght Malloren had turned out to be a gamester and could be depended upon to ruin the family.

She hadn’t said as much, but Ash had suspected then that she’d played a part. He’d thought it an excellent plan, the Mallorens being so despicable. And after all, if a man played to ruination, it was his own fault.

Ash had returned from his grand tour to find the Mallorens unruined and Grandy a bitter woman pouring guineas after guineas into a losing battle. Bryght Malloren was gambling with investments rather than
dice, and winning. Brand Malloren was overseeing improvements in the estates. The youngest brother, Lord Cynric, had gone into the army, apparently against Rothgar’s wishes, but was having brilliant success.

There’d been a brief moment of hope. King George II liked a rake, so Ash had become the sort of rake the king enjoyed, and had picked up plums and preferments by the handful.

But then George II had keeled over on his close-stool one morning, and his grandson George III had ascended to the throne. The new king was young, shy, stiff, and ruled by his mother and the smooth Earl of Bute. He was also an admirer of the Marquess of Rothgar, who had been cultivating him for years.

Rothgar was no saint, but he was discreet, which Ash had never bothered to be. There’d been no hope of changing his reputation in a day, so the Trayce family were in the shadows, and the Mallorens basked close to the sun.

Now, at last, he had a new chance. Not to destroy, but to compete with the Mallorens in power, wealth, and prosperity. To gather the remnants of his family and build on that. To improve his land, to take his place in shaping the country’s laws and systems.

But it required marriage and money. It required someone like Damaris Myddleton, whom he did not, could not—could never, he suspected—love.

“
What I desire, my lord, is a husband. A true husband, a loving home, a safe, secure world into which to bring legitimate children
.”

Breath painful in his throat, Ash pushed that vision away. Duty must come before desire.

He couldn’t face company. He returned to his room and found it pristine, all trace of love removed.

B
 oxing Day.

Genova opened her eyes and knew it must be late. She’d danced until the dancing stopped. Danced with every man in the house, she felt. Except Ash.