Jo Beverly (9 page)

Genova seized on that. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t come, my lord.” With a languishing look, she added, “Though of course it will pain me to part.”

Without disturbing his cool sophistication, Ashart managed to mirror her expression. “You are hardier than I,
pandolcetta mia.
To be apart from you would be more than I could bear.”

Little
sweet bread, she thought with amusement. “But your presence might cause discord, dearest.”

“Fear not, beloved. Rothgar and I are experts at frigid navigation.”

Genova shivered at that image. She sipped coffee, searching for ways to change his mind. Impossible with Thalia, resilient as always, fighting on the other side. Even Lady Calliope was making no objection.

When word came that the coaches were ready, Genova accepted her fate. She saw one bright aspect. If the marquess stayed at Rothgar Abbey, she’d have
time to persuade him to accept his duties. And after all, she wasn’t an inexperienced girl to be constantly a-tremor over a rake’s tricks.

Servants hurried in to swathe them all for the chilly moment between inn and coach. Ashart supplanted the maid waiting to assist Genova.

She could see no way to object, even when he stepped close behind her—closer than any servant would. He draped the cloak over her shoulders, sliding his hands forward to put the clasp into her hands close to her throat.

She swallowed, able to imagine herself wavering like a person seen through baking hot air.

A rake’s tricks!

She took the clasp and stepped away, fumbling in her attempt to fasten it. Only when she’d managed it did she turn.

A footman—one of his own, she reminded herself—was assisting Ashart with his riding cloak. Ashart clasped it at his neck, transforming before her eyes into the predatory stranger.

Danger.
That awareness did not make him one jot less exciting. Quite the opposite, in fact. How could the physical be so at odds with the mind?

He pulled on leather gauntlets and escorted her out of the room and into the warm coach. Everyone was in place, including Sheena and the baby, who was awake and at his charming best.

Genova watched Ashart swing onto his horse, his cloak falling behind him. The breath of both horse and rider misted in the crisp morning air, which was hardly surprising. Only her disordered imagination saw the picture as hellish.

“So, shall we have a Christmas wedding?”

Oh, Lord.
Genova turned to Thalia, feeling beleaguered by Trayces. “It’s too early to think about that.”

“Oh no, dear. Delay is such a mistake, and Christmas weddings are supposed to be blessed by good fortune.”

“I could never marry without my father present.”

“He could come! We could send this coach—which, as you see, is most comfortable—to bring him and your stepmother to the Abbey.”

“I believe my stepmother has seasonal entertainments—”

“Oh, fie on that! What could be more important than a wedding?”

Genova looked to Lady Calliope for help.

“Now, now, Thalia. We know your concerns, but you mustn’t press Genova so fiercely. She and Ashart have only just met.”

Thalia looked at her sister, appearing very young. “I only want them to be happy, Callie.”

“Yes, dear, I know. But you mustn’t meddle any further just yet.”

Genova relaxed, but she hadn’t missed that
just yet.

Surely Lady Calliope could no more want such a misalliance than Ashart—but then, who could understand the Trayce family?

The head of the family rode in the bitterest weather. It was so cold that he’d pulled up the hood of his cloak, but he could have commanded a place inside this coach with a snap of his fingers. Sheena could be with the servants, or he could even have hired an additional vehicle.

It wasn’t natural. Hooded, she noted with a shiver, he looked positively ominous. Was that why she kept an eye on him all day between reading to the old ladies and playing whist?

No.

He rode ahead at one point. When they stopped shortly afterward to change horses and hot bricks, she realized that he’d taken the place of the running footman who usually went ahead to alert the next hostelry to be ready for them.

The same thing happened at the next stop, where they halted long enough for everyone to leave the coach and use the chamber pots. They lingered over cups of hot tea, in part to give the outside servants
time to warm themselves. And the marquess, if he needed such human comforts.

She remembered her own words when Lynchbold had fretted about him. “
The devil looks after his own.
”

Hyperbole, but still, he was extraordinary. He dismounted at each stop as smoothly as he mounted, as if frigid air was nectar to him.

When they returned to the coach, Genova was alarmed to see him on the box, complex reins in hand. She halted, thinking to protest, but could imagine how much good that would do. She settled in the coach braced for disaster. Men often fancied themselves as coachmen, but managing a coach and six was a challenging business.

She recognized his type now. For all his lazy sophistication, the Marquess of Ashart flared with excess energy. In battle such men were generally magnificent, but in dull times they could be a menace.

She prayed for a smooth road free of unexpected hazards. Whatever the cause, the party came to no harm, and stopped at the Sun at Mull Green for midday dinner no worse for noble steering.

Ashart dropped lightly down from the driving seat and escorted them into the inn. “Relieved to find yourself safe from the ditch, my dear?”

It was as if he could read her mind. Genova hurried after Thalia into a warm parlor and shed her cloak into waiting hands. As soon as Lady Calliope was carried in and settled at the table, they all set to, starting with oxtail soup.

“How much longer to our destination?” Lady Calliope asked, sounding weary. If she was letting it show, she must be feeling it deeply.

“Two hours if all goes well. We should arrive before dark, love.” Ashart sounded concerned, too.

He was genuinely fond of the old ladies, which was to his credit, but Genova knew that people could divide the world into boxes—some to love, some to hate, some to cherish, some to kill.

Ashart apparently put the Mallorens in the hate box, or at least into the category of those he would harm if he could. The story of Lady Augusta was very sad, but it should not be causing such bitterness a generation later. She disliked seeing lives disrupted by such a thing.

At a break in the conversation, she probed a little. “Since your families are so at odds, my lord, how do you think Lord Rothgar will react to your arrival? I hope there will be no unpleasantness.”

“Banish dull care, beloved. The nobility are trained in self-control. It is frowned upon to even sneeze in the royal presence.”

“It’s possible not to?” Genova asked, rising to get the main course.

“Oh, yes,” said Thalia. “It’s not easy, however. I remember Lady Millicent Ffoulks. She had a cold, but Queen Anne would not excuse her. She stuffed lumps of wool up her nose in the hope they would suppress a sneeze, but instead, when a sneeze overtook her, they shot across the room like pistol balls! Poor Millicent was banished from court—though I think perhaps she didn’t mind.”

Genova put down a chicken fricassee, then a dish of stewed peas. “I’m surprised that any but the desperate are willing to serve.”

Ashart raised a brow at her. “What if your father’s rise to admiral depended upon it?”

“Rank isn’t purchased in the navy as it is in the army.”

“But progress is often greased.”

She added a platter of fried potatoes to the table and sat, silently giving him that point. Her father’s career had been assisted by his second cousin, a viscount.

Talk progressed to other court matters, and Genova learned that both Trayce ladies had spent time as ladies-in-waiting, and that it had indeed been part of their duty to their family to try to be close to the monarch and promote Trayce interests.

She admitted to herself that such practices existed at all levels of society. There’d been many times when she and her mother had strained to please some high-ranking official or his wife because he could affect her father’s career.

She’d found it hard and gave thanks that court service and intrigue was not in her future—unless, she suddenly worried, the establishment of the great Marquess of Rothgar was a court of its own. Oh, Lord, would she have to back out of his presence, stand and curtsy whenever he entered a room, and stifle the natural need to sneeze?

Genova had known lesser nobles who demanded almost as much, and the idea was one burden too many. She spent the rest of the journey with tension winding tight around her head.

T
 he first warning of arrival was the sight of the running footman passing, the setting sun glinting off his gold-knobbed staff. He was speeding ahead to announce their arrival, and this time Ashart did not supplant him. He rode beside the main coach, looking straight ahead, face still.

Was he braced for battle or intent on causing it?

What, Genova suddenly wondered, was his true purpose in planning to stay? She knew their betrothal was merely an excuse, but one he’d seized on.

As they trundled through open gates, a horn blasted to alert the great house just visible through bare-branched trees. Rothgar Abbey was probably built of pale stone, but sunset’s fire turned it gold and gilded roofs and chimneys. The same magic washed over rolling hills, stands of evergreens, lawns, lakes, and picturesque classical delights.

She recognized a park carefully created for delight, but the effect was of countryside in natural perfection. Even so, Genova’s tension didn’t release.

Perhaps Sheena shared her feelings, for she clutched Genova’s hand. Genova was touched by her faith, but feared she’d be a leaky lifeboat in these waters.

Thalia had no apparent concerns. “What a delightful park! Even in winter. An excellent balance of evergreens and other trees. And deer. I do love deer! Oh, look at that Chinese bridge. How
very
pleasing. And a Grecian temple. I do hope the weather will be mild enough to permit strolls!”

She turned to Genova. “I have never been here
before, you know, so this is such a treat. And for Christmas. I have heard that dear Beowulf celebrates Christmas in the grand manner.”

That was what Genova feared.

“You’d better call him Rothgar, Thalia,” Lady Calliope said. “He’s a man now.”

Thalia pouted. “Oh, I suppose you are right, but I remember the sweet child.” She looked at Genova. “He was Lord Grafton then, of course, but I have never thought it right to call a dear, sweet child by a title. Such a smile he had! And so clever. His parents doted on him….”

Memories turned her eyes sad in the way only old eyes can be. “Such a sorry business. And it happened here.”

Genova looked at the approaching gilded house with new trepidation.

“Don’t stir old ghosts,” Lady Calliope commanded.

“I’ll try not to, Callie. But a
baby
…” Thalia leaned over and patted the blankets around sleeping Charlie. “Perhaps the fact that we bring one will help.”

The coach halted at the base of a double sweep of steps. Servants stood ready for them—maids in white aprons and mobcaps, and footmen in blue-and-gold livery and powdered hair. They must all have felt the cold, but Genova couldn’t see shivers. At least they all wore gloves.

One of the footmen put down steps and opened the coach door. Genova climbed out first, then stepped aside so Thalia and Sheena could descend. Lady Calliope would have to wait for her chair and porters.

Sheena was clutching both baby and bundle despite offers from servants to take one or both. Genova took the bundle and stayed close, trying soothing words. “It will be all right, Sheena.”

But she didn’t like to promise what she couldn’t be sure to provide.

“What a splendid journey, my dear boy! I am not at all fatigued.” Thalia was beaming at Ashart, who had dismounted and joined them.

He looked at Genova. “And you, beloved?”

She wasn’t imagining the danger. He was primed for battle, too.

And he, in his dark mood and his dark cloak, was framed against his frivolous, indulgent chariot. The contrast perplexed her and she had to ask, “That vehicle is truly yours, my lord?”

His brows rose. “You think I stole it?”

“No, but…Thalia says you never travel by coach.”

“Rarely,” he corrected. “That coach was my father’s. He was a different sort of man.”

A clear explanation released some of her tension. Perhaps she was overwrought because of nerves. “It was kind to give your great-aunts the use of it.”

“I merely pay the bills.”

“You could have refused.”

He smiled slightly. “Refuse Thalia? Impossible.”

That was true. Thalia was so sweet and good-natured, so
innocent
, that it was impossible to refuse her anything. Genova prayed the Dark Marquess would feel the same way.

Thalia exclaimed, “Callie is out at last! Come along, do, everyone, before we all freeze!”

She trotted toward the steps like an eager child, and Genova urged Sheena after. Perhaps she should have sent maid and baby around to the back with the coaches and other servants, but she hated to let the pair out of her sight until she was sure they were safe.

“Great-aunt Thalia.”

Genova looked up to see that a man had come out of the house to greet them at the top of the steps.

Could this man in casual country style be the ominous Marquess of Rothgar? His breeches and jacket were of nut-brown cloth, his waistcoat buff. Only moderate lace showed at neck and wrists, and he wore his dark hair simply tied back.

What? Had she thought the high aristocracy wore robes and coronets every day?

No, but he lacked any hint of arrogance, madness, or deadly intent. Thalia went straight to him, gloved
hands outstretched “Beowulf! How splendidly you’ve grown!”

Was that a twitch of wild humor as Lord Rothgar took Thalia’s hands and kissed both? Then he pulled her closer and bent to kiss her cheek.