Chapter Twenty-five #2
“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 mustard,” 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 mustaches,” 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 muster 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.