Chapter Six
Genevieve cracked the wardrobe open and peered in at the dresses. “Oh, my,” she murmured.
Horatio’s nose brushed over her calf, so she opened the doors wider so that he could also see how lovely they were. “I used to wear pretty clothing,” she told him, her voice cracking as her throat warmed up.
He sniffed, then licked the light blue cotton with satin trim.
“I like that one, too.” She also adored the purple satin with the cap sleeves and low bodice. The pink and green floral print was lovely, too.
“You are quite handsome,” she told the pup.
Horatio cocked his head, as if he were fascinated by her declaration.
Bending forward, she combed her fingers through his curls. “Covered in mud or fresh as a daisy, you are my best friend.” She giggled as he licked her cheek.
“Did you hear? That woman is not his wife.” However, Lord Davenport doth protest too much.
Could he be jealous that his date was interested in the Duke of Griffendale, who apparently attended orgies?
Although Genevieve had heard scandalous stories about the powerful peer, that shocking tidbit was news to her.
Last night, her cheeks had heated at the mere mention of the indecent reference.
Meanwhile, the word had easily rolled off Lord Davenport’s tongue.
“The viscount is so handsome, but he admitted he is a rogue.” Not that any of this mattered since he thought she was a vagrant.
Except you aren’t truly a vagrant, she reminded herself.
She might be homeless, but she was still the granddaughter of the late earl.
He also thought she had no idea what he was saying, which was something, she supposed, she should correct.
And soon, before he blurted out all his secrets in the mistaken belief she had no idea what he was saying.
Especially in German. She giggled.
Someone knocked on her chamber door.
Horatio barked.
“We are safe,” Genevieve whispered. As long as no one discovered who she was and she didn’t become besotted with the green-eyed scoundrel.
With her furry guard by her side, she strolled across the room to open the door.
“Good morning, Blue,” Diana, the maid, said.
Smiling, Genevieve held out her hand, palm up, inviting the sweet woman to enter.
If she ever went home, she would like to take Diana with her.
Unfortunately, considering the circumstances, she’d probably never be able to return to Thorn Manor.
Even if she did, she certainly wouldn’t pilfer the viscount’s servant or expose the woman to her father. Poor, poor Kitty.
“I’ve come to help you dress for the morning meal,” Diana said.
Genevieve nodded.
Diana leaned close to conspiratorially whisper, “His Lordship doesn’t think you understand English.” See? It was obvious to everyone else. “I don’t think ’tis my place to correct him.”
Of course, it wasn’t. Aristocratic men did not favor being corrected. Her father would have immediately terminated a servant for even raising a questioning eyebrow. God forbid it was a woman pointing out his error.
Genevieve nodded her understanding.
Diana inclined her chin toward the open wardrobe. “I see you were looking at the dresses. They might be too big for you, but you will still look lovely. Unless you would prefer to wear his lordship’s clothing?”
The idea held appeal since his clothing probably smelled like him—almond soap, citrus, and expensive whisky. Heavenly, truly.
The tingles currently taunting her bosom were most indecent and absurd on so many levels. Ultimately, she wanted to wear a dress to remind him that she was a woman, lest he ever forget and think of her as a filthy boy.
She winced at the epitome of all ridiculous thoughts. Her cheeks warm, Genevive pointed at the blue frock.
“Excellent choice.” Diana gathered the dress, then carried it to Genevieve. “Now don’t you be nervous. The Davenports won’t behave like nobs or talk down to you. The dowager countess has friends who aren’t aristocratic. She even belongs to a group of women fighting for female autonomy.”
How marvelous. Genevieve had heard there was a society of forward-thinking women in London fighting for such things. Being in the home of one of these courageous women was too good to be true.
She lifted her arms over her head so that Diana could help her out of her nightdress and into her shift. Thereupon, she stood still until the maid secured the dress.
Diana guided her to the dressing table. Genevieve sat and stared at their reflections as the maid brushed her hair and chatted.
“Don’t be offended by his lordship’s ways.
He might behave like a jackanape, but he is as kind as his mother.
” Diana held her hand to her heart. “And he is so handsome.” Her dreamy expression faded, and she waggled her finger.
“However, don’t lose your heart to him. As charming as he is, he is a rake.
Breaks a lot of hearts, that one. And we must remember, men of his class do not marry women like us. ”
Was this speech for Genevieve, or was Diana strengthening her own resolve?
Genevieve schooled her sigh. If the way her belly had tumbled last night when she pressed her finger to his lips to silence him before he unwittingly gave away his deepest secrets was any indication, Diana’s warning was entirely too late.
*
Habit prevailing, Genevieve pulled her shoulders back and glided into the morning parlor.
Her gaze was drawn to the man wearing an intricately tied cravat and a light purple waistcoat.
His golden-brown hair curled about his ears and his grin impishly crooked up on one side.
Dropping the newspaper he held, he stood.
He sauntered to her, his tailored trousers and waistcoat hugging his lean muscles. Pressing his scorching hand into the small of her back, he guided her to the lady seated at the table.
“Mother, this is the woman I was telling you about. Blue, the Dowager Countess Davenport.”
Genevieve curtseyed, then met the dowager’s twinkling, green eyes. Jonathan’s eyes.
“I am pleased to meet you, Blue,” the countess said. “Please join us.”
Her legs quivering, Genevieve sat in the seat Lady Davenport indicated.
Her belly was in such a flutter, it was as if she’d never dined with aristocrats.
Although not a fashionable member of the ton, she’d been raised around titled individuals, including her late grandparents, her uncle, the current earl—pre-pistol—and some of her father’s abhorrent acquaintances.
However, she’d never taken a meal with a man as handsome as Viscount Davenport while she pretended to be a peasant.
Seconds after she sat, a footman placed a plate in front of her, and Lady Davenport poured her a cup of coffee. She’d eaten so much after she’d arrived last night that she didn’t have an appetite. Still, she nibbled on a honey cake, egg pie, and sausage—all of it delicious.
“Jonathan tells me you are a foreigner,” Lady Davenport said.
Genevieve was about to shake her head but halted. Since she was too ashamed for them to hear the animal-like sounds that came out of her when her throat froze, it would be better if they thought she didn’t understand.
“No worries, dear. We shall try to find someone who speaks your language,” the dowager said. “If not, we shall teach you English.”
Heavens above, what had Genevieve gotten herself into?
Lord Davenport’s gaze singed Genevieve’s skin as she tried to concentrate on her small bites of food.
“Mother,” he eventually said. “I plan to take Blue to The Silk Knuckles Saloon today. Whilst she was protecting herself, I discovered she is a scrappy fighter. Quite skilled, actually. I suspect that once she is well-fed, she will be a deuce of an athlete.”
Her arm frozen in place, Genevieve’s fork hovered mid-air. Although this was true, she didn’t want to leave this safe house to visit some sort of saloon.
“That is a splendid idea,” the dowager said. “Every woman should learn to defend herself.”
The viscount wrinkled his perfect, aristocratic nose. “I wasn’t thinking about the ladies’ defense classes. She can defend herself just fine. I’m thinking of asking Josie and Franny to train her.”
Lady Davenport regarded him from above her coffee cup. “Oh?”
“As a prizefighter.”
Genevieve choked on her saliva. A footman jumped forward and clapped her on the back. She held up her hand to let everyone know she was fine. Well, she was far from fine; however, she didn’t have food lodged in her throat.
“Does she want to be a prizefighter?” Lady Davenport asked.
Jonathan shrugged. “Damn if I know. ’Tis not as if I can ask her or she can answer. But, I dare say, it would be a far better life than living on the streets. Don’t you think? Besides, my instincts tell me she would be the perfect opponent for Thorny Rose. Griffendale needs a little comeuppance.”
Who in the devil was Thorny Rose?
“What are you and Tristan arguing about this time?” Lady Davenport asked.
The viscount swished his wrist in an it’s of no consequence gesture. “Nothing.”
Liar! It was about some curvaceous, slightly older woman named Celeste, who might or might not like to attend orgies.
Lady Davenport placed her fork beside her plate and glared at her son. “Oh, no, you don’t, Jonathan. Neither you nor Tristan is turning another poor woman into one of your ridiculous bets. Didn’t you learn your lesson with Josephine?”
The viscount snorted. “Josie happened to marry the best man of my acquaintance, owns the saloon and gymnasium you patronize, and is a champion pugilist. And if you recall, that is all because of one of my ridiculous bets. Besides, it isn’t like you didn’t have a part in that out-of-control farce.
Which was quite fun, if I do say so myself. ”
The dowager’s lips firmed. “We got lucky because Nicolas and Josephine are superior people.”
But Genevieve was far from superior, just ask her father or the boys who’d tormented her these last few weeks.
“Mother, hear me out—”
The dowager countess held up a palm. “I will not have it.”