“He truly wants to evict us?” Mama asked.
Genevieve nodded.
“But why?”
“He wants to use the cottage for himself.” Mama sat down abruptly on a chair and covered her face with her hands.
Genevieve’s heart twisted.
This was her fault. If only she hadn’t shot the duke over the summer.
Father had given her a pistol for her birthday, before her season. People in the Lake District thought London was dangerous, but the only time Genevieve had been frightened had been in Cumberland.
The duke hadn’t intended to hurt her, but now he was reluctant to forgive her.
What would happen to her mother and Billy now?
“Don’t worry,” Genevieve promised. “I’m going to find him. I’ll make him let us continue to stay here, you’ll see. I promise.”
Genevieve rose, kissed her mother on the cheek, left the room, then the cottage.
The duke’s chaise and two horses still stood outside, tied to the fence.
Good.
The duke hadn’t left yet. She swung her gaze around, hoping to see him, but no stern-faced man was visible.
Long strands of grass moved languidly in the wind. Everything was still, except the sound of waves.
The beach.
Genevieve hurried toward it.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE WOMAN WAS CLEARLY impossible.
First, Sebastian found out someone was renting his cottage, then he discovered the same woman who shot him was living there under an assumed name.
He furrowed his brow and marched through the door, smiling only when the door slammed behind him.
Hmph.
He sprinted over the dirt path. The sensible thing would be to return to his chaise, and ride far, far away. Then, he could make his estate manager unravel the lease. He suspected his estate manager would be horrified to learn he’d rented a cottage to people under an assumed name.
The ocean came into view: grand, forceful, and magnificent. Tempting waves crashed against the shore.
Life was always better after he swam. He wanted to immerse himself in azure seas and forget about cottages and dubious tenants. Since he was here, he could perhaps go for a swim...
He strode down the cliff, following one of the thin paths beside the coast. Long strands of grass billowed in the wind: evidently, no sheep had yet discovered the joys of this spot. The pleasing scent of wildflowers wafted about him, merging with that of the salty sea.
He hurried down the slope. Each curve, each bend enticed him, and he soon arrived at a tiny beach, secluded by the steep cliffs on either side.
No one was here.
Perfect.
Sebastian grinned and tore off his clothes. Were he in the cottage, he could change. That was an impossibility now. Swimming in his apparel was equally impossible. After all, he couldn’t wear wet clothes.
He tucked them behind one of the conveniently strewn rocks that dotted the beach, perhaps swept over from France or Ireland several millennia ago.
Sebastian didn’t generally bathe nude. Still, it didn’t matter. No clothes-stealing youths were nearby, and no easily shocked older women were likely to wander into this cove. The nearest village was a two-mile walk away, and no doubt most villagers would use one of the nearer beaches when they felt compelled to swim.
Privacy was one of the top advantages of the cottage.
He hurried toward the water, wincing briefly as cold waves prickled his skin. Then, he flung himself into the water and immersed himself in the delicious ocean. The waves rolled over his body, and he closed his eyes, confident he was exactly where he should be.
Nothing exceeded this pleasure.
“Your Grace!” A soprano voice interrupted his thoughts. “Your Grace!”
He opened his eyes.
That sound couldn’t be from his imagination.
Because he recognized that voice—and he didn’t want to think he was imagining her voice. That was the last thing he needed to do.
And yet...
It would be even worse if she were here.
He scrutinized the beach, and soon saw her. Her blonde hair had spilled from her bun, and her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink, as if she’d been running.
No doubt, she had.
“We need to discuss this matter,” she called out.
“No.” Sebastian swam away from Miss Potter.
“It’s important,” she said.
He sighed. Perhaps he’d been hasty in his departure. Still, he was hardly going to have a conversation with her in the nude. “I can’t speak.”
She widened her eyes, evidently dubious.
Damnation.
He turned around and swam away. Normally, he didn’t swim so far from the shore, at least, not on days like this, when the waves were particularly mighty, as if Poseidon were right underneath the surface, testing a new trident.
He turned his head, hoping to see that she’d vanished.
Unfortunately, today was proving to be particularly filled with misfortune.
She hadn’t vanished. In fact, Miss Potter was coming toward him. She removed her shoes, tossed them onto the sand, lifted up the hem of her dress, then stepped into the water.
A glimpse of bare ankle startled him, then something slammed against his head and everything was black.
GENEVIEVE STARED AT the ocean.
The duke seemed very still.
“Your Grace?” she asked tentatively.
That wave had been enormous, and he hadn’t seemed prepared. The duke was silent, he didn’t even grunt. The man was a master at complaining. It seemed peculiar he’d chosen this moment to go about life in a quieter, thoughtful manner.
Unless...
Dread filled her stomach.
“Sandridge?” Genevieve treaded slowly toward him, her heart thumping oddly in her chest. She swallowed hard, vaguely aware that moisture had vanished from her mouth. “Your Grace?”
The duke’s arms were splayed in odd directions, as if he were a piece of furniture that had toppled from a high distance. But the duke wasn’t a piece of furniture. He was a man, and he should be saying something. The odd silence filled the area, and she inched toward the duke.
“Your Grace? Your Grace?” she called.
Then she noticed a red splotch on his blond hair. The splotch spread.
Oh, no.
Genevieve’s eyes widened, and her heart seemed determined to tumble to her toes. “Your Grace? Your Grace?”
Genevieve hoped he would furrow his lofty brow and force his wide lips into a sneer. She wished he would complain about her presence for the umpteenth time, as if she were a French cannon pointed directly at him.
But he didn’t do any of those things, and Genevieve had the dreadful sensation it might not be possible for him to do one of those things ever again.
She rushed toward him. Her feet sank into the wet sand. His body—his horrible, still body, touched the shore, then drifted back into the ocean.
No.
This was not happening.
Genevieve refused to have the duke drift to the sea, like in some curious interpretation of Lady and the Lake, sans the russett weeds, and sans the lake. She padded after him. The distance was not long, but she was conscious of each seashell, each pebble, each dip in the sand that impeded her journey.
She waded into the water.
“Your Grace?” she called out hopefully.
He didn’t answer.
She grabbed his shoulders, then dragged him toward the shore. The waves continued to jut out toward them, flinging them both up for a moment, as if considering whisking them away to its depths.
Genevieve wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how many waves attempted to impede her path. She gritted her teeth, then pulled the duke onto the sand. And then she realized two things.
1.) The duke was not conscious.
2.) The duke was not clothed.
The latter fact was distracting,
but she favored concentrating on the first item. Not breathing was more difficult to correct than a propensity to bathe unclothed.
Genevieve knelt beside him, and her heart pounded. The duke was quiet and still.
Was he...dead?
“You’re supposed to talk,” she murmured. “You’re good at talking. You excel at talking.”
Uncharacteristically, the duke did not use the moment to comment on his charms.
She moved her hand over his mouth, tensing.
He needs to breathe, he needs to breathe, he needs to breathe.
Thankfully, warm air brushed against the palm of her hand. She moved it away so he could continue to breathe unencumbered.
The duke’s broad shoulders retained their perfect glory, and muscle rippled in an interesting manner on his torso. Genevieve didn’t linger her gaze past the torso. A neck without a cravat tied about it was sufficiently shocking.
The duke’s skin remained pale, and when she touched it, her fingers were cold, as if some angry Grecian god had decided to turn him to stone so he would better resemble the statues found on certain extravagant estates. Genevieve didn’t believe in Grecian gods roaming the Cornish coast, wielding their powers over the population.
She did believe in death.
Her stomach gnawed at her, but she resisted the urge to wallow on her own uneasiness. The waves continued to assail her frock, but it didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered except the duke.
Then her gaze moved up. Red liquid seeped from his head.
Heavens.
The man remained unmoving. She touched his hair tentatively. Blood clung to her fingers.
Genevieve knelt by his side, remembering another night when she’d also knelt by his side—that night, she’d shot him, mistaking him for a highwayman. On that occasion, he’d been talking, arguing. He was not doing that now.
Life could be fragile.
Her heart thudded uncomfortably, but she refrained from crying or even scampering to the kitchen for assistance. If he needed help, he might not be able to wait until she gathered her courage to assist him.
She looked around for something that would work as a bandage, but there was nothing.
Finally, she removed her fichu. Unlike her petticoats, no water had touched it, even if everyone would notice it missing.
No matter.
She glanced around, searching for his clothes. She found them underneath the rock. The pantaloons looked impossibly tight and small. She wasn’t going to attempt to put them on. But she could venture to tie his shirt about his waist. She did so hastily, attempting not to look down, attempting not to see his very distinct male anatomy, and—
“What are you doing?” A thin voice Genevieve did not recognize sounded behind her, and she turned.
Mr. Ackley stood before her. His eyes were round, and his face seemed to alternate between paleness and pinkness. He clenched and unclenched his fists, an odd show of athleticism for a man whose primary form of exercise must be to lift the heavy Bible from the altar to the pulpit when no altar boy was available to assist.
“She’s a lady of the night! With one of her sordid customers!” A heavyset woman exclaimed in an obviously appalled voice. Her gray hair matched that of Mr. Ackley, and it occurred to Genevieve that her appearance might be considered odd.
“Mrs. Ackley, I presume?” Genevieve asked.
Her new acquaintance sputtered, as if she deemed it a grave insult for Genevieve to even utter her name.
Behind Mrs. Ackley strode her mother, Billy, and a man only a few years older than her whom she assumed was Mr. Ackley’s son.
Genevieve froze.
She’d been happy the duke was breathing, but it occurred to her that Mr. and Mrs. Ackley might take a less joyful view to the current situation.
She glanced down, hoping she’d imagined pulling the duke’s body from the water, hoping he was now comfortably riding to wherever his manor house was located.
But the man was certainly there.
His form was unmistakable. His face remained pale, though thankfully, his broad chest still moved in rhythm. The consistent pulse was reassuring, and she told herself her gaze didn’t linger there because there was something appealing about the breadth of his chest.
That would be absurd.
“Genevieve!” her mother called out.
Then her mother stared at the duke’s body. “What happened?”
“His head collided with a rock,” Genevieve said miserably.
Her mother frowned, perhaps perplexed at how the duke might have injured himself.
Her face paled, then firmed. “Billy, go to the cottage, then up to your room.”
“But I don’t want to go,” Billy said.
“Do as I say.”
“But it’s early,” Billy pleaded.
Mother turned to look at him, her face grim. “Young man.”
Billy’s eyebrows darted up, evidently perplexed at her tone. Billy was accustomed to his nursemaid telling him what to do...not his mother.
Soon, his footsteps scurried away, and Genevieve was on the beach alone with her mother, Mr. Ackley, Mrs. Ackley, and Mr. Ackley Junior.
And the duke, though Genevieve wasn’t certain if he counted. Certainly, the only contribution to the conversation he could make was to be its subject matter.
Her mother strode determinedly toward Genevieve, then peered at him. Her face whitened when she saw the blood coming from his head.
“Is he...alive?” her mother asked tentatively.
Genevieve nodded rapidly. “He’s breathing.”
Her mother’s shoulders eased a fraction. “That’s good.” She lowered her voice. “He won’t have us on a murder charge then.”
“Murder?” Genevieve asked, her voice suddenly hoarse. Her heart seemed occupied with escaping through her mouth.
Mr. Ackley inched toward them. “Does he require the last rites?”
“He’s breathing,” Genevieve said again.
Mr. Ackley did not appear relieved. Instead, he gazed at Genevieve dubiously. “What are you doing with a naked man?”
“With so much bosom showing,” Mrs. Ackley added. She turned to her son. “Please turn around.”
Genevieve waited for her son to protest, but instead he turned dutifully away.
Heavens.
Genevieve ignored the look of disapproval visible on Mr. and Mrs. Ackley’s dour faces.
“I don’t know what sort of scandalous activity you were conducting on the shore,” Mr. Ackley began.
Mrs. Ackley cleared her throat. “You are too kind, Mr. Ackley. I have every confidence that you know exactly what activity was occurring.” She fixed a stern gaze at Genevieve. “This is a fallen woman.”
“Nonsense,” Mama said quickly, laughing slightly.
Genevieve widened her eyes.
“This is my daughter’s husband,” Mama lied.
“Husband?” Mr. Ackley frowned. “You didn’t mention a husband.”
Genevieve gave an involuntary jerk, but Mama grasped hold of her sleeve.
Didn’t we?” Mama giggled more. “Really, Genevieve, you mustn’t be so shy.” Mama sobered her expression. “I am afraid my daughter was quite intimidated to be so near a person of the cloth. She is very religious. Isn’t that true, Genevieve?”
“Y-Yes,” Genevieve stammered, her throat dried.
Mr. Ackley’s face softened. “Ah, my dear child. That is quite understandable. It must be intimidating to be in the presence of someone who speaks so often with our lord.”
“Er—yes.” Genevieve nodded.
“Now, my daughter’s husband doubtless needs some rest.”
Mrs. Ackley glanced at the duke. “It seems he’s already doing that.”
“We must dress his wounds. And he—er—probably requires a doctor,” Mama said.
Genevieve was grateful for her mother’s presence.
Mr. Ackley exhaled. “Jonathan! Please carry this man to Ocean Cottage.�
��
The younger Mr. Ackley turned around and hauled the duke over his shoulder.
“C-Careful,” Genevieve warned.
“Our son is always careful,” Mrs. Ackley said proudly. “He is a man who embodies perfection.”
“How lovely,” Genevieve said.
“Precisely.” Mama nodded curtly. “Let’s follow him. If only your husband had waited for our maid to unpack his swimming costume. Such an impatient man.”
“Yes,” Genevieve squeaked.
They marched over the beach, the hems of their dresses brushing against sand and seashells.
Genevieve squinted into the harsh light, remembering that not only was she missing her fichu, but she was also missing her bonnet. She hadn’t taken it in her hurry to follow the duke.
Mrs. Ackley turned to her husband. “It seems that this man does not embody perfection.”
“Not every man can,” the vicar said amicably, and Genevieve decided he was her favorite member of the family. He turned to Genevieve. “What is his surname?”
“Surname?” Her voice reached a higher octave, and he frowned slightly.
Genevieve decided she may have been presumptuous on rendering compliments on Mr. Ackley, if only in her mind.
“Yes, it can’t be Potter, can it?” he laughed. “I really would like to refer to him as something other than your husband.”
“Naturally,” she said. “It’s...It’s...”
Genevieve’s mind was dull, still focused on the duke’s oddly limp body, slung over Mr. Ackley Junior’s shoulders. She should remember a name. People were always announcing their names.
Mama cleared her throat. “It’s Seagull.”
“Like the bird?” Mr. Ackley’s brows darted upward.
Mama’s cheeks grew an unusual rosy color, and a flock of seagulls chose that moment to squawk.
Genevieve squeezed her mother’s hand. “Yes, his name is Seagull.”
“Ah.” Mr. Ackley’s eyes remained narrowed, but he nodded.
They moved briskly up the hill, their faces grim.
Genevieve was grateful when they reached the cottage, and Mama quickly opened the door.
Her mother sighed. “I suppose we must put him in one of the bedrooms.”
A Duke Never Forgets (The Duke Hunters Club, #3) Page 4
