by Eloisa James
“It is like trapped sunshine...gold strands mixed with threads of starlight,” Neville said dreamily.
“Oh pooh, Neville. Sunshine indeed! I expect Genevieve puts lemon on her hair at night.”
“A lemon bright goddess!”
“You’re hopeless!” Carola snorted. “But I did hear something of interest this morning.” He wasn’t paying attention. “Neville!”
“Do you think that lemony rhymes with Genevieve?” he asked, scribbling on a scrap of paper he had taken from his waistcoat.
“Absolutely not,” Carola said. “But do listen, Neville: Lady Dorset-Herne told me this morning that Tobias Darby has returned to London!”
“Darby? Don’t you mean Simon Darby? Of course he’s in London. I saw him and his wife in the Rotten Row just the other day.”
“No, Simon’s brother Tobias,” Carola explained. “To-bias ran off with Genevieve Mulcaster, oh, years ago. Her father caught them on the way to Gretna Green and she was married off to Lord Mulcaster, but the truth leaked, of course. At any rate, Tobias and his twin brother left England when Genevieve married, and now he’s come back! Isn’t that romantic?”
“What’s romantic about it?” Neville said, narrowing his eyes. “Do you think the man is going to attempt to win her hand for the second time?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Lady Dorset-Herne said that he’s tremendously wealthy now. And why else would he return, just when Genevieve is out of her blacks?”
Neville looked glum. “The last thing I need is another rival when Felton has got himself so snugly established. Are you and Perwinkle coming to the opening at Covent Garden tonight?”
“I believe so,” Carola replied. It was difficult to know whether her husband, Tuppy, was free to accompany her or whether he would run off to attend a lecture about fish. “We have a subscription.”
“As have I,” Neville said. “But Lady Mulcaster has committed herself to that deuced Felton.”
“Then you must come into our box,” Carola said instantly. “Perhaps Tobias Darby will attend the play, and we shall have a fine view!”
“If I can’t sit with Genevieve,” Neville said morosely, “I certainly am not interested in watching Felton insinuate himself further into her good graces, let alone Darby.”
“If you accompany me to the theater,” Carola said coax-ingly, “I promise I’ll give a dinner and invite Genevieve. What’s more, I’ll praise you to the skies at tea tomorrow.”
Neville frowned at her. “In all truth?”
Carola nodded. “Word of honor.” There had to be some way she could sneak in a word about Neville in between Genevieve’s babblings about Lucius Felton.
By eight o’clock that evening, Genevieve Mulcaster was virtually the only person in London unaware of the fact that Mr. Tobias Darby had returned from India rich as a nabob and was presumably planning to hustle her off to Gretna Green. Not that she would have paid much attention.
Genevieve had plans of her own for the evening, involving an annoyingly elusive Lucius Felton. Lord Bubble had withdrawn his application for her hand after suffering a most unfortunate attack that necessitated his staying in bed for at least six hours of every day; Genevieve accepted that fact with equanimity, as she never thought to marry the man. But Felton’s disclination to propose marriage was far more disturbing.
At first, she had thought his gentlemanly behavior was due to her being in full mourning. She had waited six months fairly patiently. Then, when he still acted like a vicar, she had hoped it was due to her half mourning. Those six months had passed with rather less patience. But now she had been out of blacks for an entire week, and Felton continued to greet her as placidly as if he were a distant uncle. He was nothing if not attentive, sending bunches of violets and never failing to inquire what she would like to do of an evening. One couldn’t have had a more attentive nephew.
And yet...and yet. He had never kissed her. Not once. Honesty made Genevieve admit that he often seemed more amused by her than struck with desire. She sat down at her dressing table and stared in the mirror. All sorts of gentlemen were exhibiting flattering attention; she had just received a poem calling her a lemon bright goddess (an odd phrase, but she appreciated the effort). So why wasn’t Felton doing the same? Perhaps the problem was that she looked so tediously young, the fault of a snub nose. She simply didn’t look like a dashing widow. Nor a Pocket Venus either. That was her ambition, but even the most dashing clothes one could buy weren’t effecting a transformation.
“Your very first evening in public out of mourning!” her maid said brightly, popping up at her shoulder. “Would you like to wear the Grecian tunic, madam, or perhaps the lilac robe and petticoat?”
Genevieve gave up trying to arrange her features into a seductive pout. “Do you think I’d look more dramatic if I blackened my eyebrows?” she asked her maid.
Eliza wrinkled her brow. “Odd, more like,” she offered. Eliza had no gift for sophistry.
Perhaps Felton never tried to kiss her because she wasn’t intriguing. Here she was, a veritable blaze of fashion, and she still looked like herself. It was truly dispiriting.
“Wear the tunic, madam,” Eliza urged. “You look a fair treat in it, I promise you that.”
The Grecian tunic had just been delivered from the shop of Madame Boderie. It was made of French silk in a dull gold color that gleamed whenever she moved, with a square bosom cut quite low. Best of all, from Genevieve’s point of view, was a small train that gave her dignity.
Once the gown was on, she felt slightly cheered. The way her breasts threatened to spill from the bodice was unnerving, but at least she didn’t look like a schoolgirl. “I would like to twist the gold beads I bought at the Pantheon Bazaar into my hair, Eliza.”
Eliza frowned. She was another of Erasmus’s bargains (a lady’s maid plucked straight from the dairyroom), and she tended to take fright at the more complicated aspects of her work. “Now how do you think they anchor those beads on the head?” she asked. “I’d hate to find you had strings of beads hanging off you like a jester or some such.”
Genevieve sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I suppose we can try,” Eliza allowed. Forty-five minutes later Genevieve had gold beads twined through her hair.
“It looks lovely,” Genevieve said, admiring the effect. Her hair was pulled up in a loose pile behind her head. She rather fancied that the beads made her hair look more uniformly colored. “Thank you, Eliza!”
“Don’t waggle your head like that!” Eliza scolded.
“They do feel slightly unstable,” Genevieve said, shaking her head. If Felton’s kiss—the kiss she was determined he should give her—was the least bit energetic, her hair would tumble to her shoulders, beads and all. When Felton kissed her, she would simply keep her neck stiff. It had been so long since she’d been kissed by anyone that she couldn’t think of the least objection to that plan.
Chapter 3
The Kiss
Lucius Felton was the sort of gentleman whom one never caught smoothing his hair in the hallway mirror. From Genevieve’s point of view, the only possible criticism one might have was that he was so formidable, terrifying even, with his heavy-lidded eyes and noncommittal expression. Did he even think she was beautiful? There was no evidence of it. Genevieve swallowed her sherry with reckless abandon and promised herself that Felton would kiss her in the carriage, even if she had to order him to do so.
Yet once Genevieve was settled in the carriage, she found herself studying the tips of her golden slippers (slightly pointed toes, which was the very newest fashion) before she could even get the courage to look at Felton. He was wearing a saffron-colored coat tailored with exquisite precision to his body. He looked very, very unapproachable. “Are you carrying a new stick?” Genevieve finally asked, desperate to say something.
“Made by Bittlemeir,” he said, lifting it briefly for her inspection. Genevieve looked at the stick blankly. What could she say that would
lead him to sit next to her? Or was she to launch herself across the space between them, like one of Mr. Congreve’s exploding rockets? Likely he would shield himself with the stick, and she would rebound onto the floor.
“I’ve never noticed that knob before,” she burbled. “Why on earth does your seat have a handle below it? Does it open?”
“The seat contains a liquor case,” Felton explained.
“Oh, may I see!” Genevieve cried, clasping her hands and hoping that he wasn’t repulsed by a girlish display of enthusiasm.
“Certainly.” Felton rose with his customary grace, took the cushion from his seat, and removed a mahogany box from the cabinet.
“Do sit next to me,” Genevieve said with what she hoped was a seductive smile.
He obeyed her without comment, opening the box to reveal two bottles and two glasses nestled into red velvet. “May I offer you a glass of Canary wine?”
“But of course!” Genevieve said. Now that he was sitting next to her, she was even more terrified. And yet...even being close to him made her knees tremble. He was so perfect. He hadn’t a hair out of place, nor a thing about him that wasn’t made of the very finest stuff. He glanced at her sideways, from under thick eyelashes, and Genevieve felt herself blushing.
She took the glass he handed her and drank a sip.
“I am looking forward to Witter’s Othello,” Felton said idly, tapping his cane on the floor of the carriage. He hadn’t poured himself a glass. “I quite enjoyed his performance as Lear, although I doubt that the Covent Garden Theater is the appropriate venue for this play. The boxes are so close together and the audience tends to be, shall we say, inattentive?”
“Felton,” Genevieve said. To her horror, her voice trembled a bit.
“Yes, my lady?” he inquired.
The carriage was slowing. If she didn’t kiss him now, she’d never find the courage on the way home, and he would undoubtedly be seated on the other side of the carriage. Genevieve dropped her empty glass onto the seat next to her, put her hands on Felton’s shoulders, and placed her mouth on his.
There was a dreadful moment when neither of them moved. Then slowly, very slowly, his right hand came up and clasped her neck. He spoke against her mouth: “This is a delightful surprise.”
Genevieve was frozen in clammy doubt. He didn’t sound delightfully surprised: rather the opposite. But then he started kissing her, and his mouth moved so firmly across hers that she almost swooned into his arms.
The carriage jolted to a halt. “Dear me,” Felton said, drawing back. “I believe we have arrived at Covent Garden.”
Genevieve was trembling. Everything in her was shrieking that he must tell the carriage to continue! Don’t stop! Let’s . . . let’s . . . let’s . . . The overwrought idea died in the light of his blue eyes. Men like Felton didn’t grapple in carriages. It wasn’t as if she were eighteen again, and eloping with Tobias Darby. The moment the carriage door had closed, Tobias had lunged at her like a stalking lion, but he’d been the wild younger son of a neighbor, the man who’d taken her off to Gretna Green after some three hours’ conversation. Felton wasn’t an unseasoned devil’s spawn like Tobias but an urbane, sophisticated gentleman, up to snuff in every sense of the word.
“I believe we should attend the performance,” he said mildly, picking up her glass and replacing it in the box.
Genevieve’s humiliation was approximately twice as scalding as her desire had been. He’d guessed her thoughts! The footman opened the door. Luckily, Felton hadn’t even touched her hair, so her beads were still in place. Of course, two minutes after Tobias had leaped into the carriage, her hair...but that was a different story, and years ago.
As they entered the theater and found their way to Felton’s box, Genevieve was so busy impressing upon her companion that she was utterly unmoved by their kiss that she didn’t notice that their box was receiving an unwonted amount of attention. It wasn’t until the first intermission that she realized that virtually every opera glass in the house was trained on them. A quick pat told her that although her hair was precariously pinned, the beads were still in place. Felton sat opposite her, one slender finger absentmindedly tracing the gold leaf adorning the edge of the box, ignoring the sea of interested faces peering at them from boxes to the left and right and even from the pit.
“I gather you were unaware that an old admirer of yours has returned to London?” Felton finally asked, catching Genevieve’s bewildered gaze. “His arrival seems to have brought on a violent burst of interest amongst the ton. You did not know?” He paused. “I am even more honored by your... attentions in my carriage.”
“Old admirer?” Genevieve asked. “But I have no...” Her voice trailed away. For there, just across the theater, in Simon Darby’s box, was—was Tobias.
Her Tobias. No! The Tobias who was only briefly hers. Almost her first husband. When they eloped, he was a great, raw-boned stripling, always moving, always restless. The man who met her eyes across the theater was taller and even bigger. His hair was standing in disordered curls all over his head. And his eyes! She recognized that gleam in his eyes.
The reprobate! How dare he greet her so publicly—or, indeed, greet her at all?
Genevieve quickly turned her head away. Felton’s eyebrow was raised in faint interest. “How very odd it is, when acquaintances return after a long absence,” she told him. It was the only comment that came to mind.
“Acquaintances?” Felton asked, the eyebrow shooting even higher.
“Nothing more,” Genevieve said, turning her shoulder on him. Really, it was impolite of him to bring up that episode in her past. She was a respectable widow now. She could see out of the corner of her eyes that Tobias was standing up and bowing to Lady Henrietta, his brother’s wife, and that meant he was getting ready to leave his box. Knowing To-bias, he would knock on the door of their box in two minutes, with no thought for the scandal of it. She turned to Felton.
“Kiss me, please,” she said pleasantly.
He was lounging back in his chair, and he blinked at her like a country yokel.
“Felton,” she repeated. “I should like you to kiss me, please.”
A mask of impenetrable calm fell over his face like a shroud. “You do realize that such a kiss would signify to the ton our intent to marry?” he asked courteously enough. He wasn’t going to kiss her. Genevieve felt pink rising in her cheeks along with her temper.
There was a wicked little smile curling Felton’s lips. “It seems you are suffering from a bout of nerves. But one must wait for the appropriate time in order to make such a gesture.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And when would that be?”
There was a rap at the door and Felton called, “Enter!”
“Well?” she snapped, suddenly furious. They were both despicable men.
“Now,” Felton said. He stood up, pulled her to her feet, clasped her face in those long, elegant fingers of his, and kissed her. Straight on the mouth, and in the view of every single important member of the ton, including Mr. Tobias Darby, lately returned from India.
Genevieve gasped, and forgot all about the gentleman who had just entered the box. Felton’s mouth was cool and strong on hers, and he smelled faintly of an elegant male perfume. She shivered all over and was about to pull him closer when he stepped back.
“Mr. Darby,” Felton was saying. “Although we haven’t met, it is naturally a pleasure to greet you.”
Tobias looked just the same. Apparently devil’s spawn didn’t change. His hair curled upward with the same un-tamed freedom as it had when he was a boy. And his eyes were exactly the same: burning with a fierce determination. When she was a girl, she always thought of him as being like the wind that blows over the moors, and he was the same now: bigger, stronger, more vivid than the cultivated gentlemen of the ton.
Genevieve edged closer to Felton. “Yes, well,” she said, acutely aware of the hundred-some pairs of eyes fixed on their encounter. “I suppose so. Alth
ough I would have preferred a less conspicuous encounter, Mr. Darby.”
He shrugged. “I meant to visit you tomorrow morning, but here you are. I could hardly pretend not to see you.” He grinned at her, and his eyes roamed all over her as freely as any shabster in the street might. “You look exquisite, Genevieve.”
Genevieve almost smiled at that. Of course, paying her a private visit tomorrow would have been the polite, safe thing to do, but Tobias was ever one to take the direct route to whatever he wanted.
“Do take a seat,” Felton said, sounding rather amused. “A good part of the audience will be unable to see into our box, and the ensuing agony of curiosity will do them good.”
Tobias was much bigger than he used to be. The box suddenly felt almost cramped as he moved toward her. Genevieve stumbled as she sat down.
Tobias Darby looked at the man who’d been kissing his wife—well, Genevieve wasn’t quite his wife—and resisted the impulse to toss him over the box railing. It wouldn’t be politic, as his twin would say. So he bowed instead. “Mr. Felton, it is likewise a pleasure.”
Felton waved a hand toward one of the rickety little chairs next to Genevieve. “Do seat yourself,” he said in the sort of languid voice that Tobias despised. “We might as well disappoint the crowd further by engaging in a civilized conversation.”
“Very kind of you,” Tobias replied. To his discomfort, he couldn’t quite dismiss Felton as a man-milliner. He had been kissing Genevieve, after all. And there was a ruthlessness in his indifferent eyes. Tobias sat down next to Genevieve. She had pulled her streaked lion’s mane of hair up on her head and tried to hide its wildness with frippery little beads. But she was as gloriously untamed as he remembered.
“How is your father?” he asked her. Not that he gave a bean, beyond hoping the old goat had repented for marrying his only daughter to a clutch-fisted old man.
“He died not long after your father, Mr. Darby. I am sorry for your loss.” She didn’t sound the least bit sorry. “I gather from the fact that you did not return to England that you did not hear of your father’s demise until recently?”
