A Fool Again

by Eloisa James

“You were horrified? Why? The two of you seem so happy together,” Genevieve said, thinking of Carola’s tall, rather bashful husband, and the way his eyes lit up when he saw his delicious little wife.

  “Well, we are, now,” Carola said with a giggle. “But it took quite a few years. At any rate, how did Felton ask you? Did he go on his knees?”

  “Of course not,” Genevieve said. “Felton would never do anything so ungentlemanly. He merely commented that given his kiss of the previous evening, he rather thought that our intention to marry had been made clear to the ton, and that therefore he would send a message to the Times directly.”

  Carola blinked. “That was it? He didn’t say he loved you, or even ask you if you wished to marry him?”

  Genevieve felt herself turning a little pink. “No—that is—I rather think he considered that I had asked him. Because I told him to kiss me last night.”

  “You asked him?” Carola said, stunned.

  “Not to marry me,” Genevieve said hastily. “Just to kiss me. Last night. And before he did so, he pointed out that such a kiss would indicate our intention to marry.”

  “So this morning he didn’t say that he loved you at all?” Carola asked.

  Unfortunately, she was echoing just the uneasy question that Genevieve had asked herself repeatedly during the previous night. “He’s not the sort of man who expresses himself in hyperboles,” she pointed out.

  “Yes, but, while asking a woman to marry him—”

  “Felton considers propriety very important,” Genevieve said firmly, “and I must say that I agree with him. It was due to Tobias’s utter lack of civilized behavior that I found myself married to Erasmus Mulcaster for six years, and that wasn’t a happy marriage, Carola.”

  “I know, darling,” Carola said. “But are you certain that turning to a man who is quite so rigidly proper as Felton is the answer? After all, Tobias may well have changed in the interim.”

  “No, he’s just the same,” Genevieve said dampeningly. “I could tell the moment I saw him last night. Just as wild as he ever was.”

  “The only man who’s ever looked at me the way Tobias Darby looks at you is my husband. And my Tuppy could never be considered wild, Genevieve. I would suggest that you may be misinterpreting personal interest for a character trait.” She giggled—and there was no lady in London with as wicked a giggle as Lady Carola Perwinkle. “You must keep in mind that one doesn’t wish a man to behave in a civilized fashion at all times, Genevieve!”

  Genevieve colored again. She knew exactly what Carola meant, but she refused to comment on it. “Lucius Felton will always behave in a genteel fashion,” she said coolly. “And that is just as I would wish it.”

  “If you say so,” Carola said. The doubt rang clear in her voice. Then she reached over to the table next to her and picked up a small garment. “Look at this, Genevieve. Do you think that I disfigured the sleeve with too many rosebuds?”

  Lucius Felton was involved in some suspect dealings, all right. But he was walking just on the right side of the law, although it appeared that Genevieve’s dead husband had had no such scruples. From what Tobias could ascertain, Felton was worth a tremendous amount of money, far more, Tobias suspected, than the ton imagined. Within five hours of beginning his inquiries, Tobias had gained respect for the man. Felton may be a shade disreputable, but some of his disreputable dealings were clearly brilliant.

  One thing Tobias had discovered immediately was that Felton’s appearance in Genevieve’s life was no accident. He must have seen her somewhere and decided to have her, because Felton had suddenly presented himself to Lord Mul-caster as a partner six months before Mulcaster died, accepting a piddling percentage.

  Obviously, Felton was out for bigger prey than Mulcaster’s money. He wanted Mulcaster’s wife, and money was no object.

  Still, Tobias thought he saw one weakness: Felton’s stables. Felton was a fanatic with horseflesh, a man who would move mountains to buy a colt he wanted for his stable. It took Tobias four days to buy all five horses in England considered likely to win considerable fame in the next few years.

  So Tobias strolled into a dinner party being given by Lady Perwinkle with a sense of well-being, although it quickly dissipated. The first thing he saw after greeting his cheerful little hostess was Felton bending over Genevieve’s hand in a display of outrageous gallantry. All that golden-brown hair of hers was precariously tied up with a few flowers; yet somehow a haphazard arrangement that would make any other woman look disheveled made her look more alive. And Lucius Felton saw it. There was a deep, acquisitive sense of possession in Felton’s eyes that made To-bias think seriously of murder for the first time in his life.

  He walked further into the drawing room and greeted the quite exquisite Miss Priscilla Blythe. Genevieve was playing the piano, and Felton was watching with a sleepy look in his eyes that made Tobias stiffen like a jackal. But he was playing a long game, and so he held his cards, chattering with Priscilla until he was ready to expire from tedium. She seemed to have only one subject of conversation: her small dog, Lance.

  There was one interesting moment over port. Lord Perwinkle was chatting with two gentlemen about trout fishing, of which Tobias knew nothing. Lucius Felton was standing by the fireplace, so Tobias strolled over to greet him. He didn’t bother with pleasantries: From what he’d discovered in the last few days, Felton’s urbane courtesies were all on the surface. “I believe you have something that I want,” he remarked. His tone was courteous enough.

  Felton raised his head and looked at him. Tobias had seen adders in Indian marketplaces with kinder eyes. “I never give up my possessions,” he said.

  Tobias raised an eyebrow. “Under no circumstances?”

  “Never. I would recommend that you abandon your efforts, Mr. Darby. The lady in question has no wish to jump ship, you see.” He smiled with all the delicate courtesy of a cat playing with a mouse.

  But Tobias was no mouse. He smiled as well, and it was a smile honed in the back alleys of Bombay and the marble palaces of Indian rajas. “Shall we leave the lady out of this?” he said softly.

  Felton’s eyes dropped demurely, and he examined his fingernails. “I simply wished to spare you some trouble,” he said. “She is quite, quite attached to me.”

  “I bought a filly today,” Tobias said, watching him. “Prudence, by way of Prunella and Waxy.”

  Felton looked up again, and there was a good deal more interest in his eyes. “Good choice,” he said. “I was looking at that filly myself: hadn’t quite made up my mind.”

  Tobias felt a pulse of rage that the man showed a spark of interest only when it came to horseflesh, not Genevieve, but he quelled the thought. “I have had an interesting few days on that front. I also acquired a beautiful little Hungarian filly, Nyar, by way of Dr. Syntax and Csillog.”

  “Nyar has some English blood in her,” Felton said with commendable indifference, to Tobias’s mind. Given that the man was beginning to see the light.

  “Minuet as well,” Tobias said softly.

  “The Euston Stud would never sell Minuet!” Lucius snapped. “She won the Oak Stakes last year.”

  “Yes, I do believe that Grafton would rather have kept Minuet. But every man has a price, you know.” The statement hung in the air. “One further purchase,” Tobias said after a moment. “Smolensko.”

  “Ah. Congratulations are truly in order, Mr. Darby.”

  Tobias had him now; there was a spark of pure, cold rage at the bottom of those civilized eyes.

  “No, no,” Tobias said modestly. “I do wonder how the horses will do on the long voyage to India, though. Some horses don’t take to being in the hold of a ship for weeks.”

  “You cannot take those horses to India,” Felton stated. “It would be a massacre.”

  “Of course I can. And I’m negotiating for Whisker as well. You must know of him; I believe he beat both your horses at Epsom Downs last year. Ah, Lord Perwinkle,” To-bias said, turning
to his host. “I’ve just been telling Felton that I’m planning to set up stables in India. I’ve bought a number of horses.”

  “Good, good,” Lord Perwinkle said, smiling his rather charming, absentminded smile. “Shall we join the ladies?”

  When they walked into the drawing room, Genevieve was seated at the piano again. Tobias walked directly over to her. Felton was not a man to trail behind a rival; a moment later he was sitting on the couch next to their hostess, looking for all the world as if he had no interest in the corner of the room that held the piano.

  Genevieve was examining some sheet music. “I am looking forward to tomorrow afternoon,” he said to her.

  “I believe it might rain,” she noted. “In that event, I shall surely wish to remain in my house.”

  “I would be enchanted,” he said, giving her a wicked grin.

  She flushed slightly. “That was not an invitation to join me, Mr. Darby!” She stood up and looked as if she might escape, so he moved slightly. To pass him, she would have to touch his shoulder. Sure enough, she stayed where she was. Her gown was all blond lace and slim ribbons, making her look as fragile and exquisite as a narcissus blossom.

  “You didn’t used to be so enameled,” he said. “I remember you in a grass-stained pinafore, with hair falling all over the place and great chubby cheeks.”

  Genevieve narrowed her eyes. “You never showed any sign of noticing me as a child.”

  “The memories are coming back to me the way bad dreams do. Could I have imagined a period when your hair had a distinctly blue tinge?”

  “Definitely a nightmare,” Genevieve said coolly, brushing past his shoulder.

  A hand shot out and caught her arm. “You don’t remember?” His voice fairly purred with amusement. “My understanding was that you used blackberries to dye your hair.”

  “You must be thinking of someone else,” Genevieve retorted.

  But he was staring down at her with those eyes of his, and there was something, a gleam in them, that made a flush rise in her cheeks. “Ah, but I have a remarkable memory,” he said.

  That slow smile of his ought to be banned! Genevieve seemed to be powerless to look away. He had her hand again and was raising it to his lips. “I seem to remember . . . everything about you.”

  “It was black currants, not blackberries,” Genevieve said, and was horrified to find that her voice came out a husky whisper.

  “Why would you ever wish to change your hair?” His eyes seemed genuinely puzzled. “It’s the most beautiful stuff I’ve seen in my life. India is full of silks, but I never saw anything to rival this.” He touched a curl with one finger.

  Genevieve swallowed. It had been a perfectly reasonable attempt to replace her streaked hair with a rippling shade of black. But when Tobias Darby looked at her hair, she couldn’t imagine why she’d ever wanted black hair.

  “Surely you remember,” he said, his voice a mere whisper of sound. “Your hair—in the carriage? I don’t seem to be able to forget, no matter how many years pass.”

  A shiver ran down Genevieve’s back. He had been enchanted by her curls, nuzzled them, kissed them, draped her hair over his body and hers, and all the time the carriage had rocked on toward Gretna Green, where he was to make her his wife.

  But that had never happened.

  She drew herself up and snatched her hand away. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Darby,” she said with spurious politeness. “While it is always interesting to discuss childhood memories, I believe my fiancé is waiting for me.”

  And then she marched over to Felton, her slim back indignant. But Tobias grinned after her. She remembered, all right.

  Chapter 6

  Bartholomew Fair

  Genevieve dressed for her afternoon appointment with Tobias Darby full of misgivings. Why on earth was she allowing him to escort her? He was clearly just as wild as he ever was. Honesty compelled her to admit that she had a strange susceptibility to his charms, even given that he wasn’t nearly as handsome as Felton, and he had none of Felton’s cultured charm. Felton merely had to look at her with a glimmer of approval and Genevieve felt as if he’d given her all her Christmas presents rolled into one smile. Whereas Tobias never looked at her with approval, only with lust. He’d been out of place in the village when they’d been growing up, and now he was desperately out of place in London: too large, too fast-moving, too lustful. Really, it was exhausting even being around him. A woman had to be constantly on her guard, or he would have her flat on her back in the public gardens.

  Well, that wasn’t going to happen again, Genevieve told herself. She was not that type of woman. No, she was Lucius Felton’s intended wife. He had asked for her hand in a placid, urbane fashion of which she utterly approved. So why was she wasting her time with Tobias Darby?

  Precisely at two o’clock Genevieve traipsed down the stairs, wearing a walking dress of pale, pale blue muslin, trimmed with white lace. It was as demure as it was docile, especially with a matching cloak in blue sarsenet. She carried a lace parasol that came to a sharp point (excellent for warding off men with lascivious intentions). From the tips of her blue slippers to the ribbons plaited into her hair, there was nothing about her that would inspire a man’s lust.

  So there was no explanation for the slow burn that danced in Tobias’s eyes. That darkening shade of blue made her feel uneasy and happy, all at once. He’s a blackguard, Genevieve reminded herself. The man is so lascivious that he even ogles ladies whose necklines approach their ears.

  “I trust this will be a quite brief outing,” she said, walking down the front steps toward his carriage with her parasol opened and pointed in his direction in case he intended to lunge at her. “I must return to dress for the opera. Felton and I are seeing The White Elephant, the Earl Godwin’s latest composition.”

  “The composer is an earl, or is Earl his first name?” To-bias inquired.

  Genevieve allowed the footman to hand her into the carriage as if she were a fragile piece of china. She was not the sort of woman who clambered in by herself. “He is titled,” she said languidly, taking out her fan. “The earl is quite famous for his operas.”

  “Things must have changed in England since I left the country,” he said, folding himself into the opposite seat. “I don’t recall any peers dabbling in music.”

  Why did he have to be so large? “Where are we going?” she asked, ladling a generous dollop of boredom into her voice.

  “Bartholomew Fair,” he said.

  Genevieve dropped her air of fashionable boredom. “Bartholomew Fair? But—why on earth? People of our sort don’t attend Bartholomew Fair!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not—it’s not for us, that’s why!”

  “Don’t be a widgeon. It’s Bartholomew day, and anyone with an unscrambled brain in their head is going to the fair.”

  “Goodness sakes,” Genevieve said faintly. “I never heard of such a thing. And what shall we do there, pray?” She fanned herself to hide her agitation. At least no one would recognize them at the fair.

  “Eat Bartholomew pig,” he said lazily, stretching his legs so that Genevieve had to move over on her seat to avoid touching his ankle. “And gingerbread shaped like people. I, Genevieve, only eat lady gingerbread. And you?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. She had the feeling there was some sort of joke behind his comment. “I have never eaten such a thing in my life!” she told him roundly. “Gingerbread comes in squares.”

  He laughed. “There are lamentable gaps in your education, love.”

  “Don’t you dare call me love!” she cried, incensed.

  When Genevieve descended from the carriage she was met by a literal roar of noise: hucksters selling everything from china vases to geese, trumpets and hurdy-gurdies shrilling in the distance, the giddy-go-round squeaking its way in a circle to the music of a breathless man playing a loud pipe. And everywhere she looked there were people: red-coated soldiers escorting comely lass
es, apprentices with snub noses and naughty looks, city wives in white aprons carrying baskets of jam, country folk wandering about with their mouths open. She was as dumbstruck as any country provincial herself.

  Tobias grinned at her. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Oh, it is!” she breathed. “It is! What’s that?” she asked, pointing her parasol at a row of sheds, all hung about with brightly colored curtains and decorated with streamers that swirled in the breeze.

  “Those are sideshows,” Tobias told her, slipping his hand under her arm. “Wire-walkers, acrobats, puppet shows—”

  “Let’s go see!” Genevieve cried. They made their way through the crowd. “Oh, look! A Mermaid! We must see her! And a Wise Pig: what could be wise about a pig? Flying Boats: we must see those. And a Golden Goose!”

  “Mermaid first?”

  Genevieve nodded. Tobias gave threepence to a very grimy man at the door, and they entered.

  “That was a very shabby mermaid!” Genevieve said indignantly when they exited the back of the shed. “Even I could see that her fins were made of paper! And all that hair. I suspect she was wearing a wig!”

  “Her breasts were her own,” Tobias reassured her.

  Genevieve frowned at him. The mermaid’s breasts were only partially obscured by her hair, which probably explained why the line in front of her stand was primarily made up of grinning men.

  “I should like to see the Living Skeleton now!” she said, turning on her heel after giving Tobias a look. No wonder the so-called mermaid had given him such a come-hither glance.

  He bellowed with laughter, but she paid him no mind.

  By four hours later, they had done it all. The Living Skeleton turned out to be a man who was quite thin and mournful too, but the Flying Boats truly were miraculous. The Fat Lady was quite fat, although Genevieve thought that Mrs. Pinkler in the village could have given her a run for her money. They saw the Wild Lion, the Wild Boar, and the Unicorn. They watched acrobats throw each other across the floor and ladies in taffeta dance their way across slender wires.