by Donna Hatch
He had? Little sparks shot out from every pore. Was he declaring himself now? Did he love her?
She drew in a deep breath, filling herself with his scent. She ached to burrow in closer and breathe in more of it. Of him. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you did.” She should have blushed at the seductive quality in her voice, but he inspired a new boldness in her.
He pulled back enough to look at her. A hopeful half-smile touched his mouth, a mouth she’d rather be kissing. “You don’t feel that I took advantage?”
She laughed softly. “Considering that I participated quite happily with you, it would be hypocritical. Do you mind that I didn’t play the shocked little miss?”
“Not at all.” He grinned at her, a vision that seemed to part the proverbial clouds and invite a heavenly chorus to break into song.
He kissed her again. Chaotic, hot desires mingled with that sensation of absolute belonging. His lips moved against hers, equal parts firm and gentle, and all passion. She ceased to exist except as a creature of desire.
He let out a husky chuckle. “We’d best go inside.”
Disappointment rang through her like a bell. “I suppose we must.”
He grinned, his eyes alight with joy equaling her own, and raised her to a stand. Hand in hand, they took a circuitous route past two other pairs of lovers enjoying the moonlight.
“Just so you know,” he said, his voice low. “I still intend to court you properly and publicly in Bath.”
“I can hardly wait.” She grinned at him.
He grinned back, and his eyes burned from inner fire.
Christian released her hand before they crossed the terrace and came into view. The imprint of his hand left behind a lingering warmth. In the drawing room, a few groups clustered together, enjoying their last evening together. Her parents, it seemed, had already retired for the evening. There was no sign of Matilda.
“Goodnight,” Christian murmured, his intense glance hungry.
She bade him a goodnight, barely managing not to throw herself into his arms again, and practically skipped through the open door leading to her parents’ bedchamber.
“Mama, Papa, I have…” her voice trailed off at their serious expressions.
Her father spoke. “Sit down, Genevieve. We need to talk.”
All the joy in her heart faded as dread took their place. She sank into a nearby chair. “What is it?”
“You have attracted some male attention.”
Oh dear. They must have seen her in the garden with Christian. “Well, yes, but you see, his intensions are honorable, and—”
Papa interrupted. “This very eve, I have received not one, but two offers for your hand.”
She blinked, hardly processing his words. But Christian said that he hadn’t spoken to Papa because he planned to formally court her in Bath.
“Two?” she repeated.
“Mr. Ashton and Lord Wickburgh have both asked for my permission.”
The blood drained out of her face. “Lord Wickburgh? Unthinkable!”
Her parents exchanged glances.
“And… Mr. Ashton… surely not. We’ve only conversed once or twice. Mr. Ashton is the most… bland man I have ever met.”
Mama spoke up. “Consider carefully, Jenny. He is the respectable son of a vicar, who can offer you a respectably comfortable life when he begins his position.”
Papa said, “Lord Wickburgh is a viscount—a peer of the realm with wealth, status, and power.”
Genevieve waved her hands in front of her and shook her head. Vigorously. “I’m not interested in marrying either of them. I’m in love with Christian Amesbury. And he has made his intentions known to me just tonight.”
They exchanged glances. “He is courting Miss Widtsoe.”
“No, he isn’t. She only wishes she had his affections; he never said or did anything to encourage her. He has vowed to court me in Bath, and even plans to seek your permission when the time is right.”
Mama put her hand over hers. “I know you’ve been infatuated with him since the beginning, but I caution you not to be too hasty. At least consider one of these other offers.”
Papa took up the conversation. “Being a vicar’s wife would come naturally to you, and it will allow you to live in the country as you wish and help parishioners. On the other hand, a viscount with ten thousand a year can offer you a life of luxury and position, not to mention anything money can buy.”
She shook her head, unable to even imagine being married to the man who turned her cold with a single look.
Papa’s voice grew stern. “He’s a lord, Genevieve; so much more prestigious than a youngest son with little to his name.”
She gaped at her parents. Before tonight, they’d always encouraged her to follow her heart. Besides, only days ago, Papa had said that Christian would be a good match for any young lady. Now they implied he wasn’t good enough, and that she should choose a husband based on who offered the most advantageous position in society. Unbelievable.
Slowly, she shook her head. “I love Christian. I cannot abide the thought of marrying another.”
Mama squeezed her hand. “He’s handsome and charming, I’ll give you that, but there is more to marriage than a pleasing face. And consider how he misrepresented himself to your friend. He might be a flirt or a rake who’s simply mastered the art of being discreet.”
How could they be so insistent about this? Rising to her feet and squaring her shoulders, she said in a calm, firm voice, “I have made my choice. I will allow no one but Christian to court me. When he asks me to marry him—and I’m confident he will—I will accept him.”
Papa sighed. “Genevieve…”
“Furthermore,” she continued, “Christian is expected to be a vicar when the position at his father’s county seat becomes available. If he does, I’d still be a vicar’s wife. Until then, he acts as his father’s right hand running the family estate. In addition, his art grows more popular every day. I have no fear that he will be an adequate provider. Please trust that I know my own heart.”
Silence fell.
Her parents exchanged glances.
Papa admitted, “He does have a comfortable income—some five thousand a year.”
She huffed a laugh that her parents had implied such a large sum of money would reduce her to poverty. “That’s more than many members of the gentry have. I’m sure we can do quite well on that, Papa.”
Papa’s stance relaxed. He waved a helpless hand. “Very well, Jenny. I trust you.”
Mama smiled. “We had to make sure you were certain, dearest.”
So, this had been a of test of her convictions. “Then you will refuse Mr. Ashton and Lord Wickburgh?”
“I will,” Papa said ruefully.
Genevieve kissed them goodnight and went to bed where, despite the sparks shooting through her limbs, she slept like a baby.
In the morning, she rushed through her morning routine, donning her carriage dress in preparation for the journey, and went down for breakfast. Would Christian be up and about as well?
On her way, she passed Mr. Ashton speaking softly with the plain yet pleasant young lady from last night who wore the pendant Genevieve had admired. Based on the way they looked at one another, perhaps the vicar’s son and the girl who didn’t want to spend her life as a spinster on the moors would make a match.
Smiling, Genevieve passed them and headed to the breakfast room. Inside, she found Matilda, staring glumly into her plate of eggs.
Genevieve sat next to her friend and touched her arm in concern. “Are you well, Mattie?”
“You know, don’t you? He told you?” Matilda raised her eyes.
Genevieve nodded. “He confided to me his concern that you had misunderstood his intentions. I advised him to clear it up before it was too late.”
Matilda dropped her fork. “It was already too late. I thought he loved me. He deceived me.”
“Mattie, he—”
“And I thou
ght you were my friend. But you stole him from me. From the moment he saw you, he forgot all about me. And you—you encouraged him.”
“No,” Genevieve gasped. “I never meant—”
“You already had everyone else panting after you, but that wasn’t good enough. You had to have him, too—the only man I ever truly loved!”
“It wasn’t—”
“Don’t ever speak to me!” Mattie stood and limped out of the room, her sobs trailing behind her.
Genevieve rocked back at the onslaught, cold down to her toes. She’d lost her dearest friend. She pressed a hand over her mouth. What had she done?
Sir Reginald strode past the door to catch up to Matilda. He called to her and they stood together, framed by the doorway, their voices only a murmur. He offered her his arm. Leaning heavily on him and limping, Matilda went with him into another room. Perhaps his loving heart would console her.
Genevieve had failed her friend. She’d allowed herself to love the gentleman for whom Matilda had formed an attachment. If Genevieve had she’d tried harder to point out Matilda’s fine qualities, or if she’d removed herself from the house party, or been less friendly towards Christian, perhaps they might have made a match of it.
No. Who was she trying to fool? Her loyalty to Matilda didn’t change the fact that Christian had never harbored a preference for Matilda. Her attachment for him was unrequited. In truth, she’d only fallen for Christian’s handsome face and status as an earl’s son. She didn’t know him. Her tumultuous moods would never have suited his gentle and artistic nature. He needed someone steady and calm. Someone like Genevieve. And she needed him.
Where was Christian?
She peeked into the drawing room. There, on an easel, sat an exquisite, full-color painting of the abbey, in all its gothic glory. Next to it, sat a portrait of Matilda so lifelike that it might have been looking out a window at her, glowing with beauty, with a lively smile and an impish twinkle in her eyes. He must have worked all night to complete them.
Where was he? She wandered into the main hall where others were bidding the hosts goodbye.
“Mrs. Widtsoe,” she called. “Have you seen Mr. Amesbury?”
Mrs. Widtsoe faltered upon seeing Genevieve. Her mouth turned down and her eyes took on an uncharacteristic hardness. She obviously blamed Genevieve for her daughter’s heartbreak. “I believe the earl and his son have already departed.”
“What? When?” Surely, he hadn’t left without saying goodbye.
“Mere moments ago.” She presented her back to Genevieve.
A frozen knot formed in her heart.
No. She was not losing him!
Without a shred of decorum, she raced outside to the main drive leading to the highway, searching for a coach with the Tarrington coat of arms.
No coach traveled down the drive. She was too late. Had she lost him as well as Matilda? A life without her best friend, and worse, a life without the only man she would ever love, stretched out in endless gloom.
Chapter 12
Genevieve stood in the drive alone. There had to be an explanation as to why he’d left. None came to mind, but she would not give up on him. Whatever had happened, she’d find him in Bath and remind him why they belonged together. She would be bold and fearless like a shield-maiden of old fighting for right.
Male voices reached her. Christian? She followed the voices to the side of the house. There stood Christian, wearing traveling clothes.
He hadn’t left—not yet. The frozen knot in her midsection melted.
She nearly called out to him but stopped herself at the sight of the other man in his presence. Posture stiff, fists clenched at his sides, Christian and Lord Wickburgh faced off.
Christian spoke with hard, biting words, “As I told you last night, I refuse to step aside. I know for a fact that she has no desire to spend time in your company.”
“You know nothing, boy,” Lord Wickburgh said. “I’m warning you; she is mine. If you continue to interfere, you will meet an unhappy end.”
“Threatening me will do you no good, sir.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Christian’s normally gentle voice lowered to a dangerous tone. “Stay away from her, or it is you who will meet an unhappy end.”
Genevieve would never have imagined the hardness in Christian’s voice. They stood, practically nose to nose, neither backing down, glaring hard enough to bore holes through one another.
“Christian, time to go!” The earl’s voice called from the front steps.
Wickburgh let out a sneering laugh. “Go to your father, boy.”
“Coming, Father,” Christian said. To Lord Wickburgh, he said, “You are not to bother Miss Marshall again.” He gave Lord Wickburgh a final, long look and strode away.
Genevieve stepped back quickly and headed towards the house. It would not do to let Christian know she’d seen the encounter. Her heart pounded. Seeing Christian locked in such a dangerous play with Lord Wickburgh revealed a new side of him. Dread at his danger, and excitement that he’d been protecting her, fighting for her, sent tingles of exhilaration down her backbone. He was like a knight of old jousting to win the favor of his lady love.
She dashed around the side of the house and hurried towards the front door, meeting the earl as he stepped off the stairs.
Lord Tarrington nodded as they passed. “Miss Marshall.”
“My lord.”
The Earl of Tarrington paused and half turned towards her. “I expect I’ll be seeing you in Bath?”
She lowered her eyes. “I hope so.”
He lifted his eyes to a point behind her. She turned. Christian, still grim, strode around the other side of the house towards her. When his gaze landed on Genevieve, Christian’s stride broke. He resumed walking towards her, but his expression turned to wariness.
“Miss Marshall,” he said, falling into formal speech, probably for the sake of his father.
“Ah, the coach is here at last.” The earl bowed to Genevieve in farewell. “Miss Marshall.”
“My lord.” She curtsied.
“I’ll wait for you inside, Son.” He relied heavily on his cane as he made his way to the luxurious coach.
Christian nodded to acknowledge his father, not taking his eyes off Genevieve. Why the wariness in him? Perhaps he was still tense over his encounter with Lord Wickburgh.
She gave him a tentative smile. “I saw your paintings of Mattie and the abbey. They’re exquisite.”
Solemnly, he said, “I’m gratified you like them. Mr. Widtsoe seemed pleased.”
Perhaps a little teasing? “Although I admit, I missed the flying gargoyle from your first sketch.”
He moved his hand, but she missed whatever he’d hoped to express. Why had he retreated into the man of few words he’d been when they’d first met? His silence and palpable tension created a sudden jitteriness. Had she misunderstood his intentions? Had his kiss simply been the product of moonlight on the final night of a house party?
Her fears wormed out of her and into her voice. She whispered, “Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”
He hesitated, his gaze flitting away. “I had not yet decided.”
Her breath rushed out of her. “Did our kiss mean nothing to you?”
Eyeing her with such guardedness, he said nothing for a long moment. “It meant something to me. But it seems my suit is not adequate.”
“What do you mean?”
True sorrow revealed itself in his expression. “I heard your parents.”
She frowned and shook her head. “Heard them…?”
All at once, it came to her; he must have heard her parents telling her about the two offers for her hand, and how advantageous those matches would be.
He parted his beautiful lips, the very ones that had kissed her with such passion only hours ago. “You left your shawl behind, and I was returning it. The door was open so I couldn’t help but overhear. They don’t want you to settle for a y
oungest son. Perhaps you shouldn’t.” He pushed a hand through his hair.
Stepping closer, she said boldly, “They only wanted to be sure I knew my own mind. My own heart.”
Those eyes, so blue, so intense, searched her eyes as if to find confirmation of her words.
Desperation squeezed her chest until she could hardly breathe, and it poured out of her voice. She took his hand. “I told them I would have you and no other. And they relented. My mother is thrilled, truth be told.”
His expression softened, yet that wariness and vulnerability remained. He’d mentioned not feeling worthy of love, so she must be bold, leaving no room for doubt in his wounded heart.
“I would be miserable with anyone else—even a so-called advantageous match.” She took his other hand and squeezed them both. “Christian, please trust me with your heart. I give you mine.” She drew a breath. “I love you.”
Hope and joy lit his face. He tugged on her hand, drawing her near. “Is that possible?”
“I love you with all of my heart.”
His smile of joy should have inspired a heavenly choir of angels to break into song. He put hand on her cheek and looked more deeply into her eyes than anyone else ever had. “I love you, Genevieve Marshall.”
His sincerity left no room for doubt. She laughed as tears filled her eyes. He kissed her so thoroughly she could hardly breathe. When his kiss ended, she almost begged him to do it again.
His husky voice vibrated through her. “I want to spend the rest of forever with you.”
Surely her heart would explode with the love filling it past capacity. She’d never dreamed the power of those words.
She gave him an impish smile. “Forever may not be long enough.”
His smile invited beams of happiness to shower all around them. “I have no title or coffers of money.”
She leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose. “I would prefer not to starve, but if you can promise me food on the table and love in our home, I will be content—happy, even. Delirious.”
“Then would it be presumptuous of me to ask you to marry me?”
“Would it be presumptuous of me to say it’s about time you asked?”
