It had started out innocent enough, as all great falls from grace do, with one mistake. And then it happened again. And again. And again. Along the bank of the Severn, in the secluded greenhouse of Thornbury Castle, anywhere they could find. Her grand intention to not repeat her folly was all but forgotten with the silver of his tongue and the haunting tenderness of his embrace.
It was a vicious circle from which she could not wrench free. The further she fell from respectability, the more her body craved his touch. She no longer had the pain of the first time to viscerally remind her that she sinned. And after the second time, when she’d shattered in his arms and touched a sliver of heaven, she’d found the temptation of making love all but impossible to resist. As he’d promised, it had only gotten better. Now her body craved him as deeply as her soul. He’d awakened her passion, and it would not graciously retreat.
In truth, she didn’t know that she would wish it away even if she could. The intimacy, the closeness, they shared was incredible. If she thought she knew him before, it was nothing compared to now. Genie didn’t just know that he liked roasted potatoes but not roasted carrots, she knew the way his jaw clenched when he drove deep inside her, and the way he liked to look deep into her eyes as he exploded in release. Her heart squeezed just thinking about it.
She couldn’t get enough of him even as she realized what they were doing was wrong.
Genie swore each time that it would be the last, but when he kissed her—touched her—the wicked cravings of her body took over, and she lost all manner of decorum and rationality.
Yet each time he took her in sin, she hated herself—and him—a little more.
Shame had tainted their love. Since that fateful sun-drenched September morning, Genie had learned a painful truth about the inherent fragility of virtue. Virtue, once taken, could not be restored. It was a lesson that had been instilled in her since birth, but which she had so easily forsaken for the gratification of a moment. Without virtue, Genie was ruined. No one else would marry her now. The fate of a woman without fortune was inextricably tied to marriage. Unmarried, she would become dependent on the charity of her father and later, of her brothers.
She’d been such a fool. Seduced by the oldest lure of all… love.
And may God forgive her, she still loved him—but with increasing desperation. He had to marry her, not only to restore her lost virtue, but because she couldn’t imagine life without him. In a little over three months, he’d wormed his way around her heart. The immediate connection between them had blossomed into a true friendship. Hastings made her pulse race, her smile bright, and made her more comfortable than she’d ever imagined with a man.
But the moment she left him all comfort fled. She wanted to feel secure again, and that would only come with a formal proposal.
He’d dragged his feet for months. She’d hinted and danced around the topic of their understanding since it had become apparent that his parents would not happily welcome her into the family. The much-anticipated soirée at Thornbury Park had been a miserable affair. The duke and duchess had not cut her directly, but the cold manner of their greeting left no doubt as to their wishes on the matter.
Two months after they’d first made love, two months after that disastrous first meeting with his parents, and Hastings still had not offered for her. Indeed, he steadfastly avoided the topic of engagement at all, so much so that Genie had begun to wonder whether Lizzie had been correct. Had he ever intended it at all? But what else could “make you mine forever” mean? His vow of love was often repeated, but usually in the hazy, dreamy moments after they made love.
It was time to stop hinting. She’d learned over the past two months that Hastings did not like confrontation, but she had to do something. What they had was worth fighting for, he must realize that.
The front parlor of Kington House with her mother on the other side of the room might not be the best place for this conversation, but the opportunities for privacy had grown scarce with the increasing rain. And when they did have the occasion to meet in private, there was usually not much time left for conversation. With a laugh and a smile, he’d tell her not to worry before kissing her into oblivion, making her forget everything but the feel of his body on hers.
“What’s wrong, love? Don’t you like the cakes? I had the chef make them especially for you.” Disappointed by the unenthusiastic reception of his gift, Hastings waited anxiously for her reply.
She hated to look at him. Even now, from his seat beside her on the couch as they took tea, Genie felt her heart tug. She desperately wanted to believe the adoration, the love he offered in his guileless blue gaze. “They’re delicious. It’s not the cakes.”
“Then what is it? Something has been bothering you all morning.”
Something has been bothering me for months. “I thought you hadn’t noticed.”
“I notice everything about you,” he murmured suggestively, in that husky voice that sent chills up her spine.
Ignoring her body’s instinctive reaction, Genie took a deep breath. No matter how unseemly it was to broach such an indelicate subject, he’d left her no choice but to press the matter. The temporary lull of gentlemen callers afforded her the opportunity; she could not guess when it would be repeated. “The situation with your parents has not improved. I cannot help but worry about their resistance.” She spoke in a low voice, but it was unnecessary. Her mother was occupied by Fanny and Lizzie taking turns at the pianoforte.
Hastings stiffened and immediately leaned away from her. A mask of discomfort descended across his gregarious features. She’d obviously offended his sense of propriety, but to Genie’s mind they’d forsaken propriety the first time they made love. But clearly, he didn’t wish to discuss this subject.
“You are mistaken,” he said brusquely. “They are not resistant. Do not concern yourself with the matter.”
Genie chewed on her lip. Her teacup rattled as she placed it in the saucer. His cold response hurt, but she would not be put off this time. At moments like this when he seemed every inch the remote, humorless duke’s son, Genie wondered whether she knew him at all. Behind the fun, lighthearted young man she loved, she glimpsed a hard, impenetrable—immovable—layer of steel to his character that frightened her. She saw the shadow of the man he might have been had fate made him heir.
Genie looked down at her fingers as she nervously fiddled with the delicate teacup handle. “But what if they never approve?” she asked softly.
“Nonsense. There is plenty of time before we leave for town.”
At the mention of him leaving, Genie’s stomach twisted. Her panic increased. It was still some time before the season, but she didn’t like to be reminded that he might eventually leave.
He continued in earnest. “I am confident that before that time I can persuade them…” His voice dropped off leaving an awkward silence.
Genie realized that he did not want to make her any promises, and it stopped her heart cold. Had he ever made her any promises at all? The color drained from her face and she felt suddenly nauseated. Mute, she stared at him in horror.
He took his thumb and wiped the crease from between her brow. “Don’t worry, Genie, trust me.” His greatest charm was the uncanny ability to say exactly what she wanted to hear. But this time, she felt not the least bit reassured by his empty promises. She needed to hear more. And she feared that she never would.
Genie did not doubt that he loved her. But did he love her enough to defy his family?
A short week later brought such a change in circumstance Genie could have wept for the joy of it. She’d been wrong not to trust Hastings. He had indeed kept his promise. The previous day card arrived from the duchess informing Genie of her intent to call on Mrs. Prescott and her daughters the following morning. Genie’s happiness knew no bounds. There was only one explanation: Hastings had informed his parents of their attachment. Such condescension in calling at Kington House could not be misinterpreted; the duchess had sign
aled her approval.
The entire household shared in Genie’s elation. Even Lizzie, whose worry matched her own these past few weeks (though she was careful not to show it), initiated a lengthy discussion on bridal gowns. Lizzie decided they must write their aunts in London as soon as possible to ensure an adequate amount of time to review the sketches.
The much-anticipated day dawned gray and dismal. So relieved that all of her dreams would soon come to fruition, not even the persistent rain could dampen Genie’s spirits.
She woke early, paying particular attention to her appearance. Striving for just the right balance between sophistication and youth, she donned her best morning gown of a delicate pink silk crepe. The square bodice and short sleeves were fashionably made, but modest. Her flaxen tresses were braided then wound into a tight chignon and secured with a matching pink ribbon. Satisfied with the results, Genie anxiously took her place in the front parlor. Kington House had two small sitting rooms, both cozy and comfortable with pretty floral wallpaper and soft pastel furnishings, but they were hardly elegant enough to impress a duchess. After much agonizing, Mrs. Prescott decided that the front parlor took better advantage of the view to the gardens, rain notwithstanding. A fire had been set and lit, the rugs swept, the furniture polished, the servants bathed and dressed in fresh clothing. Mrs. Prescott’s prized silver tea urn and Worcester china stood proudly on the tea cart. Everything carefully readied for this grand occasion. It was not often that a country rector was called upon by a duchess.
At long last, the crested doors of the Duke of Huntingdon’s magnificent gilded coach came into view. The liveried coachman and footmen in their scarlet coats trimmed with gold seemed painfully out of place as it clattered down the narrow lane that fronted the rectory.
In due course, Higgins—the Prescott’s devoted manservant—announced the duchess. Casually, as if the arrival of a duchess was a regular occurrence, all eyes turned toward the doorway.
The Duchess of Huntingdon filled the small room with her presence. Though diminutive in stature, the nobility of her bearing created the illusion of a much larger woman. Unlike the previous two times Genie had seen her, the duchess wore a fine silk bonnet instead of an elaborate turban. Her clothes seemed a luxurious reflection of her exalted rank. Her morning dress and matching pelisse were of a deep rose silk trimmed with sable. Genie wished she’d seen her cloak before Higgins had taken it.
Though a handsome woman, the duchess was remarkably thin. This emphasized the sharpness of her features and caused the hollows of her cheeks to appear sunken. It also had the unfortunate effect of making her look tight and uncomfortable, like all the air had been sucked out of her.
The resemblance to her sons, if any, was forced.
Eagerly, Genie sought the turn of her gaze. For a fraction of an instant, their eyes met, causing a shudder to ripple through Genie. Instead of the warmth she expected to find, the cold disdain of the duchess’s haughty regard recalled their last meeting all too vividly. Nonplussed by the aloofness of her manner, Genie soberly awaited the duchess’s address as Mrs. Prescott welcomed her into the room, made the proper introductions and offered the obligatory remarks about the frightful weather.
A seat affording the best view of the garden was offered and accepted, though the duchess seemed to perch on the very edge of the chair, indicating her intention of not becoming too comfortable. In fact, no one was comfortable. The air of excitement that had once permeated the room had dissolved with her arrival. Thankfully, the timely arrival of refreshments temporarily lifted the blanket of tension.
The duchess spoke to her mother about the status of improvements to Donnington Park and politely asked Lizzie about her growing friendship with Fanny.
Pleasantries exchanged, finally, the duchess fastened her gaze on Genie, though speaking to her mother. “I should like a few words with your daughter, Miss Eugenia Prescott.” Alone was the unspoken command.
One did not argue with a duchess, no matter how rudely requested. Genie’s normally unflappable mother appeared utterly discombobulated. She tossed Genie an anxious look before quickly bustling out of the room, sweeping Lizzie along in her wake.
Seated in a small chair opposite the duchess, hands folded in her lap, Genie kept her eyes demurely downcast in proper deference to a woman of such superior rank.
“So what have you to say for yourself, Miss Prescott?”
Genie knew right then. A stab of despair knifed through her chest. The duchess’s tone said it all. Her words were uttered with such naked contempt that Genie could no longer deny what she’d intuited from the moment the duchess glided into the room. Genie had been wrong about the reason for the duchess’s visit; the duchess did not approve of a match between her and Hastings. In fact, from the look of abhorrence on her face, her disapproval could not be clearer. Hope fell in a puddle at Genie’s feet. A dull sense of doom spread over her. In the space of a few minutes her emotions had swung from utter euphoria to disappointment and despair.
Genie willed herself not to be intimidated, but the formidable duchess did not inspire confidence.
The duchess had not expected a reply. “I will not stand by and allow my son to be drawn in by the machinations of a silly girl with inferior connections and no fortune to speak of.” Her lips pursed together into a grim line. “You have set your cap for the wrong man, my dear. You will find that I will not allow my son to ignore his duty and toss away his future on youthful fancy.”
Despite her nervousness, Genie bristled. Before she could stop herself she remarked, “Surely your son is a man full grown, capable of making his own decisions?” The duchess’s eyes narrowed. Genie bit back her tongue, realizing that a pert reply was not the best way to impress the duchess. Fighting to maintain her composure, she continued more politely. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, to speak so plainly, but I cannot allow you to suffer under the false impression that I have in any way sought to ‘draw in’ or manipulate your son. Indeed, by all accounts it is your son who has hotly pursued me.”
The duchess gasped, her eyes burned with indignation. She was not often contradicted, especially by a girl of just eighteen.
“So there is an understanding between you?”
Genie’s cheeks pinkened. She had thought there was, but now… “I didn’t say that,” she hedged.
A scornful sneer spread across the duchess’s face, her first betrayal of emotion. Clearly, she smelled blood. If there was a formal agreement, Genie would have been quick to say so.
“So, my son is not a complete fool.”
Genie lifted her chin, meeting her gaze, refusing to be cowed. “I love your son, Your Grace. And he loves me.”
The grin slid from the duchess’s face, her face darkened in anger. Hard, beetle-like eyes peered at Genie. “Romantic drivel. You obviously read too many novels, Miss Prescott. Love or not, you reach too far. The son of a duke and the daughter of a rector.” She grimaced. “It is unthinkable.” Her gaze intensified, Genie forced herself not to cringe under the duchess’s calculating stare. “Are you with child?”
Genie reared back. “No!” she exclaimed vehemently, but her cheeks burned hot. Obviously, the duchess knew that they had made love. Genie swallowed, a lump of shame stuck in her throat.
Pleased, the duchess nodded. “Good. That would be an unfortunate complication.” Seeing Genie’s shock she said sharply, “Don’t be missish with me, girl. I was young once. My son is a handsome young man. It is not the first time such a thing has happened, though it is not like Hastings. But just because you are foolish enough to succumb to the first man who courts you, don’t think it means that he’ll marry you.”
A noose of dread slipped around Genie’s throat and tightened. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. This couldn’t be happening. She had to do something. “He wants to marry me, Your Grace, in that Hastings has been very clear. Is a gentleman’s honor limited only to his word, but not in his intention so plainly given?”
“And where is the ho
nor in your conduct, Miss Prescott?”
Genie flinched. There was none.
“Are you so sure of his intentions?” the duchess continued. “Hastings is young, just two and twenty and hardly seems ready to settle down with a wife.”
Stop! Genie wanted to scream. She didn’t want to hear anymore. But hadn’t she had the same thoughts herself? One of the qualities she most admired in Hastings was his irresistible carefree, devil-may-care attitude. Paradoxically, it was the very trait that instilled doubt.
The duchess had had enough. She studied Genie coolly, a shrewd half smile played about her mouth, filling Genie with dread. The duchess was about to play her final card.
“Your parents enjoy a certain amount of respectability in Thornbury, do they not, Miss Prescott?”
Her breath caught sharply. No, not that! Stricken, Genie nodded.
“It would be unfortunate if a scandal were to cause your father to lose his patronage.”
“No,” Genie gasped. “You wouldn’t—”
The duchess cut her off. “Never doubt what I would do to protect my family, Miss Prescott. The Marchioness of Buckingham and I are girlhood friends, one word whispered in her ear and I’m afraid… Well, I hope it does not come to that. I’m sure I can trust you to do the right thing for all involved.”
“The right thing?” Genie echoed dumbly. If her father lost his patronage in a scandal, he would be ruined. The bile rose in the back of her throat. The walls closed in around her. Her eyes darted around, looking for an escape. But there was none. If she did not give up Hastings, the duchess would destroy her family. She knew it in her bones. Could the Prescotts weather the storm? Would Hastings stand by her even in defiance of his family? Or would he avoid confrontation again?
“I think it is best if you were to go on an extended holiday. A temporary separation will be the cure for what ails you.”
The Unthinkable Page 7
