The Unthinkable

by Monica McCarty

  “No separation will change my feelings. I won’t give him up,” Genie said defiantly.

  The duchess laughed. It was not a pretty sound. “Hmm. But the question is: Will he give you up?”

  Genie blanched. “What do you mean?”

  “Time and distance have a way of making people see things differently. There is a ship bound for America that leaves Bristol on Monday next.”

  “America?” Genie exclaimed in shock. The duchess must be desperate to be rid of her—it was the other side of the world.

  The duchess continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “I have made the necessary arrangements. I will have a coach waiting down the lane, just beyond the bend at midnight late Saturday night.” Only five days, Genie thought. How could she leave in five days? “You will be provided with everything you need, the best cabin on the ship, plus two thousand pounds.” Genie’s eyes rounded. “A maid of course will join you.”

  Two thousand pounds! Dear heavens, it was a small fortune. “I can’t just sail away to America.” She’d never been out of Gloucestershire, for goodness’ sake. But did she have a choice? “What would I tell my parents?”

  The duchess gave a short, dismissive wave. “You shall tell them nothing, of course.”

  “I can’t just leave.”

  “Write a note if you must. But say nothing of my involvement.”

  “Please,” Genie begged. “Please. Don’t force me to do this. There will be a scandal. I will be ruined.”

  “You are already ruined, you foolish girl. Do you wish your family to suffer for your stupidity?”

  The pain in her gut was acute. Genie just wanted to bend over and curl up into a tiny ball. Where was Hastings when she needed him?

  “Your brothers and sister will benefit, of course, by your good sense. I believe your brother Charles is looking for a living? There is a parsonage in Ashby-de-la-Zouch near Ashby Castle, our former ancestral seat destroyed by Cromwell. I will write at once. And as Fanny has taken to your sister, Elizabeth, perhaps she would join us in London for a season next year?”

  Genie’s dreams of happiness faded into nothingness. With such inducement, did she have any choice?

  “How long?” she asked dully. It would take at least six weeks just to sail there—and that is if nothing went wrong. The journey would be long and uncomfortable at best, and miserable and dangerous at worst.

  “A few months. We depart for town in the spring. You may return any time after that.”

  Cornered, Genie realized that she had to think of something. “If I agree to go, you will not object if Hastings offers for me when I return.”

  The duchess drew herself up to her full regal height. “You are in no position to issue conditions, Miss Eugenia Prescott.”

  Genie dug down deep and found a sliver of strength that she did not know she possessed. “I could stay and take my chances. My parents are well respected in Thornbury. There will be little scandal if Hastings and I marry. Are you sure that Hastings will not defy you?”

  Genie held her breath.

  The duchess’s brows lifted. Genie had surprised her. Genie probably imagined it, but she thought a smidgen of respect glimmered in the duchess’s eyes before she quickly dropped the blank, proud curtain back across her features. “I will never support such an unthinkable match. I will do all I can to dissuade him. However, if you do as I have instructed, I will not interfere by other means.”

  Genie nodded her agreement. The small concession was more than she expected.

  The duchess rose, her business complete. “Saturday at midnight, Miss Prescott. Do not forget.” And just like that she was gone, a plume of lavender and broken dreams in her wake.

  Overwhelmed by what had just occurred, Genie sat there unmoving, unsure of what to do. America? Fleeing her family in disgrace? There had to be some way out of this horrible nightmare. Hastings couldn’t know about the reason for his mother’s visit. He did intend to marry her, she told herself. Their love would stand the test of time.

  Genie had to see him. Together they would think of something.

  She hadn’t been wrong about his intentions.

  The next few days passed in almost unbearable agony. Hiding the reason for the duchess’s visit from her family was hard enough, but explaining Hastings’s absence from what had become a routine daily call was much more difficult. Explaining it to herself was impossible.

  On Thursday morning, two days before the coach would arrive to take her to Bristol and three days after the duchess’s visit, Genie could stand the wait no longer and took matters into her own hands. Though highly improper, she penned a short note to Hastings and had it delivered into his hands that same morning by the visiting Fanny.

  My lord, Desperate circumstances have forced me to take the extraordinary action of contacting you. If there exists an attachment between us, I beg that you attend me in all due haste. Only by your immediate attendance can I trust in the ardency of your affection. Please, my lord, I need you. Do not fail me. Yours, Eugenia

  Through the omnipresent gray sheet of rain, Genie stared from her bedroom window for hours, eyes glued to the lane searching for his familiar bay. For two long days, she waited in vain for a prince who did not come.

  Genie picked a strand of hair from her eyes, vowing not to dwell on those excruciating days of waiting any longer. She stood at the rail of the ship bound for America, her borrowed sullen maid at her side, watching the jagged coast of England fade into the distance. Her dreams fell away along with it.

  Right up until her departure, she’d held out hope. She prayed there had been some terrible mistake. Hysterical laughter bubbled inside her. Fool! There had been no mistake. He hadn’t come after her. There was only the letter.

  She looked at the bit of parchment still clenched between her fingers. She hadn’t wanted to accept the truth. But the truth could no longer be denied.

  His response had arrived late Saturday afternoon. Not in the person of her prince, but of his sister. Her heart had leapt to see Fanny, hope flickering in her chest. He’d sent word! She knew he wouldn’t let her down. She’d raced to the door, thrown it open, but the light of innocence within her was extinguished forever.

  A bitter wind tore across the deck. She looked at the scrap of parchment in her hand one more time, but she didn’t need to read it—the words were etched forever in her heart. Slowly opening her fingers, Genie allowed the offending letter to be carried away by the powerful damp gust. The parchment floated higher for a moment, before plummeting into the white foam of the sea, at last swallowing the damning words that had been his only reply:

  Miss Prescott, I was most surprised to receive your correspondence. I regret that I am unable to do as you’ve requested. If you have misconstrued my intentions, I sincerely implore your forgiveness. Lord Fitzwilliam Hastings

  Had he used a sword, he could not have cut her any deeper than this formal, impersonal response from the man who’d known her so intimately. From the man who was the other half of her soul. She’d begged him to come to her and he’d responded as if he didn’t know her.

  Nothing could have prepared her for his betrayal. The despair she’d experienced from the duchess’s outrageous demand paled in significance to the heartbreak of Hastings’s defection. He didn’t love her. He’d failed to honor his promise of marriage, and left her alone to face ruin. His betrayal had cleaved her in two, taking her innocence forever.

  How could she have been so wrong?

  Like a thief in the night, she’d snuck from her chamber that very night to meet the carriage, leaving a note to her parents that could never explain, but which she hoped would soften the blow. There would be no engagement, she explained. She couldn’t bear to stay in Gloucestershire; she would return when the Hastings family left for town. Try not to worry. She went to visit a school friend. Make whatever excuses they deem necessary to avoid a scandal. She regretted the pain that her sudden departure might cause.

  “Miss Prescott?”


  Genie turned to find the porter standing beside her. She hadn’t missed the disdain in his tone. Even with a maid, an unmarried young woman traveling alone was highly suspect. She glanced down at her dark gray woolen traveling gown. An opportune solution popped into her mind. She thought for a moment then made a decision—eager to disappear for a while.

  Maybe then she could forget.

  “No. There must have been a mistake. My name is Mrs. Preston. I am a widow.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Carlton House, June 19, 1811

  It was so long ago, a lifetime really. Yet here he was, five years later, staring at her as if they’d never parted. He even had the gall to break out into that charming crooked grin she so remembered. His clearly elated reaction gave her a momentary jolt. Why did he look so happy to see her?

  If she were that hopelessly romantic country girl again, she would say that he was staring at her as if he’d spent every day since the moment she left searching for her. As if he had never written her the hateful note that cruelly rejected every precious moment they’d spent together.

  But Genie wasn’t that innocent young girl anymore. The heartbreak she’d experienced on the ship had been nothing compared to what had come after.

  She shook off the memories and met his grin with a cool, haughty glare of disinterest. Some things were better left in the past.

  Lord Fitzwilliam Hastings was one of them.

  Genie had a future now. Edmund offered her everything she’d dreamed of with Hastings. This time, she would do whatever was necessary to protect her engagement.

  A hand cupped her elbow. On cue, conjured from her very thoughts, Genie turned to find Edmund at her side.

  His eyes locked on her, intently studying her face. “Are you well, my love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Transfixed, the man blinked repeatedly, not trusting the vision before him. But she wasn’t a ghost or a figment of his wishful imagination. She was hauntingly real.

  Dear God, Genie. After years of fruitless searching, he couldn’t have been more shocked to find her here than if she’d walked up the stairs of Huntingdon House and casually knocked on the door.

  And he’d nearly passed right by her. He’d been in a rush, knowing Prinny would be furious that he’d missed most of the big celebration, but he’d been unavoidably detained, called away at the last minute for an emergency at the bequest of a friend, who was currently out of the country on his behalf. He’d arrived at Carlton House in time to at least make an appearance, albeit a short one. At the last moment he happened to glance up. He’d frozen, rigid with shock.

  Genie. It had to be her. He’d only seen eyes like that on one person. They were unforgettable. Big and round, framed by long dark lashes, set deep in her tiny heart-shaped face. They screamed out innocence and vulnerability. But it was the extraordinary color that truly startled: a flawless cobalt blue.

  Everything else about her had changed. Gone were the soft, well-rounded curves of girlhood. The elegant woman before him was strikingly thin, her generous bosom and gently curved hips the only softness in an otherwise willowy figure.

  She’d been a beautiful girl, the quintessential English boy’s fantasy of a sweet country dairymaid with her lush curves, flaxen hair, milky skin, high pink blush and bowed red lips. She’d exuded sweetness and vulnerability. He’d fallen half in love with her the first time he’d seen her. He hadn’t been the only one, he remembered with a sharp stab of jealousy. He’d been forced to move quickly to stake his claim. Too quickly.

  If she was beautiful then, she was exquisite now. No longer the sweet country dairymaid, rather she reminded him of a fragile porcelain doll. So delicately beautiful she could almost break. Her flaxen hair had darkened to a shimmering honey blond. Those incomparable cobalt eyes still seemed hauntingly overlarge in her tiny heart-shaped face. The high pink bloom of her cheeks had faded to a soft, dusty rose; her milky soft skin so fair it seemed translucent. Her mouth, no longer curved in a perpetual girlish smile, looked harder, but promised untold sensual delights. The woman exuded a sensuality that was so distinctly at odds with the sweet innocent girl that he remembered.

  Of course, he’d taken that sweet innocence and trampled where he should have treasured.

  Seeing Genie again brought back all the memories—and all the guilt.

  The dull ache in his chest, a constant companion for the last five years, sharpened. Not a day passed that he did not blame himself for what had happened. That he did not regret what he’d done to her. In many ways, the mistakes he’d made with Genie had been the defining moment of his manhood. His failure, his conduct, in Thornbury had haunted him ever since.

  He wished he could blame his actions on the idiocy of youth. But there was more to it than that. Meeting Genie when he had had been a test in character that he failed. Miserably.

  As the second son, he’d largely sauntered through life without any real responsibility. He played the “fun one,” the “charming one,” to his brother’s stern fortress of duty and responsibility. Only twenty-two and fresh out of Oxford, he hadn’t been prepared to fall in love, defy his family, and take a wife.

  He hadn’t intended to make love to her.

  But with Genie his intentions and actions rarely meshed.

  He still cringed when he recalled his ungentlemanly conduct. She’d been so soft and lush like a juicy, ripe summer peach just begging to be devoured. He’d had to taste her. It only took one kiss for him to lose control. He’d needed to possess her, with a gut-wrenching intensity that had never been replicated. To persuade her, he would have promised her the world. Instead he’d seduced her with an unspoken promise of marriage. It didn’t matter that he’d meant it. He’d asked her to trust him and he’d let her down.

  He’d been so damned weak. He’d had every intention of marriage, but he’d allowed himself to be persuaded by the prejudice of his parents and the jealously of his brother. “You are young, you lack proper comparison,” they’d said. “She’s taking advantage of you, don’t be a fool.” Their universal condemnation of the match as both unsuitable and foolhardy worked on his youthful insecurities.

  Trapped between duty and desire when Genie pushed him to declare himself, unknowingly she’d exacerbated his guilt and resentment. Building to the point that when the letter arrived, he’d lashed out in anger like a cornered dog. He whipped off a terse reply to her heartfelt entreaty, never considering the ramifications of his actions. He’d just wanted the problem to go away.

  For a little while.

  When he discovered that Genie had fled, initially he felt relieved. He didn’t realize then that a part of him had departed with her. Within days he knew he’d made a mistake.

  It took far longer to realize how much of one.

  Though he might not have intended to, he’d acted the cad. He offered no excuse for his conduct. The fault was his. But he was no longer the unreliable, carefree young man. Circumstances had forced him to change.

  And now that he’d found her, he’d have the chance to atone for his sins. Finally, he could begin to chip away at the block of guilt and regret that had been strapped across his shoulders since she’d left.

  He started toward her, a broad, benevolent smile on his face.

  Before he could reach her, a man moved protectively to her side, halting him dead in his tracks. There was something possessive about the movement that made his blood run cold.

  But only for a minute. When he realized who stood before him, he nearly sighed with relief. Pushing aside the moment of unease, he chuckled at his foolishness. It was only Hawk. His best friend. The very man he’d sent to find her.

  Strange that Hawk hadn’t notified him of his return. No matter. He owed Hawk a debt that he could never repay. How could he ever thank him? For Hawk had traveled half the world to find the girl who’d haunted his memories. The girl he could never forget.

  Genie gazed fondly at Edmund. He’d said that she looked as though she’d
seen a ghost. One corner of her mouth lifted with the barest hint of amusement. His heartfelt concern warmed the dank chill in her heart. She’d exchanged a frog for a true knight. “In a way, I suppose I have,” she said wryly.

  Edmund followed the direction of her gaze and flinched, immediately dropping her arm. The blood rushed from his face. No doubt from her reaction, he realized who the man must be.

  But there was something else. Something was very wrong. Edmund was staring at Hastings and he couldn’t look away. He looked guilty—almost ashamed. “Edmund?” She clutched his arm, shaking him. She hesitated. “Do you know him?” Genuine fear laced her voice.

  “Edmund?” Hastings repeated incredulously. Her use of Edmund’s given name rather than his title had alerted him to the intimacy between them. Among peers, given names were rarely used—usually by siblings. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that Genie had never called Hastings “Fitzwilliam.” The divide had always been there between them, even if she hadn’t recognized it.

  She ignored Hastings and turned to Edmund. Her question seemed to have snapped him out of his trance. His gaze drifted down to her, anxiety etched across his handsome features. “We’ve been friends for years. We were at Eton and Oxford together.”

  “You never told her?” Hastings demanded.

  “Told me what?” Genie’s brow creased with worry. She braced herself, instinctively knowing that she would not like his answer. But Edmund ignored her and turned back to Hastings.

  He bowed. “Now is not the time to discuss this, Your Grace.”

  Bewildered, Genie rounded on Edmund. “Your Grace?” she echoed dumbfounded.

  Edmund hesitated. “Mrs. Preston, may I present the 12th Duke of Huntingdon.”

  “But…” Her voice trailed off with disbelief.