The Unthinkable

by Monica McCarty

  Her body ripped apart in excruciating agony, sweat poured off her skin, as she writhed in a sopping blanket trying to break free from the invisible chains of delirium.

  The ship rolled, tossing against the waves in a dangerous dance with a torrential storm. Nausea turned her stomach, but she’d long passed the relief of retching. Something cool pressed against her brow, but still she burned.

  Other voices, softer voices invaded her dreams. Fever. Too much blood. Dying. And something else.

  No! Not that! Her body twisted free. She screamed. Sheer terror provided a fleeting moment of lucidity.

  Please God, don’t punish my child for my sins. I promise I’ll make it right. I’ll crawl back to England on my knees. I’ll swallow my pride and force him to marry me. I’ll do anything. Please, don’t take my child.

  A knife of pain sliced through her abdomen in harsh response. She curled up into a ball, trying to escape the twisted knot of cramps burning in her belly.

  Hastings, where are you? I need you…

  She closed her eyes, trying to block out the excruciating agony—the violent purging of her sins.

  But still the damning words pounded in her ears. Trust me…

  Until at last, the haunting voice faded away as she slid into merciful blackness.

  Genie woke from the dream with a start. Wide-eyed, she popped straight up, gasping for breath, fighting the suffocating panic that squeezed her chest. Her pulse raced wildly, sweat dampened her linen chemise. Suddenly, heavy bile rose in her throat. Knowing she couldn’t stave it off, she leaned over the side of the bed and emptied the paltry contents of her stomach into an ivory porcelain chamber pot.

  The sight of porcelain where she expected tin jogged her fully awake.

  For a moment Genie didn’t know where she was. Ravaged by the force of her memories, she felt like she was reliving a nightmare. She looked around trying to place her surroundings. In the darkened room she could just make out the soft floral wallpaper and fine mahogany furniture that lined the walls of her large sleeping chamber. A beautiful silver candelabrum rested on the table beside her bed. Rather than a wooden sleeping berth, a gracious velvet canopy hung over her head. She loosened her grip on her coverlet, her fingers clutching fine silk, not rough wool.

  Her heart slowed. She was safe at Hawkesbury House, the pampered guest of the Countess of Hawkesbury, and not imprisoned by delirium on a ship bound for America.

  It had been horrible. The sickness, the storms that had turned six weeks into ten, the unfathomable loss…

  Incapacitated from the start of the voyage by nausea, it took Genie weeks to realize that she was pregnant, not seasick. And by that point, almost four months along. If it were possible, she would have returned to England immediately and demanded that Hastings marry her. For her child she would have risked anything. Her pride, her reputation, the formidable duchess… anything.

  But then came the blood. So much blood and the decision was wrested from her control. The fever that followed had lingered for days. When she regained consciousness, the ship had docked in Boston Harbor and her sullen, “borrowed” maid had disappeared, absconding with her fortune. Leaving Genie alone and destitute; at the mercy of a cruel world that she had not known existed.

  Only the kindness of two elderly sisters had saved her. Temporarily at least.

  Trust me.

  Her heart twisted.

  She had. Even then, on the ship in the middle of the ocean with nothing around but the endless indigo vista of the wide-open sea she thought: He must realize his mistake, surely he would sense her agony and would come for her. Their connection was strong enough to bridge an ocean.

  Irrational? Probably.

  Foolish? Undoubtedly.

  Genie could only depend on one person and that was herself. Never again would she trust a man. Controlled by lust, men only sought one thing from a beautiful woman. And if she was not willing, they simply took. Huntingdon had demonstrated that well enough tonight with his suggestive taunts and unsolicited embrace.

  He’d taken, without care for her wants or wishes. His were still the self-indulgent actions of an arrogant man. After all that had passed between them, did he actually believe that she would fall into his arms overwhelmed by something as fleeting and unreliable as passion?

  As if she could be persuaded by the mere favor of his kiss.

  Thoughts of that kiss stopped her mental rampage.

  She hadn’t been as indifferent as she pretended, or as she wanted to be. When his lips touched hers, the years had magically slipped away. She was an innocent young girl again, heart fluttering uncontrollably in her chest. The soft pressure of his mouth teased and seduced with the same heart-wrenching intensity. His arms felt achingly familiar. He even tasted the same. Spice laced with a tinge of claret. And he still smelled cozy and warm; she wanted to burrow deep into his embrace and sleep in blissful ignorance forever.

  Her blood had pounded with honest desire for one brief moment. It had been so long she’d almost forgotten what it felt to have every nerve in her body on end. To drown in sensation and heat.

  Until her hand had pressed against rock and her cheek was scraped by the heavy stubble of his jaw.

  This was not the Hastings of her youth; this was a stranger. A man. A duke. Suddenly, everything felt different, no longer familiar, and the span of five years seemed infinitely longer. She couldn’t escape his kiss quickly enough.

  Genie wrapped her arms around her waist, rested her forehead on her knees and, for the second time that night, wept. Shoulder-racking sobs that shook her core, but could not rid her soul of the emptiness that had haunted her for years. She wept for the memories dredged up by a kiss and a question. She wept for the loss of the child that she would never know.

  She wept, she swore for the last time, for the loss of her golden prince. The prince who in those rare moments of weakness slipped into her dreams and made her remember what it was like to love. Dear God, how she yearned for that charming boy who’d stolen her heart before everything had gone so horribly wrong.

  When the sobs subsided, she wiped her burning eyes with the sleeve of her gown and sucked in great gulps of air, trying to catch her breath. She felt silly. Crying never seemed to help; it only intensified the feeling of loneliness. But it had helped her reach a decision.

  This time she was determined to have him out of her life forever.

  Huntingdon owed her. She’d paid a heavy price for their sin. She alone had shouldered the tragedy begot from their brief affair. Surely he would acknowledge his debt and leave her and Edmund to their future.

  If not, Genie knew that she would fight him with everything she had. From the arsenal of tricks that life had so cruelly taught her.

  The next morning, a knock on Genie’s door interrupted her morning correspondence. “Come in,” she answered.

  One of the young housemaids scrambled in and bobbed an unnecessary and painstakingly deep curtsey. The countess’s bevy of servants seemed intent on treating Genie like nobility; she’d given up trying to correct them. Genie wrinkled her nose and tried to make out the features nervously turned to the floor and half hidden by a large white cap.

  She placed her quill back in the well. “Yes, Sarah, what is it?”

  The girl bobbed again, her plump cheeks pink with pleasure at the personal greeting. “The countess requests your immediate presence in the south sitting room, my lady.” Seeing Genie’s expression she corrected herself. “Er, ma’am. There is a gentleman waiting.” Her eyes stayed firmly planted on the floor. “A duke, ma’am,” she said in hushed, reverent tones.

  Genie’s heart sank. She should have known he would call on her first thing in the morning after what she’d revealed last night. She drew a deep breath, preparing herself for the inevitable questions that were sure to follow such a disclosure. She’d never meant to tell him about the baby, but she couldn’t lie. She could never deny her child. But how had he known to ask? How had he guessed? And why c
ouldn’t he have thought about the consequences of their illicit affair five years ago?

  Not bothering to glance in the looking glass, she shook out the skirts of her robin’s-egg-blue muslin morning gown, tidied her loose chignon with an indifferent pat of her hands, and followed the eager maid through the vast corridors of the palatial Hawkesbury House. Though she’d been here for a few weeks, Genie still had trouble navigating the endless maze of rooms and halls.

  The modern-built house was situated on the north side of Berkeley Square adjacent to Lansdowne House and within a stone’s throw of Devonshire House and the Jersey residence. Built by Edmund’s late father in the last century with no expense spared, the grand public rooms of Hawkesbury House took some getting used to—as did the luxurious private rooms for that matter. The countess had stayed on after the passing of the earl—with Edmund insisting that his bachelor lodgings in St. James’s suited him perfectly for the time being—but when Genie and Edmund married, this house would be hers. The prospect of being mistress of such a place was daunting, to say the least.

  But, she reminded herself, Hawkesbury House represented wealth and security for her future. That and the small country manor in Gloucestershire she would purchase after the wedding. Edmund had never asked what she intended to do with the money that he insisted be hers upon their marriage. One day, when she finally felt safe, she would tell him.

  The duke stood with his back toward her as she entered the room. For the first time since their confrontation at the Prince Regent’s fete, Huntingdon was dressed casually in buckskin trousers and a dark green morning coat. The informal garb suited him, much more so than the elegant evening attire she’d grown accustomed to seeing him in. His broad shoulders and muscular legs were more apropos of a country sportsman than of one of the highest ranking peers in the realm. Though Genie still thought he could pass for a common laborer—if he could somehow manage to lose the omnipresent arrogance of rank he wore like a heavy mantle across his broad shoulders. The confidence of supreme authority was another change that took some time getting used to.

  The countess was seated on a small settee and shot Genie a curious glance, promising further inquiry at the first opportunity.

  “Here she is now,” the countess said brightly, rising from her seat.

  The duke turned and bowed stiffly, his expression at once formal and severe. “Mrs. Preston.”

  Genie curtsied brusquely. “Your Grace,” she said, mimicking his curt manner.

  The countess looked back and forth between them, clearly troubled. Finally, her gaze settled on Genie. “The duke has requested that he speak with you in private about a personal matter.” From the censure in her voice, Genie could tell she did not approve. “I was not aware that you were acquainted with the Duke of Huntingdon?”

  Genie fought the heat that threatened to rise in her cheeks. How dare he put her in this position! She greatly admired Edmund’s mother and did not relish lying to her. But what other choice did she have? The truth? Even the open-minded countess was not so liberally inclined to welcome a daughter tainted by ruin, with the shadow of scandal hovering close behind her.

  Huntingdon apparently sensed her discomfort and answered for her. “A passing acquaintance many years ago, Lady Hawkesbury. I would not even trouble Mrs. Preston to remember it, but it has recently come to my attention that she may be in possession of some information that may help a member of my family locate an old friend.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I hope I can count on your discretion in this matter, my lady.”

  The request, and the charming wink that accompanied it, seemed to pacify the countess. Apparently, he had not lost all of his boyish charm, Genie thought, though it did seem manipulative and not as naturally disposed.

  But perhaps it had always been so and Genie had just not realized it.

  “Yes, of course,” Lady Hawkesbury replied. “I’m sure there is nothing improper in a few minutes of conversation while I attend to some refreshment. Edmund should be here soon,” she added as an afterthought, but Genie recognized the polite warning.

  As did Huntingdon. He smiled knowingly. “Of course.”

  The countess looked to Genie for affirmation and Genie nodded her approval. “I don’t know what information I could have that would possibly be helpful to the duke,” Genie started, “or to his family. But of course I shall endeavor to provide whatever assistance I may.” She hoped it didn’t sound as sarcastic as she thought.

  The countess took one last long look at Genie before exiting the room. There would be some explaining to do on that front later, Genie knew.

  Before the doors had closed firmly behind the countess, Huntingdon was upon her. He grabbed her elbow and pulled her harshly to his side, releasing the pent-up tension and anger that he’d barely kept under control while Lady Hawkesbury remained in the room.

  Genie felt like she was being smashed against a wall of granite. Everything about him was hard. His chest, his arms, even the square jaw fixed in an uncompromising block mere inches from her face.

  He wasted no time. “Where is my child?” The dangerous edge to his voice sent a chill up her spine.

  Despite the warning in his tone, Genie bristled at his audacity. His child! Of all the unbelievable gall. He’d forsaken that claim long ago. She could laugh like a madwoman.

  Furious by his rough handling of her person after his brutish behavior the night before, Genie said scornfully, “A strange question, Your Grace, to pose to such an inconsequential, ‘passing acquaintance.’”

  “I was trying to do you a favor. Would you have me tell her the truth?”

  “I’d rather you hadn’t brought our previous association up at all.”

  “You made that impossible by running away from me last night. I’ll have my answer,” he hissed. “Now.” His mouth threateningly close to her ear.

  Genie’s lips pressed into a flat line. She wrenched her arm free from his grasp. She wouldn’t be manhandled—even by him. “Your boorish behavior grows tiresome, Your Grace. Kindly refrain from such improper displays of familiarity. Your touch, in all of its forms, is repugnant to me. Nor do I appreciate an armful of bruises.”

  He glanced at her arm, obviously shocked to realize that he’d been hurting her. His hands fell to his side. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…” He raked his fingers through his oh-so-charmingly disheveled hair. One heavy lock immediately fell back across his forehead. Genie felt a momentary pang. A flashback of lying in the grass along a bucolic riverbank mesmerized by that errant lock made warm and shiny in the bright autumn sun.

  Would she never escape the past? she thought hopelessly.

  Just as quickly, the unbidden recollection hardened her heart. She owed him nothing. Not even kindness. She yearned to hurt him as much as she’d been hurt. “Your child, Your Grace, lies at the bottom of the sea.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. “Dead?” he posited inanely. The finality of the word hung between them for a long, agonizing moment.

  The haunted, vacant look in her eyes returned. All the fight seemed to seep out of her. She nodded then sighed deeply and said in a much softer voice, “He never had a chance to live.”

  Huntingdon felt like he’d been knifed in the gut. “He?” his voice strangled with emotion. The anxiety he’d experienced all night wondering whether he had a child was replaced by the sudden knowledge that he did not. And the impossible knowledge of what might have been had he acted with honor. He would pay with guilt for the rest of his life with that knowledge.

  She nodded. Her mouth quivered, and her eyes filled with tears. She looked away.

  “I didn’t know,” he said hoarsely.

  “Neither did I. If I had, nothing would have persuaded me to leave. Not even your formidable mother or the possible disgrace of my family.”

  Huntingdon grimaced. But he understood. His mother had relayed the entirety of her ugly threat.

  “Why didn’t you send word when you dis
covered you were with child?”

  “To what purpose? The babe was lost at sea. There was no way to reach you, no passing ship on which to send a message. Afterward, I was too ill—” She stopped herself, cleared her throat and said, “There was no reason. If you recall, I had sent you a note before. You had made your choice plain enough.”

  “I regretted that letter immediately and came to see you, but you had disappeared. I had no idea what my mother had done. It was only last year that she confided her part in your disappearance and where she’d sent you. Before that I never thought to look as far away as America. I was furious when the prince wouldn’t let me leave, which is why I sent Hawk in my stead. If it is any consolation, my mother has paid many times over for her actions. I’ll never forgive her interference.”

  Genie shrugged indifferently. “It doesn’t matter. Hers was not the only blame,” she pointed out.

  “No. You’re right. I let you down. I let our child down.”

  She wobbled a little. He reached out to steady her, but stopped himself before touching her, remembering her request. She dropped to the seat vacated by the countess. Composing herself, she folded her hands in her lap and serenely met his gaze. “Now that you have your answer, I trust you will leave me in peace.”

  Now that he had his answer, he didn’t know if he could. The guilt for not honoring his unspoken promise to marry her was dwarfed in comparison to the knowledge that he’d failed her when she’d been with child. Instead, he asked, “Why didn’t you return to England?” To me.

  “My circumstances changed rather suddenly,” she said carefully. “And as I said before, you had made your intentions very clear.”

  “You refer to your marriage.” He could barely say the word, the thought alone so distasteful.

  She looked puzzled. “No.” Suddenly, she caught herself. “I mean yes, of course, my marriage.”