So much for that thought.
“Excuse me,” she said through gritted teeth, “I need to eat something.” And try to swallow her words so she wouldn’t say everything on her mind—I want you, and only you, I do not want to be married to someone just because of his title, and I do not want you matchmaking for me when I have no desire to marry anyone. Because I cannot marry him.
Letter
Dear Duchess,
As the time for my departure comes closer, I would like to stop time remind you of a few things that your next steward should keep in mind (this oversight can be turned over to your husband, when you marry Please don’t marry).
Chandler is an excellent butler, but he has no experience managing a large respectable party. It will be up to you to remind him that your needs for a party are very different from those of your father. Also, I would remind you to retrieve the jewels that are part of the ducal holdings are there pearls? Dear God, let there be pearls so you can begin to wear them in the evenings.
I wish I could see you in them. I wish I could see you forever.
Mr. Salisbury
Chapter 25
“You didn’t tell me that your family lived in London,” Lady Sophia said with an offended sniff.
That is because I wished to forget it myself, Archie thought.
His employer had requested he join her for tea, of all things, so they could go over the plans for their return.
When he would no longer see her.
“My family and I are not in touch,” Archie replied, trying to keep his tone light. “I didn’t mention it because it is . . . awkward.” A pause as he tried to figure out what to say. How to say it so she wouldn’t scamper after it like a dog chasing a rabbit. “I am a working man now, and my family would not want it to be known that someone with their name is working for a salary.” It was terrible enough for them when he’d joined the army; now that he was back in the same country, actually doing labor was more than they could possibly stand.
He knew his brothers didn’t feel as strongly about that as their parents did, but as long as his parents lived—and as far as he knew, they did—he wouldn’t ever return. His brother hadn’t come to call after discovering he was here; that was proof enough of the discord between them.
And now he’d unearthed another place he could never return. Here, with Genevieve. Vievy.
Was his life going to be just a series of places he had once belonged and now he didn’t? London at his family’s home, abroad fighting various battles, London again with her.
The only place that did welcome him was Waterstone Manor, and that only because of the skills he brought to the position. If he were to quit, Lady Sophia would mourn his loss for a time, mostly because she would have fewer visitors, but anybody could perform the same work.
It was a lowering thought.
“Well, I think you should be reconciled with your family.” Lady Sophia addressed Truffles, who was in his mistress’s arms. “Don’t you think family is everything?”
Truffles did not reply.
The door opened to admit Genevieve, who paused as she took in the scene; the corners of her mouth lifted when she saw the tea things in front of them. Archie stood to look at her, an answering grin on his face. Lady Sophia couldn’t see his expression, so he allowed some of what he was feeling to show.
Her eyes widened, and she shook herself as though from her imagination.
He wondered what she was thinking about, and if they were thinking about the same thing. The same thing being them alone, with both of them wearing less clothing.
And no tea.
“I am just in time,” she said, crossing to sit in the chair beside Archie. He sat himself down again and gestured to the table. “I do love tea,” she said, with a sly look toward Archie.
“I was just asking Mr. Salisbury if family was not the most important thing.”
Actually, she was talking to her dog, but maybe she viewed both of them interchangeably.
Genevieve paused in the middle of preparing her tea, her smile frozen.
“I don’t know that I am the right person to ask that question, Aunt.” And then she did actually smile, a smile that settled right in Archie’s heart. “My family are people not actually related to me, besides Gran. There’s you, and the people at home in the country where I was raised. Sir William and Miss Evelyn are relatives, but they aren’t yet family.”
And he hoped to God they never would be.
He wanted to be her family. He wanted her, forever. If she was his, he would want her to do whatever she wished. Not always, but preferably unclothed.
She was more than capable of handling her new duties, even if she herself wasn’t entirely convinced of that. But he knew she was strong and capable and smart, and she would do what had to be done to right the wrongs her father had inflicted.
“And Mr. Salisbury has been invaluable as well,” she added. She looked at him, her eyes saying so much more than her words.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” He took a sip of tea, swallowing the unspoken words along with the beverage.
She couldn’t stop herself from going to his room later that night. After they’d all eaten together, Aunt Sophia and her grandmother shooting meaningful looks toward Archie and herself, but not in conjunction with each other, thank goodness.
The last thing she wanted was for either of those two ladies to take it into their heads that something was going on. Because she knew full well that neither one of them would approve.
But Aunt Sophia was almost painfully transparent on continuing on the theme of a family’s importance, while her grandmother was talking about all the gentlemen Genevieve would meet, including Sir William in that conversation.
It was agonizing. Made even worse or possibly better because he sat opposite her, and she was able to catch his eye every so often and share a look of commiseration.
But it was mostly agonizing.
She knocked again, louder this time, her hand freezing in midair as the door swung open.
He didn’t look surprised to see her.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said in a low growl, but accompanied his words by taking her arm and drawing her inside.
So did she want to believe his words or his actions?
And then he kissed her.
Definitely his actions.
It was a fierce, angry kiss, one that spoke of the frustrations of the evening and likely the anticipation of their separation. She felt precisely the same thing, and she returned his kiss, dragging her fingers through his hair, over his shoulders, down his arms and to his waist.
He dragged her backward, his arm around her waist, lifting her feet off the ground. And then she felt herself falling as he tumbled them onto the bed—my goodness, his bed—and then he had flipped her over and had thrown one leg over her, his mouth still locked on hers.
Her hands still continuing their exploration of his body.
She really liked exploring his body. Perhaps more than she liked—no, definitely more than she liked—being a duchess.
Exploration meant touching all that firm muscle, and the interesting curves and strength his body held.
And it seemed he liked the same thing, because his fingers were at the neckline of her gown and he was tugging it down, now breaking the kiss to mutter a few unintelligible words as he exposed more of her skin.
And then—and then his mouth was on her breast, and he was kissing her nipple as thoroughly and as delightfully as he’d kissed her mouth.
She had her hands in his hair, raking her fingernails on his scalp, muttering her own unintelligible noises. Noises that appeared to indicate to him that he should continue just what he was doing, only also reach down and begin to draw the bottom of her gown upward, his palm eventually touching her leg, running his hand up closer to where she ached.
Just as she was trying to twist herself closer to him, he stopped. Stopped everything; his lips on her breast, his hand on her leg, everything
.
And she felt bereft.
What would it be like when he left?
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, his voice ragged.
“No, probably not,” she agreed. Wishing that they didn’t have so much in common—both knowing, for example, that they didn’t have a future together because of who he was, and more importantly—in so many ways—who she was.
He withdrew and moved away from her on the bed, but grabbed her hand as he did so. Just touching her fingers with his, making that small point of contact between them the only way to show their connection.
And it was so huge, that connection. From how she knew to glance his way when someone said something ludicrous or pointed or both, to how she felt so comfortable with him as he pretended to be Lady Arch or whoever during Duchess Practice.
To now, when all she wanted to do, even though she was supposedly a respectable female, a duchess no less, was to remove all his clothing so she could examine and explore every inch of his skin while he did the same to her.
“What are we going to do?” she asked, after a few moments of silence.
He took a deep breath instead of answering. Until at last the words seemed as though they were dragged out from him. “There is nothing to do.”
Her throat got tight. “But—” she began, only to stop as he squeezed her fingers.
“But nothing. You are you. I am only me, and that is the third son of a viscount who has disowned the same said son.”
Oh. Put that way it did seem rather hopeless.
“There must be something,” she said again. How could all this be worth it if her life was so empty? Although she doubted the hundreds of people who depended on the duchy would care about that very much.
He sat up, releasing her fingers. He ran his hand through his hair, making that one piece fall onto his forehead. She didn’t think she would ever stop wanting to push it back.
“You should go,” he said in a rough voice.
She should. She would. She sat up also, pulling her gown back up so she was almost respectable. Smoothing her hair where it had gotten mussed by lying on his pillow.
Calming her breathing.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, her knees nearly buckling underneath her.
And glanced back at him, still sitting, gazing at her with an implacable gaze. It was terrible and also wonderful that he was so honorable. Too honorable to continue when there was no hope of a future.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She spoke in that damn squeak again. “And then you and Aunt Sophia will be leaving,” she continued on a sob. Do not cry, Genevieve. Do not.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and spoke in a stronger voice. “I will miss you, Archie.” She waved her hand. “Not just this, but our friendship. I don’t know if I will ever find another person with whom I have so much in common in so many ways.” A pause. “The only thing we disagree on so far is the importance of tea,” she said, trying to lighten the tone.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Genevieve.”
And she walked to the door, acutely aware of his watching her, just as acutely aware that they had no future. That after she left this room, that would be it.
Archie flung himself back down on the bed as soon as the door shut behind her. And then vaulted off the bed, too agitated to sit still.
What was he going to do?
There was nothing to do. She was not for him. Even if he reconciled with his family, a duchess would not marry the third son when the first was available.
No doubt his parents, if not his brother, were planning how to snare the unmarried and elusive duchess for George. As every other single society gentleman was no doubt doing. They should just set up a queue and have them all state their case to Genevieve, who could choose the most suitable gentleman and be done with it.
What if she chose him?
He sat up at the thought. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t considered it before. But that had been wishful thinking. But what would it look like if they were to do the unimaginable and marry?
They could live in the country, where both of them would be more comfortable. They could work together on her holdings, and argue about what farming supplies were needed where. If she—when she was pregnant with their child, he could oversee things until she was ready to return to it.
He would encourage her to continue Duchess Practice, but not so she could learn how to navigate social waters, instead working on more important things, like taking care of her people and her lands. Taking ownership of her holdings and showing all the Mr. BetterThanYous who was in charge. Giving a voice to people who wouldn’t otherwise be heard.
He found himself back on the bed, stretched out, his hands behind his head, thinking about it. About how it would look.
It would be worth whatever stigma they might face. Although the stigma would be worse for her, of course. She’d have to decide if she was willing to face it.
He’d have to convince her.
He allowed his mind to return to the difficult times in battle, when he’d persuade his men to march to the front line, some of them knowing they’d never return.
Not that marriage to him would be the same as facing certain death—at least he hoped not—but he would have to put as much effort into convincing her as he did to convince his men to follow him into battle.
Because their being together was as right as a just cause. He wanted to put order to things, to put the things that belonged together together.
Because he loved her. He wanted to be with her for the rest of his life.
And now he would just have to convince her of that, too.
Letter
Dear Archie,
I think I know what we should do, even though it is terrifying and not at all conventional. I will come to your bedroom after I return home from attending the theater with the Countess of Estabrook to speak with you.
Genevieve
Chapter 26
“Have you been to the theater before?” the countess asked, her words kind and not dismissive.
Had she found another friend? Genevieve wondered.
It rather felt as though she had.
They were sitting in the earl and countess’s private box, able to see and be seen. Genevieve wore one of her new gowns, of course, the gown made from a sky blue material that seemed so light and lovely that it would float up to rejoin the sky.
She felt beautiful, but she hadn’t gotten confirmation from Archie—he hadn’t joined them for dinner, since Aunt Sophia had asked him to accompany her to visit an old friend. And of course, since she was his employer, he’d said yes.
It had been just Sir William and Miss Evelyn, and Genevieve had found herself glancing at the clock, willing it to move faster. She couldn’t wait to speak with Archie, to see if he’d agree to what she’d proposed.
Proposed. Now that was an ironic word.
Meanwhile, she was at the theater, a place she had never been before. Of course. Since she had been to so few places.
“I have not, my lady,” Genevieve replied with a smile. She glanced down at the pit, noting the wide variety of people, from the grand members of Society to people who appeared to have worked all day, and were crowding into the standing area for a moment of entertainment.
She didn’t feel anxious, as she had those times before, being out in public. Maybe she was growing accustomed to being a duchess? That would be wonderful. And also sad, because it would most definitely mean that she no longer needed Duchess Practice. And her teacher was leaving soon anyway.
She didn’t need him anymore, not for this. Though she did need him.
“It is a treat, even for someone who’s been in town for years,” the countess said. “The only trick is to get lost in the story rather than paying attention to the company. Not that it isn’t lovely, of course,” the countess added, a faint blush on her cheeks.
Genevieve laughed in reply, and she patted her friend’s—her friend’s!—ha
nd. “I would like to get lost in the story,” she said. Especially if it is a love story with a happy ending.
She leaned over and looked at the crowd below again, this time distinguishing more clearly between the groups—working-class types in dark, worn clothing, merchant families with many children in their finest garments, and—“Who is that?” she asked, pointing toward a woman in a particularly bright dress, a color Genevieve couldn’t even name, except that it was somewhere between lemon yellow and orange, only brighter than either one of those.
The countess followed her gaze, and her lips tightened. “That is Mrs. Foster. She is the Viscount Salisbury’s . . . special friend.”
Genevieve’s interest quickened at hearing Archie’s last name, and then the meaning of what the duchess had said hit her. His . . . special friend? So his mistress?
She wished she could see the woman better. She could see a few plumes and large necklace taking up all the available space on her décolletage—which was vast, owing to the low-cut neckline—and she saw how the woman’s face looked brighter than those of the women near her.
She must be wearing cosmetics. Genevieve didn’t think she had ever seen a woman wearing cosmetics so obviously before. Now she really wished she could see better.
“Do you think the viscount’s wife”—Archie’s mother—“knows about Mrs. Foster?”
The countess nodded as she exhaled. “Yes, I am sure she does. It is not usually a secret about these things. And Mrs. Foster has been kept by the viscount for nearly five years.”
So perhaps Archie knew about her as well.
She wished she could excuse herself and go home right now to speak to him, only it would be terribly rude, and besides, she wasn’t yet sure what she was going to say. Except to tell him how she felt about him, and see if he felt even close to that.
And if he did, then they could discuss the future.
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