“You will not force me to marry you simply because I am a woman in a position you wish me not to be in. I dare you to try to challenge my position. Or I could just offer your sister a dowry so she can be free of your machinations.” The thought emerged from her mouth before she even knew she’d had the thought. But once she had, it made perfect sense. She did like Evelyn, after all, and this way he would have to accept her refusal without then trying to unseat her as duchess.
“If you will excuse me,” she continued, nodding as she strode to the door. “You can think about what you want to do while I am away”—trying to persuade someone to marry me, of all farcical situations.
Even though she didn’t much feel like laughing.
“Everything is running smoothly, then?” Lady Sophia asked. Only for the hundredth time.
Archie bowed. “Yes, my lady.” He gazed over the crowd, which was substantial. They’d all begun pouring into the village in the morning, and now it was nearly two o’clock, and it seemed that every single villager—plus people from all the surrounding towns—were there in various states of happiness.
It was difficult for Archie to stay glum also, despite how he’d been feeling for the past few weeks. There was too much sunshine, too much laughter, and, yes, too many sparkling sheep to stay miserable.
Besides which, Bob had promised he would tell Lady Sophia—who would tell every other lady—that Archie had mentioned his love for pickled fish, but that he had been unable to get some he truly liked while he’d been here. Unless he laughed or at least smiled every so often.
The thought of being drowned in pickled fish was enough to make him grin, even though there were moments when his smiles were definitely forced.
“I do so love the festival,” Lady Sophia said, accompanying her words with a contented sigh.
Archie glanced down at her and felt himself start to smile—an honest smile, not just a pickled-fish-avoiding smile. He did like it here, even though of course he missed her.
But he didn’t miss London, nor did he miss the opportunity of running into one of his family. It was enough that he’d heard she had seen his brother.
“It is a lovely event, my lady.”
“I wish to take a hayride,” Lady Sophia declared, pointing to a cart piled with hay and several young children.
Archie raised his brow. His employer did manage to surprise him every so often. She had a zest for life that could be obfuscated by her dithering, but she was joyful in a way he envied.
Like Genevieve was joyful.
Damn, he missed her.
“Let us take a hayride then,” Archie said, taking Lady Sophia’s arm and guiding her to where the farmer was unloading some of the children. He concentrated on guiding his charge through the crowd, leading her to the cart before she could decide she wished to engage in some target practice or toss rings into a fountain.
Though he could probably guess she would wish to do those things after.
The farmer looked doubtful when Archie told him what they wanted, but relented in the face of Lady Sophia’s constant questions, laying down a coarse wool blanket on top of the hay so that “the lady’s dress won’t get all wispy.”
He was assisting Lady Sophia up when her expression brightened and she yelled directly into his ear, making him jump.
“Vievy!” she called, waving her arm and hopping up and down in her seat.
Archie forced himself to take a deep breath before turning around to see.
She stood there, not twenty feet away, clutching a bundle of papers in her hand and biting her lip.
He didn’t change expression. He couldn’t. He was frozen in place, his heart pounding, his chest feeling as though someone was squeezing it until his lungs popped.
“Help me down so I can go see her,” Lady Sophia said from behind him.
“Of course,” he replied, turning back around, feeling his hands start to shake.
She was here. Why was she here?
Then again, why wouldn’t she be? It wasn’t as though she thought anything had occurred between them, at least nothing much of import. She had asked, he had said no, and that was that.
Even though he knew that was most definitely not that. Not for either of them.
“Vievy, what are you doing here?” Lady Sophia had looped her arm through Archie’s and both of them were making their way toward Genevieve, Archie feeling as though each step was more and more difficult to make.
“I—I came with some letters,” she said, thrusting the packet toward Archie.
Letters. Of course letters. Had she written to him? But if she had, what was she doing here when everything could be said on paper:
Dear Man I Wish to Persuade into an Illicit Relationship, Even Though You’ve Said No:
I would like to be illicit with you. Please do reply at your earliest convenience.
Illicitly Yours,
The Duchess of Blakesley
Or something like that.
But Archie didn’t say anything beyond a murmured “Thank you, Your Grace” as he took the packet. Thick, so maybe she had gone into great detail about what she wanted to do to him, and vice versa?
In which case he should probably be alone to read the letters.
“You have not seen each other for weeks,” Lady Sophia said. Stating the painfully obvious, for Archie, at least. “Go ahead and take my spot on the ride, Vievy; you will love it.”
“Will I?” she said, glancing past Archie to where the farmer was presumably waiting for them.
Right. She wouldn’t know if she did love a hayride, since she’d never experienced any typical childhood entertainment when she was young.
“You are certain to, Your Grace,” Archie said, donning his most charming smile, even though smiling was the last thing he wanted to do. He caught Bob’s eye out in the crowd and gestured for him to join them.
“Mr. McCready will escort you to the carriage, my lady, and I will take you on a hayride later. May I?” he said, turning to address Genevieve, holding his arm out for her.
He held the packet of letters in one hand, and she slid her arm into his on his other side. They began walking, slowly, him glancing around at the crowd, smiling at a few of the people he knew. Not to mention some of the sheep.
“You’re surprised to see me.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
The hand on his arm tightened. “I tried to write. I did write. And I couldn’t figure out how to say what I wanted to.” He felt her shrug. “So I decided to come myself.”
“Should I thank you?” Now that she was here, the feeling he’d had when he’d realized she’d misunderstood him hit all over again, making that furious ache well up again, his chest tightening, a fierce course of anger flowing through his veins.
“No.”
The word, spoken in a soft voice, did more to deflect his anger than a lengthy speech could. Not that he wasn’t still angry; he was. But he was slightly less angry, hearing the hopelessness in her voice.
That seemed less than honorable, to take pleasure that she sounded sad.
But he couldn’t lie to himself; that’s what he felt.
They reached the cart without speaking again, him helping her up onto the blanket, the farmer frowning as he saw Genevieve’s general splendor.
And she did look splendid. She wore another new gown, at least one he hadn’t seen before, a bright yellow day dress that almost outshone the sun. Her hat was festooned with feathers in varying shades of yellow, and she completed her outfit with pale yellow shoes that did not look as though they could withstand walking around the village, more suited to paying visits in elegant drawing rooms.
But that was just her appearance. He knew, probably more than anyone, how foreign she felt in her new world. How she struggled to belong, how she had to resort to practicing—with him—in her new role.
Was she practicing with somebody new now?
The thought brought a return of those feelin
gs of aggression he’d had when he’d thought Sir William was a viable suitor. Perhaps he still was. Perhaps she was here to tell him she’d accepted her relative’s offer, since she did have to get married eventually.
Didn’t she?
In which case, though, why hadn’t she just written? It would have been easier.
The cart lurched forward, making her shoulder bump into his. He caught a whiff of her scent, something delicate and floral and expensive. Not that it necessarily smelled expensive, but he assumed it was.
“How are you?” she said in that same low voice.
“What am I to answer to that, Genevieve?” He kept his voice as low, but heard the anger threading through it. “The last time we saw one another, you . . .” He paused, shaking his head.
“I know. I . . .” and then her voice caught on a sob, and he wished he could comfort her, as the friend he considered himself. Only he’d be comforting her because she had insulted him, so that seemed backward.
“Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
He glanced around at the cart’s other inhabitants, noting how the children were all staring, no doubt because of the novelty of having adults in the cart, never mind that Genevieve was more appropriately dressed to meet the Queen for tea than jostle about in a cart.
Though—“Hold on to me,” Archie said, wrapping his arm around her and leaping off the cart. They tumbled onto the grass, Archie cushioning her fall by making sure she landed on him.
“Don’t stop!” he yelled as he heard the sound of raised voices emanating from the cart. “We’ll make our own way back.”
He looked up at her, him still holding her, her lying on his body.
Her. Lying on him.
Oh.
She looked back at him, her lips parted, her eyes dark, and he knew—he knew—she wanted to kiss him.
And he wanted to kiss her; that hadn’t changed.
But so much else had.
He sat up, still holding her so her gown would have less contact with the grass. She wound up on his lap, and he gathered himself—in strength and in willpower—to get her upright without entirely ruining Mrs. Hardwick’s work.
“Not yet.” Her voice shook slightly, and she raised her eyes to his. “Not yet.” She licked her lips and he found himself watching her tongue as it darted out, leaving her mouth moist.
He glanced around; the cart was retreating, but they were still on a road, one that presumably offered less privacy than either of them wanted.
“Let’s go over there,” he said, nodding to a row of trees behind which was a meadow he’d used as a shortcut a few times. The trees would provide cover in case anyone happened down the road. He didn’t want her to be the focus of more gossip, of talk that she’d been inappropriate when she had just barely started to try to make herself as appropriate as possible.
With his help.
She stood, looking as beautiful as he’d ever seen her, and he had to swallow against the thickness in his throat.
“Come,” he said as he stood as well, starting to walk toward the trees. He heard the rustle of her gown as she followed, and he resisted the urge to drop his hand back for her to hold—it wouldn’t be appropriate.
Even though it was what he wanted. Which was the whole problem, wasn’t it?
They ducked under the trees and arrived in the meadow, the whole area covered with tiny blue flowers, making it look as though the ground was a blue carpet.
She pushed him down to a seated position, then lowered herself as well, back onto his lap. To keep her dress from getting dirty? Or was there another reason?
“I have something to say,” she continued, after a few moments of silence. “And oddly enough,” she said, humor in her voice, “I find it easier to say it sitting like this.”
“Do I have any say in this?” he asked, his tone sharp. “What if I don’t feel comfortable like this, Duchess?” He stressed her title, and he felt her stiffen in his arms.
“I don’t blame you for being angry.”
“So you’re here to tell me you don’t blame me for having a reasonable response to your unreasonable request? That’s very kind of you.” He sounded like an ass. He was an ass. But he was also fiercely, ferociously angry, and that her soft sweetness was currently on his lap wasn’t helping matters.
“Just listen,” she said in a stronger voice. One that sounded almost duchesslike.
Had she been practicing?
“Fine. I’ll listen,” he replied ungraciously.
She didn’t speak right away, and he caught himself holding his breath, waiting for her words.
Letter
Dear Archie,
I love you. Forgive me.
Genevieve
Chapter 29
For a moment, she wondered if she could just sit here, on his lap, until they both withered up and died.
But not only was that entirely impractical, it also sounded unpleasant.
So never mind that.
“I wrote you a letter,” she began.
“So you said.”
He was not going to make this easy.
“And in the letter,” she continued, taking a deep breath, “I said I—”
Now she wasn’t going to make it easy for herself, given that she felt the tightening of her throat as her tears threatened to come.
“You said what?” A slightly less harsh tone now.
“I said I regret saying what I did. I regret assuming what I did. It was a misunderstanding. A big misunderstanding.” She turned to face him, meeting his gaze, even though it hurt to see the guarded look in his eyes. “And not just a big misunderstanding, but a tremendous, enormous, and—and tremendous misunderstanding,” she said, her voice strained. “I just—I just never thought that you would want me that way.”
His eyebrow drew up sardonically. “What way? The wanting-to-be-with-you-forever way?”
“Uh,” she stammered, feeling as though she should vault off his lap, that it was all too much. But he clamped his hands on her arms and held her in place, his eyes fixed on hers.
“Tell me what you did think, Genevieve.”
The way he spoke her name—as though he didn’t hate her. Not that she was thinking the opposite—that he loved her—but she didn’t feel, at this moment, as though he loathed the very sight of her.
It gave her the strength to tell him. To finally and absolutely tell him the truth.
“I thought I loved you.” She felt him stiffen, then realized what she’d said, squeezing her eyes shut in response. “No, I mean, I didn’t think I loved you. I do love you.” She opened her eyes again to find him still looking at her, that intense gaze sending a reaction, she didn’t know what kind, through her entire body.
“I love you, Archie. And yet.”
“And yet you asked me to be with you in a less than loving way. You asked me to do something that you should have known was something I would never do.”
She bit her lip and looked over his shoulder, unable to look at him. To acknowledge the enormity of hurt she’d put him through.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t think you felt the same way.” She spoke in a small voice, and he lowered his head to hear her.
“Why wouldn’t you think that, Genevieve?”
His voice was low as well. So low it seemed to rumble through her.
“I didn’t think anybody could love me.”
Silence.
The truth of it, of how alone and lost she felt, hit her as palpably as when she’d first realized how little her father cared for her.
“Why would you think that?” His arms were around her now, holding her tight against him. She buried her nose in his chest and inhaled his warm, strong scent.
“Because nobody did.”
His arms tightened, and she felt him rest his chin on her head. Still silence, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence.
“You’re an idiot,” he said at last.
&nbs
p; She started to laugh, only she was still on the verge of tears, so her laughter came out accompanied by a few choked sobs. No doubt making her sound entirely insane—maybe even idiotic. Which only made her laugh and cry harder.
“Shh,” he said, lowering his mouth to her ear. “Stop whatever you’re doing.”
That made her laugh more than cry, at least, and he kept holding her, murmuring incoherent things into her ear, which made it tickle.
“Your grandmother loves you. Some of the staff at the house where you grew up love you, is that right?”
She nodded.
“Lady Sophia loves you.”
“Mm.”
“And I love you.”
She froze. Had he just said that? She tilted her head back to look at him. He returned her look, one corner of his mouth curled up in a knowing smile.
“Yes. I do. I love you, Genevieve.” Then he pressed his lips together into a thin line. “Which is why I couldn’t believe you were so willing to throw all of that aside. Why I couldn’t believe that you wanted to tarnish our feelings for one another in such a sordid relationship.” He reached forward and drew his fingers along her jaw, sliding them down until he cupped her chin in his hands. “You are a rarity, Genevieve. A lady duchess, one not beholden to a man for your position. But true love? That is even more of a rarity.” He shook his head, his fingers smoothing the skin on her face. “I want to believe in you, Genevieve, but I don’t know that I can trust you.”
His words hurt.
“I thought my family trusted in me, and I in them,” he continued, still gazing deep into her eyes. She saw the hurt there as though it were a palpable thing. “And then when I wanted their trust, their love, they turned their backs on me.” A moment of silence. “How will I know you won’t do the same?”
“I won’t. I can’t,” Genevieve replied in a fierce, low tone. She rolled off his lap onto the grass, heedless of the stains that would no doubt make Clarkson fuss and her look as though—well, look as though she’d done things out here under the summer sky.
My Fair Duchess Page 24
