The Marrying Season

by Candace Camp

  “What? No, I’m not at all tired.”

  “You sighed, that’s all. I thought you might be tired.”

  “Did I? I wasn’t aware.”

  “It was good of Morecombe to take in his sister’s boy, especially newly married as they were. Many would not have, given the, um, circumstances of his birth. Bound to be talk.”

  “One cannot stop people from talking.”

  “Naturally. Still, one has to wonder if Lady Rawdon and Lady Morecombe are exactly the proper friends for you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Genevieve’s voice went icy, and she turned to him with a hauteur that would have made her grandmother proud.

  “I have heard—that is, there is some question—Lady Rawdon’s birth . . .”

  “Lady Rawdon is my brother’s wife,” Genevieve said flatly.

  “Of course. And they spend most of their time in Northumberland, so it’s of little consequence. However, Lady Morecombe is a bluestocking, and that is not the sort of reputation you would wish to have attached to you.”

  “You make it sound as if she were in trade. Or worse.”

  “No! Not at all!” He looked shocked. “We would not have attended tonight if people thought that.”

  Genevieve bridled at his casual assumption that he would have made the decision for her, but before she could speak, Dursbury patted her hand and smiled at her, saying, “I would not wish even the slightest hint of any impropriety to touch you.”

  She swallowed the hot retort that had risen to her lips. As her grandmother frequently reminded her, she must keep a rein on her temper. Nothing was odd or wrong about a man’s wanting to ensure that his betrothed’s reputation was not harmed.

  Dursbury apparently did not see the flash of fury in her eyes, for he was going on, quite unconcerned, “I am afraid you missed saying good-bye to the Sutterfields. That was why I went looking for you.”

  “That is too bad.” Genevieve tried to remember what Sutterfield looked like. Was he Dursbury’s third cousin or the man with the fish eyes?

  “They are starting a waltz,” Dursbury said as they entered the ballroom. He was fond, Genevieve had noticed, of stating the obvious. “Would you care to dance?” His expression suggested a man’s facing up to a painful duty.

  “No, I believe I’ll just sit. Perhaps I am a little tired, after all.” The thought of following Dursbury’s careful steps around the dance floor lacked appeal after having floated across it a few minutes ago with Myles.

  “Just as I thought.” He smiled smugly. “Ah, there is Lady Rawdon.”

  He led her across the floor to where her grandmother sat against the wall. The countess perched ramrod straight on the edge of her chair, her hands resting on the head of her cane. She had used the cane for years, though less as a walking aid, Genevieve had long suspected, than as a convenient item with which to poke and prod or to rap on the floor to provide emphasis for her words.

  Tonight, however, looking at her grandmother’s gnarled hands, it struck Genevieve that her grandmother looked old. Her hair had long been white and wrinkles lined her face, but her will had overridden all hints of weakness. Now, however, Genevieve noticed that the jewel-encrusted rings that lined the countess’s fingers could not distract the eye from the knobby knuckles or raised veins or brown blotches that marred her thin skin. Icy fear clutched at Genevieve’s insides.

  “Grandmama?” she said anxiously. “Are you all right?”

  Lady Rawdon turned her piercing blue gaze on her, banishing all thoughts of fragility. “Whatever are you on about? Of course I am all right.” She nodded to the man beside her granddaughter. “Dursbury. Genevieve. I wondered where you had gotten off to.”

  “It was perfectly all right, ma’am,” Genevieve’s fiancé assured her. “Lady Genevieve was in her brother’s company.”

  The older woman frowned faintly, but she said nothing, merely nodded politely as Lord Dursbury bowed and excused himself, promising to return with drinks to refresh the ladies.

  “What in the world did he mean ‘it was perfectly all right’?” Lady Rawdon asked as soon as he was out of earshot. “Why shouldn’t things be all right? What did it matter if you were with Alec?”

  “I am sure I don’t know, Grandmama. I suppose he was worried when he could not find me. I was upstairs in the nursery with Alec and Damaris.”

  “I find that a very odd place to be.”

  “Apparently so did Lord Dursbury.”

  “Genevieve. Did you quarrel with Lord Dursbury?”

  “Of course not. There was nothing to quarrel about.”

  “I seem to be hearing a great deal of assurances that nothing is wrong.” The countess peered at her suspiciously.

  “That is because nothing is wrong.” There was no point in telling her grandmother that her future husband had gotten her back up by presuming to make decisions for her. The countess would only tell her that was the way of husbands and that wise women smiled and worked their will around such obstructions.

  Genevieve had always balked at the prospect of restrictions. That reluctance had underpinned her long resistance to getting married. But that was all part of the past now. She must be realistic. Her thirst for independence, her prickly nature, must soften and change a bit; that was the way when one allied herself to another. Dursbury was precisely the sort of man she should marry; she had concluded that months ago, and there was no point in doubting it now.

  Her jaw hurt, and she realized that her teeth were clenched. The peculiar knot in her chest was showing itself again, too. Genevieve wished she could go home to bed. She wondered how long she must wait before they could politely leave. She wondered if Myles and Alec and the others were still up in the nursery, chatting. What did it feel like to have one’s husband curl his arm about one in that way Alec and Gabriel had done—possession and protection, tenderness and desire, wrapping so openly around you? She tried to imagine Dursbury—no, Martin, surely he should be Martin to his wife—putting his arm around her that way. She could not picture it.

  But what nonsense. As if she wanted that sort of husband, that sort of man. No, such behavior was what one might expect of someone like . . . like Myles, for instance. He would doubtless hover about his wife, assuring her of her beauty, his love, their happiness—and, to give him his due, he would probably mean it, at least at the time. But in a few months, he would be off chasing some light-o’-love or the other, madly in love all over again, and leaving his wife to tend to her knitting at home, alone. And filled with heartache.

  “I have spent the past half hour dueling with that odious woman,” Lady Rawdon said.

  “Lady Dursbury?” Genevieve guessed, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips.

  “Yes, of course Lady Dursbury. Do you know what scheme she has come up with now?”

  “I couldn’t possibly guess.”

  “Indeed not. No one could. She wants . . .” The countess stopped and drew a breath, as if she had to force herself to expel the rest of her statement. “She wants to release a whole horde of doves outside the church after the ceremony.”

  Genevieve giggled, quickly clapping a hand over her mouth.

  “Yes, well, you might laugh . . . if it were her wedding she was proposing to turn into a circus.” Her grandmother narrowed her eyes. “But this is a Stafford wedding.”

  “Well, to be fair, it is Dursbury’s also.”

  “Lord Dursbury would not want it.” Lady Rawdon gave an imperial flick of her wrist. “The whole thing is absurd. I will not have some great flock of birds flying about decorating all our guests, and so I told her. It got her hackles up, of course. I should have been more diplomatic, but it was a shock. The whole thing would doubtless delay the wedding even further while her gamekeeper goes out beating the bushes for doves.”

  Genevieve began to giggle again, and her grandmother shot her a quelling glance, though it was spoiled by the twitch of her own lips. “Do stop, Genevieve, or you will cause me to lose my high dudgeon.”<
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  “That would be disastrous.” Genevieve smiled and reached out to brush her hand over her grandmother’s. “Don’t fret, Grandmama. I shan’t mind if the wedding is later. What does it signify?”

  “Nothing, of course. Everyone seems to be in such a mad rush these days to get married. I have always thought a year of betrothal was the appropriate time. Of course, your brother’s was far too quick, but then, Alec never did care if everyone talked.”

  “If you wish us to wait a year, we easily can,” Genevieve offered. “We could be wed after Twelfth Night.”

  “No.” The countess sighed. “A January wedding can be a frightful mess. Better to leave it as it is. Besides, Lady Dursbury is all in a twitter because of that dreadful scandal sheet. She says there was another snippet about it in that last column from Lady Lackwit.”

  “I believe the writer goes by the name Lady Looksby,” Genevieve said, smiling.

  “Lady Libel is what she’ll be if she isn’t careful,” Lady Rawdon replied sharply. “She is always dropping hints that Lord Dursbury is getting cold feet about your marriage. And she never forgoes an opportunity to add little questions about Damaris. It is enough to make one think she is targeting our family.”

  “She skewers everyone. That is why her tidbits are so popular.”

  “Well, it is fortunate that Alec never looks at such things or he would probably go down there and break their presses. I told Elora—and what sort of a foolish name is that, I ask you?—that the only way to handle such gossip is to ignore it. One must be above the common fray. But it is my opinion Lady Dursbury welcomes the chance for high drama. It seems more likely there is an actress in her family tree than in Damaris’s,” the countess added darkly.

  “Speaking of libel,” Genevieve teased. “Or slander, I suppose.”

  “I would not say so to anyone but you. One must, after all, put on a pretense of tolerating one’s in-laws.”

  Dursbury returned with glasses of ratafia for Genevieve and her grandmother, and they spent a few slow minutes discussing the crush of people at the party and the difficulty that had created for the earl in procuring refreshments. Then Dursbury began to describe the state of his wine cellar, and Genevieve found her mind wandering. She spotted her tall brother’s fair head across the room and knew that the others must have returned from the nursery. She glanced around the room and saw Sir Myles dancing with Lady Milburn.

  “—don’t you agree, Lady Genevieve?” she heard Dursbury say.

  “What? Oh, no doubt,” she replied.

  “I thought as much.” He nodded. “Ah, there’s Fanhurst. I’ve been meaning to speak to him about a hunter he has for sale. If you will excuse me, ladies.”

  Genevieve smiled and nodded in answer to his bow. When he was out of earshot, she leaned closer to her grandmother and murmured, “What did I agree to?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. As a rule, I never listen once men start talking about horses, dogs, or liquor.”

  The dance had ended, and a new group began to form on the floor. The strains of a waltz struck up, and a moment later, Genevieve saw Lady Dursbury sweep by in Myles’s arms. Her face was turned up to him in an expression of rapt interest. He seemed equally engrossed.

  “Lady Dursbury is flirting with Myles again,” Genevieve said.

  “Lady Dursbury flirts with every male below the age of fifty.” Her grandmother followed her gaze.

  “I suspect she has a particular interest in Sir Myles,” Genevieve went on.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised. After being married to a man almost twice her age, I imagine Elora is looking for someone more . . . virile.”

  Faintly shocked, Genevieve turned to her grandmother. “You can’t really think she wants to marry him, can you?”

  “Marriage? Goodness, no. She already has a title far higher than Myles’s, and I imagine the old earl left her amply provided for. No, I think our Elora is interested only in a discreet affair. Myles would be perfect for that. He’s not only good-looking and manly, he is charming and knows how to treat a woman properly. He is always discreet. All in all, Lady Dursbury could make a far worse choice.”

  Genevieve stared at the countess. “Grandmother! You sound as if you would countenance such an affair. After all the times you have talked to me about propriety!”

  “ ’Tis the appearance of propriety that is paramount, my dear, and, as I pointed out, Sir Myles can be counted on not to flaunt his affairs.” Lady Rawdon nodded her head approvingly. “Sir Myles is not a libertine, of course. I would not have allowed him to hang about if he were. But he is a man, so it’s to be expected he would have his little conquests. He keeps his chères amies in good style, but he is not blatant or excessive about it. He doesn’t give them a white curricle and team to tool about where all of London can see, like that dreadful Mr. Manningham. And he never pursues a married woman or a maiden, only widows such as Mrs. Bedlington, who understand such things.”

  “Of course.” Genevieve said colorlessly. “I am not sure I know Mrs. Bedlington.”

  “She is here tonight.” The countess surveyed the room. “There she is, that dark-haired woman talking to Mr. Jessup.”

  Genevieve followed her grandmother’s gaze. It was easy to see why Myles would have been attracted to her. She had enviably rich, dark hair and large gray eyes, and her slender figure was encased in a lavender gown with black lace trim that, while a trifle too ornamented for Genevieve’s taste, was undeniably in the first stare of fashion. Genevieve could not help but wonder if Myles had a preference for brunettes. Perhaps he found Lady Dursbury as interesting as she did him.

  When Lord Dursbury’s friend Mr. Colton asked her for a dance, Genevieve agreed, happy to get away from her thoughts for a few minutes. After that, Alec did his duty by taking her out on the floor, and she chatted for a few minutes with him and Damaris. As Alec swept his wife away for another waltz, Genevieve made her way back toward her grandmother.

  Halfway there, a maid slipped up beside her and bobbed a curtsy. “Miss? I’m to give you this.”

  “What?” Genevieve glanced down in surprise at the folded piece of paper the girl extended to her. “Me? Are you certain?”

  “Yes, miss. The tall lady with the pale hair.”

  An accurate, if vague, description. Genevieve plucked the note from her hand and opened it.

  Dear Genevieve,

  Meet me in the library. Do not fail me.

  Myles

  Surprised, Genevieve read the note again, but was no more knowledgeable than before. She looked up to ask the maid a question, but the girl had already gone.

  Why would Myles ask her to meet him? What could have arisen in the past few minutes that was so urgent? She glanced around the room but did not see him. Folding and refolding the note, she tucked it into her pocket. Whatever was going on, she suspected that it was better not to tell her grandmother. Genevieve turned and slipped out the nearest door.

  Four

  When Genevieve stepped into the hall, she spotted Myles at the far end of the corridor, walking with Miss Halford toward a group of people that included Lady Dursbury. No doubt he was escorting the girl back to her chaperone after the dance. Genevieve thought about simply waiting for him here, but she discarded the idea. Myles obviously wanted to speak to her alone, away from prying eyes.

  She wandered down the corridor until she found a long room with a door at each end. The walls on all sides were lined with shelves of books. No doubt this was Thea’s favorite spot, Genevieve thought as she entered the library. Comfortable chairs were scattered about the room, as well as a small secretary. Facing away from her was a dark leather couch, and as Genevieve came farther into the room, Foster Langdon popped up and peered over the back of the couch.

  “Lady Genevieve!” he exclaimed in apparent delight. “Aphrodite walks among us.”

  Oh, bother! She could not let Myles come in here with Langdon hanging about. Langdon would assume she and Myles had an assignation.

/>   “Mr. Langdon. I beg your pardon. I was looking for Lady Morecombe.”

  “Dear lady, no, you need not pretend.” He lurched up from the sofa and came unsteadily toward her. “I am as eager as you to be alone together.”

  Genevieve realized she was in a worse situation than she had thought. Langdon, who appeared even more inebriated than earlier in the evening, seemed to believe she had slipped into the library to meet him.

  “I fear you are laboring under a misapprehension, Mr. Langdon,” she said, sidestepping his outstretched hand. “I was unaware you were here. Or that anyone was. Pray excuse me.”

  “No, my goddess, do not be shy.” He grabbed her hand and began kissing it. “You are a vision! An angel, sent to me by a most kind Providence.”

  “Really, sir, that is quite enough!” Genevieve tried to jerk her hand away, but he clung to it like a limpet. “I am no angel, and I seriously doubt that Providence is concerned with sending you women to bedevil.”

  He let go but only to grab her upper arms and tug her to him. Genevieve twisted and pulled, alarmed but still doing her best to get out of the situation gracefully. “Let go of me!” she hissed. “Have you gone mad? There are people all around!”

  “Yes! I feel the same! I wish them all at the devil.” He wrapped his arms around her, leaning in for a kiss, and Genevieve turned her face away so that his lips met only the side of her head.

  “Let go of me or I shall scream!” Still she kept her voice low. The last thing she wanted was to make noise and attract any onlookers. She could feel her carefully pinned hair coming loose on one side, and her dress was twisted from grappling with him—the man had arms like an octopus! She must get away and put herself in order before anyone saw her.

  Langdon grabbed her head between his hands, his fingers digging into her hair, and jerked her to him, planting a kiss on her mouth. Genevieve growled deep in her throat, fury seizing her, and she stamped her heel down on his instep. He let out a howl and staggered backward, his hands ripping from her hair with a painful jerk.