by Lara Temple
‘All the more reason not to tempt them to lash out. I don’t care what they say of me, but I don’t wish my contribution to Emily’s nuptials to be an even heavier cloud of scandal.’
‘You should come.’ The words were out before she could think them through, and she scrambled to explain them to herself as much as to him. ‘Last night was a success because you appeared to take it for granted that they would accept you.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘I take nothing for granted.’
‘I know—which is excellent and precisely why it worked. It might just as easily have been a complete disaster, but you have several serious advantages, Lord Westford. Your title, your inheritance, and your good looks. Not to mention the dash of romance your piracy brings to the table.’
He shifted on the bale of hay, his gaze falling from hers, and she wondered if she’d embarrassed him.
‘I was never a pirate. And, believe me, that is not something one should consider romantic.’
‘I don’t. But then much of society—including our esteemed and rotund King—consider war to be the height of romance.’
‘True... Idiots. I’m glad Emily found herself a nice country husband and not one of those dandies.’
‘Peter is a darling, isn’t he? But the point is, I think it best not to allow the one weakness in your flank to become your Achilles heel. If you try to hide it, that will only make the enemy all the more determined to pitch their arrows at it.’
‘So you suggest I flaunt it?’
‘No. Merely treat it—or rather their opinion of it—as a matter of no great import. You wish to go to the theatre, so you will go to the theatre.’
‘I don’t wish to go, but you are right.’
‘Why don’t you wish to go? Do you dislike plays?’
He seemed a little surprised by her question, and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer.
‘Did Mary tell you I was raised on a ship?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Until your mother died—’ She broke off, wondering at her insensitivity.
‘Yes. Well, the Hesperus...the original one...was a rather unusual ship. My father loved the theatre—which was where he met my mother. My maternal grandfather was, amongst other things, an actor, and she often went to help at the theatre. She was several years older than my father, to add to all her other sins, and if my father was Captain of the Hesperus, she was definitely captain of everything else on board. She regularly held plays on deck, and made all the sailors take part.’
Genny felt her jaw slacken at the image of a theatrical pirate ship and she shut her mouth, trying not to smile. ‘How marvellous! What roles did you play?’
‘None. I didn’t inherit a smidgen of her or my grandfather’s talent. Our star was Benja, who is my first mate now. The best I could do was fetch and carry, and then I would climb the mizzen mast and play audience.’
‘I see...’
His mouth quirked. ‘What do you see, Genevieve Maitland?’
‘Drury Lane. All that pomp and grandeur and scent and noise compared to a wind-blown seaborne stage with sailors playing Hamlet and Ophelia. It won’t be the same.’
In the silence she could hear the huffing of the horse in the adjacent stable, and Leo’s rumbling purr.
‘No, it won’t be. But you are right. It is probably best to grab this bull by the horns. I hope the play is worth it.’
‘Kean’s playing of it is likely to be well worth it. But I must go now. Do tell Emily if you are coming—she will be delighted.’
‘Yes, miss. Anything else I must do?’ he asked with utterly unconvincing meekness as he leaned back further on the bale of hay.
‘No, that will do for now,’ she replied, unable to resist adding, ‘But you really must learn to play by the rules. Such as not remaining seated when a woman stands.’
He grinned up at her. ‘But I was being chivalrous, Miss Maitland. You should commend me.’
‘For what?’
‘I have noticed you dislike being loomed over.’
He rose from the bale of hay and she had to admit he had a point. His superior height seemed to shrink the already confined space.
‘Besides,’ he murmured, ‘I rather liked looking up at you. You look good from all angles, Genevieve Maitland.’
‘You aren’t required to flirt with me, you know,’ she said, hating the uncertainty in her voice.
‘You should be happy. I’m honing my social skills. Drilling makes the soldier.’
‘“Drilling” doesn’t involve shooting at the side of a barn at five paces.’
‘I had no idea you were that susceptible, Genny,’ he said, with utterly unconvincing surprise, before adding, ‘And I would never be so ungentlemanly as to think of you in terms of a barn—though you are rather liberally covered in hay at the moment. You might want to do something about that before you go inside, or the servants will get the wrong idea.’
Genny searched for something suitably cutting, and then decided that ignoring pests was sometimes the best policy.
‘Thank you for your concern, Lord Westford. Good day.’
* * *
Kit watched her brush the hay from her skirts as she left the stables. The material stretched against her hips and legs, and for a moment, as she swung open the gated door, sunlight permeated the summery fabric and outlined a figure that made it clear she’d changed a great deal since Spain...
The image was overlaid with another from years ago, of a much younger version of Genevieve Maitland, brushing dust from her skirts after helping clear one of the General’s billets in a small hill town by the Pyrenees. She’d been only a girl then, but already seeming far older than most.
He couldn’t remember Serena ever pitching in to help. But then it probably hadn’t been her fault. The General had split his paternal and maternal instincts between his two granddaughters, and to be fair both had appeared quite content with the division, and had expected it to be replicated within the cadre of officers.
Serena, with her pure English beauty, pale blue eyes and corn-gold hair, had expected and received universal admiration. Genny had snapped impatiently at anyone who’d tried to flirt with her, but immediately fallen in with anyone who came to her with a problem to solve.
People new to the General’s command had often been surprised to learn that Serena and Genevieve were sisters. Genny must have inherited some of her grandmother’s Latin blood, and though her hair had been a broad palette of browns, from chestnut to pale honey in the light, her skin had used to take the sun like a Spaniard’s, making her deep grey eyes look even larger in an almost gaunt face.
Well, she was gaunt no longer. In fact, she’d filled out very nicely indeed. Serena had remained fashionably reed-thin, but Genny was a pure pocket Venus—small, but perfectly proportioned, and with a bosom worthy of a portrait of its own.
And yet she still possessed that strange quality that managed to keep curious males at bay. He’d seen them watching her the night of the ball, their eyes flickering over her lush curves, but amazingly not one of them had dared breach the invisible but very palpable battlements she carried about her.
No, that wasn’t true—she’d let Julian in with a smile, which wasn’t perhaps surprising if they’d nearly been betrothed. Marcus as well, though not quite as happily—there had been more resigned acceptance than affection between them. Still, it showed she had the capacity to let men in if she chose.
Strange...
She was strange. He could not understand what she was still doing here. She was not a beauty, like her sister, but she was far more interesting—and leagues more intelligent. Strange that someone with her skills at manoeuvring people had not yet married.
She must be...what? Twenty-five or six? Given the less than impressive scions of some of the nobility, he didn’t doubt she could have found herself a husband to m
ould to her needs. Still, it appeared that for the moment all her skills were being used in aid of his family, for which he should be grateful.
For which he was grateful, he told himself. Reluctant, and uncomfortable, but grateful.
War made strange bedfellows, and it appeared he had just slipped into bed with Genevieve Maitland.
He waited for the rush of warmth that swept through him at the unfortunate analogy to fade.
Not a good idea.
Not that there was much to be read into his physical reaction to the pleasure of a battle well played and a very luscious figure and stormy eyes. Little Genny Maitland had been transformed into a very attractive woman and, more significantly, a puzzling one.
He had a weakness for puzzles. Especially those scented like orange blossoms.
Still, she’d been right to call him to attention—just as she had been right last night, when he’d stepped over the line into a literally heavy-handed attempt to test her defences.
Well, he’d best step back behind it. Uncharted waters might be enticing, but they were far more likely to hide treacherous reefs than treasures.
Chapter Seven
‘As pretty as a music box’ was an appropriate description for Drury Lane Theatre. Everything was designed to impress and awe—the grandiose foyer with its Doric columns, the brightly lit rotunda, crowded with the cream of the Ton, the boxes lit with rows of gaslight chandeliers, and finally the forty-foot-high stage.
Kit, who had entered the theatre with all the wariness of a man entering a scorpion-infested cave, wasn’t certain whether he was relieved or disappointed that it looked nothing like his vivid memory of the place. But if it was relief, the feeling was very mild compared with the other emotions seething inside him.
Only a fortnight ago, if anyone had asked what it would take for him to accompany his grandmother to a play at the Drury Lane Theatre, under the viciously watchful eye of the Ton, he’d have said it would take an act of God to do the trick. He wondered if acts of God came in the guise of his sister’s happiness coupled with a little devious manipulation by a general manqué.
Still, the happiness on his sister’s face now, as she settled into her seat in the box between him and Peter, was a balm to his rumbling temper. She was practically bouncing, her gaze moving with patent awe over the theatre and her hand holding Peter’s tightly.
‘It is simply enormous! There must be hundreds of people here!’ she whispered.
‘Don’t gawp, girl!’ Lady Westford admonished, and Emily sat back, abashed.
Peter, his pale cheeks turning rather red, placed his hand on Emily’s and leaned forward, clearly preparing to take up arms in his beloved’s defence. But Kit’s wish to see Emily’s serious-minded betrothed tackle Lady Westford was dashed as Genevieve, seated on Peter’s other side, touched his arm, drawing his attention.
‘Do you know, Peter, I think Drury Lane was the first theatre in London to introduce gas chandeliers? It is rather amazing to think they are all connected to a warren of gas pipes. It seems quite impossible—and rather frightening.’
Peter, his clever, practical mind latching on to this engineering challenge, rushed into a reassuring speech about temperatures and pipes and counterweights. And Kit was rather amused to see Emily regard this serious monologue with far warmer admiration than she’d shown for the Who’s Who of London society filling the theatre.
He was even more impressed when she interrupted with an objection about Archimedean points of leverage. The happy couple then descended into a heated but amicable discussion of how best to prevent all this piping from causing another catastrophic fire, and the rest of the world—the theatre included—was clearly forgotten.
His gaze briefly met Genny Maitland’s. Her mouth was primly holding back a smile. It was let loose for a moment as he looked at her, and her eyes lit with shared laughter, a momentary flash like faraway lightning.
Then Julian walked in, paused for a moment to listen to the heated discussion, and then bent to whisper something in Genny’s ear. The look she cast him over her shoulder would have felled a tree, but he merely raised his hands with a grin and settled deeply into his chair.
Lady Westford threw him an exasperated look. ‘Sit up, do, Julian. What is it with you young men these days? You dress like footmen, lounge like hackney drivers, and behave in all manners as if you were the hoi polloi.’
‘Hoi polloi, Grandmama,’ Julian said with suspicious meekness.
‘That is what I said.’
‘No, you said the hoi polloi. Hoi is the plural for the in Greek, and polloi is many. Saying the hoi polloi is unnecessarily repetitive.’
The cane hovered ominously above the floor, but then a party including the Duke of Burford entered the box opposite them and the cane was lowered. When Lady Westford spoke again it was with a wholly unconvincing smile.
‘I don’t know why you bother to come at all if you mean to be unpleasant, Julian.’
‘I don’t mean to be, Grandmama. It just happens.’
She snorted and turned her back to him. Julian caught Genny’s frown, winked at her, and raised an imaginary quizzing glass to ogle her bosom. Her frown dissolved into a rueful smile and she shook her head and turned her back on him too. Julian, balked of his view, sighed and settled into his slouch.
At least in this respect Kit could empathise with his cousin. Genny Maitland might not be a beauty, like her sister, but she had been endowed with a body that could launch quite a few ships.
She’d worn a relatively modest evening gown during the ball, and although her present gown was also far from elaborate, its simple square-cut bodice and silky material the colour of ripening Turkish apricots moulded over her curves and displayed her exquisite bosom like the work of art it was, promising that what lay beneath was a hundred times more appetising than that sweet fruit.
Kit was not in the least surprised that a connoisseur of feminine charms like Julian would appreciate the view. What surprised Kit was the degree of ease between Genny and Julian. Perhaps even intimacy?
Not that there was anything wrong with that. Genevieve Maitland was of an age to do as she willed, and she had a degree of maturity to her that outstripped her widowed sister, and in a way even Mary. As far as he was concerned, so long as it did not adversely impact upon Emily and Mary, she could—and probably would—do as she wished.
Kit forced his attention to the stage as a buzz of cheering signalled Edmund Kean’s entrance. He hoped the performance of the actors on stage would compensate for the performances off it.
To his surprise, it was excellent. As Sir Giles Overreach, Edmund Kean was ambition and rancour personified. He reminded Kit a little of Lady Westford. And the crowd, from the boxes to the pit, was enthralled with Sir Giles’s vicious destructiveness towards everyone around him. He had no redeeming qualities but the sheer force of his will to win.
Kean’s portrayal was so convincing Kit found himself completely in accord with the muffled cries of ‘Shame!’ and ‘Poor show!’ that punctuated his increasingly convoluted attempts to destroy and discredit everyone about him.
‘Why, he is the most contemptible worm that ever was! If I were his daughter I would set the dogs to him!’ hissed Emily, practically writhing in her seat. She looked ready to descend onto the stage, fill his pockets with chops, and drag him out to the dogs herself.
Kit smiled at his half-sister’s uncharacteristic bloodthirstiness and let his gaze slip past her to Genny. She appeared as engrossed by the play as Emily, her whole body canted forward in a manner that might have drawn his grandmother’s condemnation if she hadn’t already slipped into a fitful doze.
Like this, Genny looked years younger—as if surrendering to the passion of the drama had peeled years off her. One fisted hand was clenched to her sternum, pressing her bosom into an even more impressive display of perfect curves as she leaned forwar
d. Kit realised his own hand had fisted too, and he released it. But it fisted again, involuntarily, as she raised her hand to her mouth as if to stifle a gasp at Kean’s latest masterpiece of evil.
He turned back to the stage himself, a little annoyed at his green response to her surprisingly girlish show of enjoyment, coupled with her wholly female show of curves.
She’d had those rare moments in Spain as well, when she’d been caught up in the heated discussions that had often brewed around her grandfather’s dinner table in the barracks. Her careful mantle of control would slip, and her excitement and determination would be bared in service of whatever cause she’d felt worth defending. Then some comment would check her, and she’d withdraw like a fern, furling back as night fell, her gaze glacial, as if challenging anyone to remind her she’d been on fire only a moment before.
The contrast with the soft and frothy Serena had been even more obvious during those vivid eruptions and retreats. From his lofty age of twenty-five he’d thought it merely a sign of a girl hovering on the tricky bridge between youth and womanhood, and he’d felt both sorry for her and strangely proud, as if he was as invested in her awkward intelligence as her grandfather had been.
But she had not appreciated his stilted attempts to smooth those moments over and, looking back, he couldn’t blame her. Charlie had done it much more successfully by poking fun at her at the same time as making his awe of her unburnished intelligence clear.
She’d certainly managed to leash that awkwardness over the years, but right now she looked precisely as she had in the heat of passionate argument. Her eyes glistened a strange vulpine silver, like snow deep in the shadows, and her generous mouth was parted and moving faintly, the sheen of the chandelier dancing on the soft curve of her lower lip. She seemed to be echoing the soliloquy below, and in a strange twist of acoustics he seemed to hear the words emanate from her—a tortured, hopeless call to arms against everything and everyone.
