“I am not precisely certain what it is that I am looking for.”
Well, that made things as clear as mud. “Then how can I help?”
“By letting me help you, if you can understand that.”
“As your wife?”
“I suppose I could give you an annuity, find you a secluded village here in the Low Countries to live where no one will doubt one more British war widow, or perhaps Wales or Scotland. I could hire a companion so your conventions are satisfied, and I could stay away so no one questions our relationship or your morals. I understand that comely widows are always subject to conjecture and improper proposals, but you could have your babe in peace and live a quiet life, unless you choose to create another scandal.”
“I never set out to become grist for the gossip mills.”
“Yet it follows you like flies to honey.”
Genie took a moment to think about this new offer. “I could repay you, eventually.”
They both knew the impossibility of that.
Ardeth went on. “Aside from the dullness, you would still be a fugitive in hiding. If anyone learned of your past, you would be vilified. If anyone knew of my financial support, you would be deemed a fallen woman. I would not be there to protect you from village louts, or your son from suspicions of bastardy. You could not enter the world you were born to lest someone recognize you. Worst of all, you would be living more lies. Is that what you want?”
She did not want to be beholden to anyone, but she did not want to be left behind. The hours after Elgin’s death, before Lord Ardeth entered the hospital and her life, were the most terrifying agony Genie had ever lived through. Abandoned, ostracized, alone. She did not wish to face that again.
“I—”
“A marriage license can remedy all of that. What is mine would be yours. A home of your own—no, several houses—that need a woman’s touch. A fortune to spend on gowns and jewels and furs. Horses, yachts, whatever you fancy. Travel if you wish, charitable acts if you will. Protection from insult and provision for your son. A leading place in local society, a guaranteed position in London’s beau monde. Just think, you could send Lady Willeford to—what is that place?—social Coventry.”
“I would have precedence over my sister, wouldn’t I? Her husband is a mere baron.”
“A countess comes only after princesses and duchesses and marchionesses, and how many of them have access to such wealth? Or such a generous husband?”
“You make it sound so mercenary.”
“But you would only be selling your presence—not your body, I swear—and only for a short time.”
“How can I refuse? I know I should, but your offer is too tempting.”
“Of course it is. I have taken lessons from the Devil himself.”
He placed his hand over his heart. “I pledge my life, what I have of it, to your honor and your happiness.” Then he knelt at her feet, head bowed, and kissed her hand to seal the bargain.
Which had to be the loveliest moment of Genie’s life, until a double rainbow burst through the clouds.
Chapter 4
Sunrise and Genie’s hair. After being in the shadows so long, Ardeth was drawn to them like a moth to the flames, or a miser to gold. He thought he could savor them forever. Unfortunately, he did not have forever.
He was even more determined now to stay here beyond his six months, no matter how much time he would have. For all its pain and misery and squalor, life was better than any of the alternatives. It was… alive.
The gremlin thought so, too. Even in his half sleep on the bedpost of Ardeth’s grand bed at the finest hotel in Brussels, the crow muttered, “Alive. Clucking Hell. I’m alive.”
Ardeth went back to staring out the window, a blanket around his shoulders. His body was not used to feeling the cold, it seemed. Or maybe the chill was due to another day dawning with him no nearer to finding the hourglass pin. He knew the blasted thing was only a symbol, only a ruse of the Devil’s to make Ar waste precious time chasing a spectral illusion. He’d never find it, not if Satan did not want him to. But he could find his own humanity, and perhaps that would be enough to win the bet.
How many lives did he have to save? How much suffering must he relieve? How many coins doled out to the hungry, how many promises of work for the destitute and desperate? Ardeth had no idea, but he was making a start.
Marrying Mrs. Macklin was another step forward. He knew it was the right thing to do by the warming glow he felt somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. He had a heart that beat and pumped blood. Maybe it would thaw; maybe it would feel.
He felt something for the female, that was for sure. He might view her as a fragile waif needing rescuing, but his body—his healthy male body of when he died at thirty-one—recognized her as an attractive, appealing woman.
Od’s blood, he thought, why could his body not have remembered all of its functions before he’d made that promise of a chaste marriage? Had he left his bedamned brains behind? As Ar Death he’d felt nothing for centuries. As Lord Ardeth he felt lust, rampant and raging, like a stag in rut—or a man denied for decades. Every time he saw the woman, his desire grew. Thank the gods for his concealing cloak. She also grew, more beautiful by the hour, it seemed, with rest and good food, with stylish garments, and without the terror etched on her face.
No, he could not take back his promise, not without putting the fear back in her green eyes. Besides, consummating their coming marriage would be dishonorable while she was grieving for her husband, useless piece of offal that he had been. Mrs. Macklin deserved time to mourn, time to grow accustomed to Ardeth. Six months was far too short a time.
Time, again, that precious commodity. He looked at his new pocket watch by the first light of day, wishing he could make the hands move more slowly. This was his wedding day. Tonight would not be his wedding night. Damn.
Marrying the woman was still the right thing to do. He had to travel to England, to claim his lands and accounts. There was no other way but marriage that he could do that while protecting her and the reputation she held dear. Giving her his name and a secure future was a good deed, a noble act, a self-sacrifice, even. Why, he would be giving up the chance to father a son of his own, one to carry on after him. That was what every man seemed to want, wasn’t it? Of course he was not every man, not by half. No matter, the idea of wedding the widow felt… nice. Nice was another long-forgotten emotion he welcomed, especially since it was not nearly as uncomfortable as unsatisfied desire.
He’d bought her bonnets and shawls and laces when the shops reopened, just to see her smile. No, he told himself, he was not trying to buy her affections. That would be base, beneath him. The image of Mrs. Macklin, beneath him, was quickly erased. He did not want a woman’s compliance out of gratitude.
Lord, it was going to be a long six months after he vowed his faithfulness. He pulled the blanket more firmly around his shoulders. Maybe he should find a young officer to wed her, a fellow of good birth but little fortune who’d be willing to have her for a price. The young man would swear to cherish her—or Ardeth would have his liver and lights—for far longer than the half year Ardeth had. A suitable marriage of convenience might be better for all of them.
Then the recent Reaper recalled her smile and knew he would not give her to another man. He could add possessiveness and jealousy to his rediscovered feelings, which might not make him a better man, but made him a more believable man. Ardeth could not help himself; Mrs. Macklin made him feel more alive. Just her name stirred him. Imogene Hopewell Macklin. Imagine. Hope. Well. A magic Genie. She was obviously meant to be his.
She needed him. He needed her. There were worse excuses for weddings.
The gremlin must have agreed with him, for the crow brought back a gold band yesterday and dropped it at Ardeth’s feet. Many such keepsakes would have been trampled under the mud of the battlefield, or stolen from corpses.
“I sent you for the hourglass, you plaguesome creature.”
No one was chasing the bird crying “thief” no initials could lead to the ring’s rightful owner. Most of all, the jewels in the vault of the earl’s castle, now called Ardsley Keep, were far away.
“I suppose it will have to do, Olive.”
“Stuff it.”
—
Genie’s first betrothal was a hurried affair, three weeks of calling the banns in front of her own village parish, where each and every congregant knew Elgin had been meant for her sister, Lorraine. This was a still-shorter scramble, although longer than his lordship wished. He was in a hurry to return to London and his inheritance, she understood. Genie would not mind leaving this scene of carnage, disgrace, and innuendo.
Not even the Earl of Ardeth could conjure a proper, legal wedding in so little time, however, locating a willing English cleric and a special license so far from Britain.
“Perhaps we should wait until we return home,” she offered.
“No, people will talk. They are bound to, anyway, with my sudden appearance and reinstatement of the Ardsley family title.”
To say nothing of his peculiarities, Genie thought, but did not speak aloud. He always wore his cape despite the heat of the day, carried a crow on his shoulder, and often spoke to empty air. He could put a pain-wracked soldier to sleep with a word and a touch, yet he never seemed to sleep himself. Genie chose to ignore the disturbing aspects. She had to, to preserve her own sanity. “I thought you did not care about gossip.”
“For myself, I do not.”
“If you are concerned with my reputation, staying at the same hotel and traveling with you, then we can hold the ceremony in a nearby church here and worry about the particulars later,” she offered, still not certain of her fiance’s religious beliefs. For all she knew, he could choose to be wedded by a warlock.
“No, everything must be aboveboard, without question. I would have no one doubt the legitimacy of our union. As you said, there will be gossip aplenty without a mourning period, and again when the child is born too early to be of my blood. There would be more if we did not marry. Let no one think either of us is unhappy with the match. I would wed you in London’s grandest cathedral, in front of the king if I could.”
The king was almost as mad as Lord Ardeth.
Fearing that time and distance would let Genie doubt her decision, he kept her busy with visits to the wounded soldiers, calls on the consulate, and dress fittings when he found a seamstress willing to take up her needle again. He bought her gifts, gloves and books and candied sweets—almost like a real betrothal, almost like a man in love. He ignored the scandalized looks, the matrons’ titters, the soldiers’ snickers, so Genie tried to, also.
None of the officers’ wives came to call on Genie, not to offer congratulations or condolences. Everyone wanted to speak with Lord Ardeth. When the earl was consulting with bankers and generals and surgeons and ambassadors, giving his advice and getting their cooperation for the wedding and the return to England, he made sure Genie was not alone. He knew she would fret herself into a panic. That panicked her worse, that he understood her so well, while she understood him not at all.
His man Campbell was full of praise for his lordship, but the sergeant could not explain where his new employer had come from, how he learned his healing techniques, or what a rich nob was doing in the middle of a war. The soldier had met the earl mere hours before Genie had, and Lord Ardeth had helped with the horses, which were Campbell’s first love. Lord Ardeth was arranging Campbell’s discharge from the army, and that was enough—that and a well-paying position and passage back home. He was to be the earl’s man-of-all-work, footman, valet, and groom until they were home. Then he was to be in charge of filling the earl’s stables. Campbell thought he must have died and gone to heaven, the way he kept grinning. Except Lord Ardeth wouldn’t have let his man die, Campbell swore while he accompanied Genie on her way, on his lordship’s orders.
Campbell’s second love after horses, it quickly turned out, was Marie, the French maid Ardeth found to help Genie with her clothes and her hair. She knew all the latest styles, plus the best way to conceal Mrs. Macklin’s growing condition. She also knew a good opportunity when she saw it. Of course she’d rather serve the master than the mistress, but Monsieur le Comte was not as generous with his affection as with his money. C’est la vie. Marie’s former employer had fled back to France ahead of the advancing armies, so she was alone and without income. Brussels offered no such lucrative post, now that the British were leaving, so she was eager to accept whatever job Monsieur was offering. She was not as eager to accept poor Campbell’s attentions. A mere sergeant turned gentleman’s gentleman was below her standards, but he’d do—until they reached London and Marie could find a better beau.
Genie did not inquire too closely into the nature of her new maid’s last position, but very much feared she was being cared for by a cast-off kept woman.
Besides Campbell and Marie making sure Genie was never alone, the crow was constantly flying overhead or tapping on Genie’s window. The silly bird seemed to be making sure she did not run off rather than marry the earl.
“Alive, keep alive,” she thought the crow cawed whenever the feathered forager dropped coins, buttons, or beads at her feet or on her bed.
“That’s Olive,” she said, trying to teach it. “Can you say Olive? And no, I cannot keep you. You are the earl’s companion.” She did feed the crow bits of fruit and cheese, occasionally dipping a corner of bread in wine, which he seemed to like even better.
“I love, I love,” he cooed while she gently stroked his shiny black head.
“That’s right—your name is Olive.”
The night before the wedding, Ardeth escorted Genie to a dinner at the foreign embassy. She was dressed to the nines—in black—with lace and her only jewelry, a strand of pearls. She knew she was in better looks than ever, but not half as stunning as the man at her side. He made sure to introduce her to the dignitaries and their wives as his bride-to-be. One look from him, his hand possessively placed over hers on his arm, stilled any comments or criticisms, even when he muttered, “Shite” when someone spilled wine near her skirt, which stayed dry somehow. She was shown a deference she’d never experienced, not as younger sibling to an acknowledged beauty, nor as Elgin Macklin’s second-choice bride, or his supposed tagalong camp-following sister. It was heady stuff, this being a countess. The effort required for her to act like a great lady, knowing they were all weighing her every word and action, was also terrifying, as if marrying Lord Ardeth weren’t scary enough. She watched the sun rise on her wedding day, too.
—
For her first wedding, Genie had worn a girlish white gown. Her sister, Lorraine, had declared herself old enough to wear bright colors, so her worn muslin had come to Genie. She had carried a drooping bouquet of wildflowers she’d picked herself, a few of their petals dropping as she walked to the village church behind her angry parents. Her father was so disgusted with his younger daughter that he refused to harness his horses for the short distance. According to Squire Hopewell, stealing her sister’s beau, kissing Elgin outside the assembly room, and disgracing his family name were bad enough without Imogene trying to lie and blame dear Lorraine.
The ceremony had been conducted during regular Sunday services at her village church, and the bride was the only one who cried, although the groom looked dismal enough for tears. Elgin’s eyes were bloodshot anyway, most likely from the three weeks of drinking he’d done before shackling himself to his sweetheart’s plain, skinny redheaded sister. His neckcloth had been askew and his clothes stank of stale wine. Lorraine, who should have been weeping at the loss of her longtime love, was too busy flirting with his older brother, Roger, back from London for the nuptials.
Only the immediate families had returned to the Hopewells’ home for the wedding breakfast, Elgin’s mother sniffin
g in disapproval of both the Hopewells’ cottage and their conniving to trap Roger, who’d been destined for a duke’s daughter at the least. Now, because the elder Hopewell chit had been denied her promised parti, Roger was forced to wed a nobody. The fathers were closeted to discuss marriage settlements. Imogene, Elgin, and their sorry scandal would be sent out of sight, off to war. The heir and dear Lorraine would take up residence in London after a fancy wedding.
Squire Hopewell had left the book room smiling. His poppet would be a baroness someday. Roger, the future baron, left the wedding breakfast with a serving maid.
What a difference between that miserable event and Genie’s second marriage. Now she wore a stylish black silk gown, but with a white lace mantilla on her head. She carried pure white roses, and she and her maid, Marie, had arrived in an elegant carriage that was decked in more roses. The ceremony was held at the British ambassador’s palatial residence, strewn with flowers, a violinist playing softly in the corner. A reception would follow at the hotel. The grand guests—foreign diplomats, generals, and local gentry—would dine inside, but common soldiers and servants, all those who could walk or limp to get there, were going to be served in the stable yard. Ardeth had declared it a day of celebration, of his nuptials and the British victory, a day to set aside the suffering and grieving, if only for an hour or two.
Sergeant Campbell was not the only grizzled veteran to wipe his eyes. Half the ladies present sniffled at the romance of the thing, and in regret that their own husbands did not measure up to Lord Ardeth.
This time Genie’s formidable groom was magnificent, putting every other man—and the bride—in the shade. The earl wore formal dress, black satin knee breeches and tailcoat, with sparkling white neckcloth and waistcoat that set off his black hair and dark eyes. He smelled of spices and woods and scented soap, with a bit of smoke mixed in, most likely from a pipe, Genie guessed. He was tall and well formed—and he was smiling.
The Hourglass Page 4
