by Regina Scott
“That is a concern. Have you spent any time in her company in public?”
“Only a few dances in London. The most time I’ve spent with her was painting her portrait. And helping her when she injured herself.” He winced as if recalling a painful memory. Was he castigating himself for carrying Matilda and giving further fuel for her imagination? Or did he sympathize with her plight?
“That hardly signifies,” she said. “Have you ever danced with her more than once at a ball?”
“No.” His earnest blue eyes remained focused on her face.
“Sat with her and spoken for any length of time?”
“Never, beyond her sitting for the portrait.”
“And I can assume, then, that you never . . . kissed her?” Her cheeks burned at the personal and impudent question. Or did they burn because she daydreamed of what it might be like to kiss him?
His eyes opened wide. “Heavens, no.”
“Then it sounds to me that if her expectations have been raised, they were from her own desires. No one in society would expect you to make an offer, unless they believe what she’s been saying about you.”
A crease formed between his brows. “What has she been saying?”
“That she believes you return her feelings.” She didn’t dare voice Matilda’s declaration that she expected a proposal.
He let out a long exhale. “I’d best talk to her before it gets out of hand.”
Genevieve nodded, too conflicted to speak. He could be hers. But Matilda would be crushed if Genevieve encouraged the gentleman for whom Matilda had developed a grand passion, and who had spurned her. And Genevieve would be a disloyal friend.
“Do you think you are up to some steps beyond the basic, Miss Marshall?”
“Absolutely.”
He led her through all the steps he’d taught her earlier in the day, as well as several new moves. Following him came as naturally as if they’d danced together for years.
“You are an excellent student of the waltz.”
She smiled. “If I am, it is because you are an excellent teacher.”
He opened his mouth and inhaled as if to speak, but pressed his lips together instead.
In a flash of unladylike boldness, she asked, “What were you about to say?”
He shook his head, and his eyes suggested he carried a secret.
Gently, she said, “You’ve already confided in me regarding Matilda, surely you can tell me what you were thinking just now.”
His lips curved. “I never put much credence in the term ‘love at first sight.’ But I am beginning to understand, at least in part, why people say that.”
Her heart quickened. “What are you saying?”
“More than I should, for now. The party ends tomorrow, and we will part company. Do you go back to your home?”
“No, we are continuing on to Bath so that my mother might partake of the restorative waters. She has delicate health.”
A golden-brown brow raised. “My father and I are returning to Bath, as well.”
“I hope I shall see you there.”
“Oh, you can count on that.” An unmistakable promise rang in his tone.
The orchestra ended their song on a flourish, and he led her into a little dip.
“Thank you for the waltz,” he said as he raised her up. “You were a delightful partner.”
“You, as well.”
They stood in dance position, not moving, while other couples left the dance floor. He searched her eyes, his hands warm on her hand, and his mouth parted.
As if remembering himself, he released her and stepped back. With an extended arm and a slight bow, he led her back to her mother. Genevieve watched as he strode to Matilda, bowed, and after a brief conversation in which Sir Reginald appeared alarmed, wheeled Matilda out of the room. At the doorway, he glanced at Genevieve before he exited.
He was about to break her friend’s heart, but all Genevieve could think of was the possibility that he might have captured hers.
Did that mean she had made assumptions about him and that a similar heartbreak was in her future?
Chapter Ten
Christian pushed Miss Widtsoe’s wheeled chair toward the doorway in search of a place to conduct a private conversation without pushing the bounds of propriety. Only his deeply instilled manners kept him from rushing back to Genevieve Marshall’s side to claim another dance. Those brief touches had been torturous, leaving him longing for more. He’d always believed his own damaged heart to be insulated from the charms of a lady. But Genevieve Marshall proved him wrong. Was it possible that he might have found that missing color in the palette of his life?
He glanced back to the ballroom. Serene and elegant but with a slightly impish curve to her lips, Genevieve curtsied to Mr. Ashton, who spoke with her. Christian pitied the young man who was obviously smitten with her, but she clearly did not return his preference. Christian hesitated, his confidence slipping. She preferred him. Didn’t she? Or was he also to be pitied?
No. She’d given him several warm glances she’d given no one else at the house party.
As he wheeled Miss Widtsoe, he paused at the doorway and looked back. Genevieve glanced at him, that warm look coming into her eyes and her impish smile deepening. Then, as if remembering herself, she demurely lowered her gaze and adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. If only he could get her alone, he’d test that demure exterior to find the woman underneath.
Egad, he was starting to sound like his father.
Returning his mind to the unpleasant business at hand, he pushed Miss Widtsoe out to the main hall where a few others gathered. Good. They would be considered chaperoned out here. He pushed her to a small cluster of chairs in a corner where they were far enough from the others not to be overheard.
She smiled at him expectantly. “You wanted to speak to me?”
He perched on the edge of a chair. “Yes. I . . .” He swallowed. How did one go about this sort of business? He broke out into a cold sweat. “I fear there has been something of a misunderstanding between us.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. It appears that—That is to say, it seems as if you . . . feel that there is a certain . . . understanding between us.” He swallowed hard and stared at the floor so he wouldn’t have to look into her eyes. But that was cowardly. As a gentleman, he owed her eye contact. Witnessing her disappointment would be fitting penance for his carelessness. He took a breath. “If I have done anything to give you the wrong impression, I offer my humblest apologies.”
Her expression remained fixed, still hopeful, even.
This was not going well. He rubbed at the trickle of perspiration at his brow and tried again. “You see, I never meant to give you the idea that I have any particular . . . preference for you.”
Miss Widtsoe blinked. Then her hopeful expression faded.
He pressed on. “In truth, I have always believed that I would never marry. I help manage my father’s estate and watch over his care, and I do not expect that a wife will fit into those duties.”
That expectation fell flat as he considered Genevieve Marshall in his life, as did the real reason he’d believed himself unsuitable for a wife. Perhaps happiness was not beyond his reach, all his past mistakes notwithstanding.
Miss Widtsoe’s eyes grew bright with tears. “You . . . you don’t feel any particular regard for me?”
He faltered. “It was never my intention to court you—merely paint your portrait and one of the abbey. When my father and I return to Bath, I do not expect to see you again—ever.” He winced at his own harshness.
Her lashes fluttered, and her mouth quivered. “You don’t have a grand passion for me?”
Very gently, he said, “No, Miss Widtsoe. And I beg your forgiveness if I have misrepresented myself to you.”
She stared down at her hands twisting in her lap. “I see.”
“There is much to recommend you, and half the gentlemen here are trying to catch your eye—Sir Regina
ld, for example. But you and I would not suit.”
She said nothing, just sat with bowed head.
His heart twisted in compassion and regret. He’d taken the light out of her eyes. There appeared to be nothing more to say. He stood. “I am so sorry.”
As he turned away, she said, “It’s Genevieve, isn’t it?”
He paused. “As I said, I’m not certain it is my lot to marry.” If he married Genevieve as he hoped, those words would make a liar of him. “But yes, Miss Marshall has intrigued me—against my better sense.”
He made himself turn around and look at her. She slumped in her wheeled chair, her hands over her eyes, her shoulders shaking. Returning to the ballroom, he paused behind a potted plant to catch his breath. He felt like he’d just kicked a puppy who’d been licking his hand. He hailed a passing footman and asked him to attend to Miss Widtsoe, whom he’d left alone in a wheeled chair.
Despite his weariness of heart, he moved back into the main area, searching for Genevieve, craving her soothing presence. The musicians packed up their instruments, and guests gathered in clusters. Genevieve stood next to two young ladies whom he had partnered earlier in the evening. Genevieve caught his eye like a red rose in a garden of lilies—so lovely, so vibrant, and yet so serene.
Remembering to don an appropriately savoir faire expression, lest he appear a juvenile who’d discovered girls for the first time, he squared his shoulders and sauntered toward Genevieve.
Before he reached her side, Lord Wickburgh sidled up to her and dismissed the other girls with a single glance. Christian checked his steps. As a titled lord, the man commanded greater precedence. As his elder, he deserved Christian’s respect and deference, but the man clearly bothered Genevieve. And there was a cold hardness about him that raised Christian’s hackles.
Lord Wickburgh bowed to Genevieve. The color left her cheeks, and she lowered her head, clasping her hands in front of her as if trying to form a shield.
“The viscount appears to have selected his new bride.” The earl’s voice snapped up Christian’s head.
Standing next to Christian, the earl gestured with his glass at the scene. “He seems as fascinated with her as you are.”
“I’m not . . .” he trailed off. Denying it was pointless. “She is remarkable.”
“Her father may have a particular preference for a lord over a youngest son.”
The words pricked his hope. Could that be the case? His suit could be refused because he was a younger son? No, he refused to step back. “The Marshalls don’t seem like mushrooms.”
“They aren’t, but most fathers want the best for their daughters, and they often weigh the wrong criteria, even if they aren’t social climbers. I made that mistake with your sister.”
Christian winced, recalling evidence of Margaret’s unhappy marriage the moment she returned from her honeymoon. “I’m not prepared to offer for Miss Marshall, Father.”
“You might have to move quickly before Lord Wickburgh does, or her father may choose the higher ranking suitor for his daughter.”
Christian paused. Surely, Captain Marshall would take his daughter’s preferences into consideration. And she preferred Christian to Lord Wickburgh. Didn’t she?
He watched them converse, Lord Wickburgh elegant and worldly, and Miss Marshall, gentle and reserved. Her mouth curved in a small smile to the viscount. Was she changing her opinion about the older man? He offered money, as well as the power and privilege of rank. Christian could only offer her a modest living.
Did he truly want to offer her anything?
He would have to find out. Standing in the shadows, watching another man pay court to her would not help him make up his mind.
For the first time in years, a flicker of hope lit inside him that he might not have to live his life in complete darkness.
He snatched a glass of lemonade from a tray and continued toward her. As he reached her side, he nodded to the viscount, who snapped his mouth shut and glared.
Holding out the glass, Christian smiled broadly at Genevieve. “I brought you a drink.”
She smiled, but it was restrained. “Thank you.” As she accepted his glass, she cast a glance at Lord Wickburgh. “I wish you the best at your endeavors, my lord.” She sipped her drink and turned her body to face Christian.
Though her words had been a clear dismissal, Lord Wickburgh held out an arm. “It is rather stuffy in here. Shall we take a turn about the garden and breathe some fresh air?”
She pressed her lips together and flitted her gaze at Christian. “I’m afraid I have already promised to do that with Mr. Amesbury. If you will excuse us, my lord?”
She reached for Christian, and he readily offered her his arm, glad to assist in her charade and trying not to puff out his chest at her clear preference. Did she only want his company to escape a man who frightened her? Did she play some kind of game?
Lord Wickburgh raised his walking stick and placed the tip of it in front of Christian like a barrier. “Have a care, boy. You’d do well to step aside like a gentleman.”
Christian stiffened. If this arrogant bully thought he could cow Christian, he was in for a surprise. “I do not believe the lady wishes for your company.”
The lord drew his brows together. “Watch your mouth, boy. I don’t care who your father is; I will not tolerate insolence.”
Anger simmering in his core, Christian stepped in closer until they were almost nose to nose, noting with satisfaction that he had almost an inch over the older man. “I will not be the gentleman and step aside, unless the lady asks me to do so. Good evening.”
He turned his back on the lord, replaced Genevieve’s hand on his arm, and led her outside. Moonlight and Chinese lanterns guided them across the terrace and down the steps while Christian drew several breaths to release his anger. Genevieve remained quiet until they reached a fountain deep in the garden. Frogs and night insects sang a chorus, and a warm breeze ruffled Christian’s hair around his face.
“Thank you,” she said. “I suppose it was cowardly of me to pull you into it and make up a story about our walk in the garden, but something about that man seeps the courage out of me.”
Feeling foolish for letting his insecurities cast doubt on her character, he turned to her and put a hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “I am happy to be of service.”
“How did your talk go with Matilda?”
He hesitated.
“Forgive me. I do not wish to pry, but she is my friend.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I tried to be as tactful as possible, and she seemed to take it well. But she was a bit overset when I left her. I am sorry to have been the cause of sorrow to your friend.”
“I adore Matilda, but she fancies herself in love all the time. She seemed to have developed a true attachment for you, but if you did not return her regard, she had no basis for her claim.”
“She really has much to recommend her. I hope she meets someone worthy of her.”
“So do I.” Genevieve sank down on the marble edge of the raised pond around the fountain.
In the moonlight and amid the garden, her fairy-like quality became even more apparent, as did that magical serenity she carried about her. He drew in a breath, inhaling her scent, letting her peaceful presence soothe him. His focus fixed on her lips.
He sat next to her and took her hand. “Miss Marshall, from the time I was a child, I have never expected to marry. Since my father’s decline, I have virtually taken over all his responsibilities for managing the entire estate. I meet with his steward, tour the properties, and everything else required of him—except sit in the House, of course.”
“It sounds like a great deal of responsibility.”
“It is. And, I always felt rather as if I were . . . well, unworthy of love.” Curse it, he did not plan to confess that. “But my oldest brother, Cole, has returned from the war, and I expect he, as the heir, will take my place soon. When he does, I will be free to paint more—although,
my family expects me to take the position of county vicar when it becomes available.” Upholding family expectations was important, but he’d always hoped to study art with the Royal Academy of Art, perhaps travel to Italy to paint.
“Why do you feel unworthy of love?”
He shied away from the truth, from the horrible challenge that led to his brother Jason’s death, and the scattering of his brothers over the fight Christian caused between them and the earl. He breathed through the pain lancing his chest. “I have done things in my past that I deeply regret. Lost people I thought would always be there—some through my own actions.”
She slipped her hand into his and squeezed it gently. “Everyone deserves to be loved, to be given a second chance. Even you. Especially you.”
Her earnest expression, the tenderness in her eyes touched his heart and loosened knots in his soul tied by years of sorrow. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he did deserve love. Despite his earlier determination to take things slowly with her, his brain disengaged, and his body sought the sweetness of her lips. He leaned in and kissed Genevieve.
Her slight intake of breath should have stopped him, but her warm and malleable lips moved with his. Whatever was left of his reason vanished, and he kissed her as if nothing beyond this moment ever existed.
Chapter Eleven
Genevieve’s good sense always came through for her when other men tried to kiss her, but it fled the instant Christian leaned in, his desire apparent. Instead of backing away like a proper young lady, she raised her head and met his mouth with hers. Fireworks at the park last summer failed to match the explosions of light and color inside her. Beyond glorious, kissing Christian instilled a sense of absolute belonging—to him, to the life they must share or she would never again experience the wholeness of this single, perfect moment.
This, then, was love. The seedlings of it had planted themselves in her heart the first moment she saw him, and each word, each glance, each touch had nurtured them until they flowered into the love about which poets wrote. She loved Christian, and nothing was ever so wondrous as the rightness of that knowledge.
