by Jo Beverley
She’d responded to his kisses like a wicked woman from the start, without a scrap of maidenly modesty. He’d not forced her into his bed, or seduced her with promises. She’d left the ballroom willing to make love to him and he knew that.
He gathered her hair on the top of her head and pushed pins in, as deftly as the finest maid. He even found and added the discarded spray of silk roses. She looked in the mirror. Not up to Regeanne’s standards, but it would do.
She stood, putting all her purpose into being calm. She wouldn’t flee this room like a devastated virgin, even if she was one. Thank heaven, thank heaven, for a fragile maidenhead.
She found her fan and slipped the ribbon on her wrist, then checked that she’d left no other evidence. Evidence! The rumpled bed and sweet, mysterious smell would tell the servants someone had been his lover.
Not who, however.
Though the thought choked her, she’d have to return to the party and hope no one had noticed their absence.
“Genova.”
She turned at the door.
“I’m very sorry.”
She knew what he meant, but she deliberately misunderstood.
“Please don’t worry. I won’t let this trap you.”
Once outside, she hurried away, but all her willpower couldn’t stop tears. She turned toward her room and almost ran into it.
And there she wept until she was limp, until she was drained of everything, even pain. For now. Grateful for generous hosts, she poured herself a glass of the sweet ratafia Thalia liked.
Thank heavens it wasn’t brandy. She might never be able to drink brandy again.
As she drank, she became aware of her body, of soreness and lingering sensitivities. Then it struck her. What if she was with child?
She drained the glass, accepting that the possibility had been there all along. If she had conceived, it was his fault as much as hers, but she wouldn’t make it into a chain to bind him.
He would never know, because if he did he probably would insist on marrying her. She was the antithesis of Lady Booth Carew. She could not bear the thought of marriage by force.
For now, she must do her best to undermine any suspicion. She checked her appearance again, then dabbed at her eyes with a cold cloth. She’d go to the dimly lit ballroom, where the ravages of the night might not show, and dance her cares away.
Chapter Forty-two
Ash stood in his room half dressed, feeling strangely at a loss. His earlier euphoria at being free of Molly’s schemes, and the growing hope of an end to the conflict with the Mallorens, now seemed like dust.
Genova.
He had lost her.
No, he’d thrown her away.
After only a few days, he couldn’t imagine life without her, but that was his course, it would seem.
She’d played such a crucial part in clearing his mind and clearing his name. Without her, he might not have broken free of hatred. Without her, he would not have learned the truth about Molly.
Despite her delusions, he would have left the child to the care of the parish charity in Hockham. He would have left money, certainly, but he wasn’t sure he’d have given the child a thought thereafter. He certainly wouldn’t have been around to discover the truth, that Molly had never been pregnant at all.
He should be celebrating. His life was now in order again. He would soon be able to move forward with his plans to restore his property and powers. Grandy would hate peace with the Mallorens, and perhaps resist his other plans, but he would deal with that.
He should be celebrating, but he felt dull in the extreme.
Or perhaps simply unhappy.
Devil take it—he smashed his hand into an oaken post of the bed—he couldn’t marry Genova Smith!
The bed only shook, but his hand hurt like Hades. He welcomed that. He deserved that.
She brought nothing with her.
Except herself, her wits, and her courage.
How many women would have been able to make a dignified exit from this room? None that he knew.
And she’d shot a man. He should be grateful there were no pistols to hand here. But no. He corrected that flippant thought. She valued justice, his Genova.
His Genova.
Damn and blast!
He could smell her perfume, and her, but it wallowed amid the smell of lust, and devil take it, Fitz would be coming up here soon. He couldn’t be expected to put up with this.
Ash tugged on the bellpull, frustrated by not being able to hear it ring. Pestilential idea. He yanked again and the wire came off in his hand, staggering him back.
“Hell and damnation!” He hurled the thing into a corner.
Henri, his valet, rushed in, jacket disordered, his powdered wig askew. “M’lord, I thought you with the dancing!” He looked around and Ash saw his expression. It said, Not again. “The sheets, they need changing, m’lord. I will see to it, m’lord. And your clothes…”
Henri went to the bell, then stared at the hole. “Your indulgence, m’lord,” he said, bowing out to find servants the old-fashioned way.
Ash didn’t want to be here when they arrived. He dressed himself and found a button missing from his waistcoat. He unbuttoned all the rest so it wouldn’t show. There would be plenty of other disheveled revelers. He combed and tied his hair, his mind tangled in combing Genova’s…
After a quick check in the mirror, he escaped. He couldn’t face company yet and went to the picture gallery, cold and quiet as it had been the last time.
“Is this a damsel that I see before me?…”
He didn’t even have the excuse of meddling witches for the bloody mess he’d made of everything.
The moonlight was dulled by clouds, making the paintings more ghostly than before.
Damn your prosy faces! If you were my ancestors, you wouldn’t want me to marry a penniless nobody. I’m trying to do the right thing. To do my duty!
The portrait of a young, wary Rothgar seemed to accuse him. Of what? Rothgar would laugh to see the Trayce family stuck in such folly.
Then Ash remembered peace. Damn peace.
It was all very well for Rothgar to disapprove. He had a thriving marquessate and a large, loving family.
There was a date on the scroll tumbling off the table by his cousin’s pale hand. Ash went closer and read, 1744. The year the Marquess of Rothgar and his wife had died of some virulent fever. The year Ash’s cousin had inherited the title.
Ash knew the Malloren family tree as well as his own. Rothgar had inherited at nineteen, which was young, but not as young as inheriting a title at eight.
For the first time, however, Ash considered what that must have been like. Rothgar had had no grandparents to take care of everything. His mother’s family had been alienated—were, in fact, active enemies. His paternal grandparents had been already dead. His stepmother’s family was French.
Rothgar’s half brothers and sisters would have been children, not support. Elf Malloren and Ash were of an age, so she and her twin brother would have been seven.
Ash remembered the day when the news had reached Cheynings that his grandmother’s bete noire, her Malloren son-in-law, had died. She’d ordered a feast and sat Ash at the table to enjoy it. At last, she’d crowed, justice had fallen on the monster’s head. The hand of God had struck, blasting him and his wife, leaving the house of Malloren in the hands of a wild youth.
She’d made Ash drink toasts, so even though they had only been watered wine, he’d become woozy. He remembered being happy because she was happy. The Mallorens were evil and a blight upon the land. Anything that destroyed them was God’s work.
Children believe what they are told.
When Grandy heard that the new marquess was insisting on keeping his half brothers and sisters in his care, she’d danced around the schoolroom with him, singing, “We’ve won, we’ve won! They’re doomed.”
Soon, however, his father’s death had loomed larger than the affairs of the Mallorens, who wer
e only names to him. He didn’t miss his father, but he’d minded being moved from the schoolroom to the marquess’s suite of rooms. At least he’d been allowed to bring his nursery governess down with him.
He’d had to go to court at eight to be presented to old George II, who’d pinched his cheeks and teased him about women. Grandy had pointed out Rothgar in a whisper of hate. Ash had seen a man looking very like this picture, and to an eight-year-old, Rothgar had seemed terrifyingly tall and adult.
“He’s a devil,” his grandmother had whispered, turning him away. He hadn’t know then that Rothgar’s success in holding his family together and continuing the Malloren prosperity was already burning into his grandmother like acid.
He hadn’t known she was actively seeking to balk Rothgar’s work until he was sixteen. His grandmother had rounded off a lecture about gaming with the gleeful news that Bryght Malloren had turned out to be a gamester and could be depended upon to ruin the family.
She hadn’t said as much, but Ash had suspected then that she’d played a part. He’d thought it an excellent plan, the Mallorens being so despicable. And after all, if a man played to ruination, it was his own fault.
Ash had returned from his grand tour to find the Mallorens unruined and Grandy a bitter woman pouring guineas after guineas into a losing battle. Bryght Malloren was gambling with investments rather than dice, and winning. Brand Malloren was overseeing improvements in the estates. The youngest brother, Lord Cynric, had gone into the army, apparently against Rothgar’s wishes, but was having brilliant success.
There’d been a brief moment of hope. King George II liked a rake, so Ash had become the sort of rake the king enjoyed, and had picked up plums and preferments by the handful.
But then George II had keeled over on his close-stool one morning, and his grandson George III had ascended to the throne. The new king was young, shy, stiff, and ruled by his mother and the smooth Earl of Bute. He was also an admirer of the Marquess of Rothgar, who had been cultivating him for years.
Rothgar was no saint, but he was discreet, which Ash had never bothered to be. There’d been no hope of changing his reputation in a day, so the Trayce family were in the shadows, and the Mallorens basked close to the sun.
Now, at last, he had a new chance. Not to destroy, but to compete with the Mallorens in power, wealth, and prosperity. To gather the remnants of his family and build on that. To improve his land, to take his place in shaping the country’s laws and systems.
But it required marriage and money. It required someone like Damaris Myddleton, whom he did not, could not—could never, he suspected—love.
“What I desire, my lord, is a husband. A true husband, a loving home, a safe, secure world into which to bring legitimate children.”
Breath painful in his throat, Ash pushed that vision away. Duty must come before desire.
He couldn’t face company. He returned to his room and found it pristine, all trace of love removed.
Chapter Forty-three
Boxing Day.
Genova opened her eyes and knew it must be late. She’d danced until the dancing stopped. Danced with every man in the house, she felt. Except Ash.
She’d not seen him again.
She’d kissed until the mistletoe boughs were stripped of power, and drunk to hold the numbness that let her dance and kiss. When she’d eventually staggered to her bed, she’d collapsed into sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
And here she was, awake to a miserable new day.
She felt smothered by too much sleep and the remnants of drink, but memory, alas, lived on. What a wonderful gift it would be to be able to scrub away painful memories as if scrubbing a spot off a wall.
Thalia was fast asleep and snoring. Genova ran her hands over her body, remembering. Despite the follies and dangers, their lovemaking could have been wonderful if she hadn’t been so stupid. Now she had to face him again.
No sooner than she had to.
She climbed out of bed and went to summon Regeanne, but then remembered being told that at Rothgar Abbey, Boxing Day was the servants’ holiday. As much as possible, people were to manage without.
Someone had lit the fire and left washing water by it to keep warm, so she used it, then dressed, choosing a simple, dark green gown. There must be breakfast laid out, but she was reluctant to emerge to face the world. To face Ash.
In any case, she wasn’t hungry. Her eye caught the automated hearth. Fire on demand. Fire under control. What message had there been in that gift?
She sat by the window, looking out over the estate. She supposed Ash’s estate at Cheynings must be similar. But then she remembered Lady Calliope saying that it was neglected because that woman spent nothing on it.
Doubtless Damaris Myddleton’s money would create a deer park, topiary, and a knot garden. That lay below this window, beyond a small lawn edged with box.
A dog raced into the area as if pursuing prey. Then another. A moment later, she realized they were chasing a ball. One caught it and ran back, pursued by the other. They met a man. Two men. And two children.
Lord Rothgar and his brother Lord Bryght were laughing at something, their two elegant dogs frisking, begging for the ball to be thrown again. Persian gazelle hounds someone had told her. Lord Bryght hurled the ball over the hedge, and the dogs streaked off.
Little Master Malloren, bundled up in layers until he was almost round, toddled after, chirruping. An older boy—one of the guests, but she didn’t know his name—went after, apparently to keep an eye on the little one.
The dogs ran back and one gave the ball to Rothgar. He carelessly dried it on his breeches, then called to the boy. The boy turned and, grinning, caught the ball. The dogs loped over to him, tails wagging. The boy hurled, but it only went as far as the hedge. One dog raced after it anyway. The other had a toddler around its neck.
Genova rose, even though she was too far away to do anything, but the dog lay down as if trained to it and obliged with a sort of gentle wrestling match until Lord Bryght rescued it by scooping up his son and tossing him into the air. Lord Rothgar produced another ball and joined with the older boy in amusing the indefatigable dogs.
Genova leaned against the windowsill, watching this family play, touched that it survived, even among the aristocracy.
Someone knocked on the door.
She opened it and found a maid there, curtsying. “Lady Arradale and Lady Bryght are breakfasting in Lady Walgrave’s room, and invite you and Lady Thalia there, Miss Smith.”
She supposed a lying-in meant some servants were needed.
Genova considered the invitation warily. Could the ladies have learned what she and Ash had done? What would be the result? An attempt to force the marriage? If true, better to deal with it swiftly, but there was no need to wake Thalia.
She took up her shawl and followed the maid.
She was ushered into a quite crowded room, since as well as the three ladies, a nursery maid sat by the cradle, and an older woman sat by the window. She was probably the midwife. Genova was welcomed with apparent delight and invited to the sofa where Portia and Lady Arradale sat. A table before them was spread with food, and carried pots of tea, coffee, and chocolate.
Lady Elf, blooming, was lying on a chaise.
Genova was braced to be quizzed about Ash, but chatter was general. Portia teased her on enjoying last night but seemed to have no suspicion of anything but dancing.
At a pause in the conversation, Genova said, “I saw Lord Rothgar and Lord Bryght out in the garden with the dogs and Master Francis.”
“They all needed to work off Christmas fidgets,” said Portia. “Especially Francis!”
“He’s a charming child.”
“Isn’t he? May the next one be as perfect.”
Something in her smile suggested that the next one might be on the way. Lady Elf announced that children were always different, giving her own family as example, and relating some hair-raising tales.
On
e involved the twins climbing out of a window and down the ivy on the north wall. For some reason, this made Portia blush. That story led to concern over Lady Elf’s twin, who was in Nova Scotia, where matters were stirring unpleasantly due to some problems over taxation and the military.
Talk wandered between politics, society, and family, and Genova learned that Lord Rothgar had been here a number of times. He’d held the baby, even though it had been fussing.
A quiet excitement alerted her to the significance of that. Lady Arradale’s eyes were bright, and the other ladies seemed as thrilled. Had Lord Rothgar finally proved to his own satisfaction that he could deal with a crying baby?
Had that problem been part of the reason for having this accouchement here? If so, it was an extraordinary gesture by his sister and brother-in-law.
The baby began a warbling complaint, and everyone’s attention turned to him as he was brought, fussing, to his mother to feed. The guests stood to leave.
When Lady Arradale and Portia picked up a tray each, Genova remembered the lack of servants. It was extraordinary and could end up being amusing. Could these grand people fend for themselves? Then she wondered if the nursery staff was on holiday, too. She must go and see how Sheena was.
Outside the door, Genova and Portia were alone for a moment. “Are you still going to divorce yourself from Ashart?” Portia asked.
Genova prayed nothing showed on her face. “That is our arrangement.” In fact, she would do it today. They didn’t argue anymore, but surely she could find some pretext.
“But you deal extremely well. Everyone notes it.”
“We merely act well, Portia.”
With that, Genova escaped. She found the nurseries deserted apart from Sheena, Lawrence, and the baby.
Lawrence Carr started nervously. “I have permission to be here, ma’am!”
Someone had found him sturdier clothes, and he’d had either a bath or a good wash. This was a kind house, but he’d be more comfortable elsewhere. What was she to do with them, and why were they here? Were they hiding from the servants’ holiday because they felt out of place?
