by Elisa Braden
She should have been relieved, of course. Kissing was not her strong suit.
Instead, she wished she knew what those lips felt like against hers. She wished she’d been able to cup his jaw in her hands, breathe in his lemony scent, and discover the source of the heat that had made her heart pound at a thunderous pace.
Now, six days later, she sifted through her basket of red ribbons, hoping this dratted unease would pass soon. “Perhaps white would be better,” she murmured. “White flowers, white gauze, white feathers.”
“Ugh,” Kate scoffed. “White is so … un-Genie.”
“Appropriate, you mean.”
“Predictable. You are getting married. To Holstoke!” Kate laughed and ambled to the opposite corner of the parlor to pour a cup of tea. “Heavens, everything about this is surprising. Why should your hat be anything less?”
Genie propped her cheek against her hand and stared down at the beginnings of her headdress, which she was remaking for the third time.
Surprising. Yes, she supposed her imminent marriage was unexpected. The biggest surprise would be Holstoke’s, of course. The only thing she dreaded more was the journey to Dorsetshire. Three days in a cramped carriage with the silent, fragile Hannah? Heavens, Genie would have to mind her every word.
“You know, it reminds me of a play,” said Kate.
Genie snorted. “Of course it does.”
“In The Taming of the Shrew, Katherina initially battles with Petruchio, yet they share a spark from the first. Their match is a contentious one, but it all ends rather well.”
“For Petruchio, perhaps,” Genie muttered.
“She even has a fetching younger sister who also marries.” Kate plopped down on the chair beside Genie’s. “Except the sister’s name is Bianca. And my name is Katherine. And even if your name were Katherine, you would never agree to declare the sun was the moon at your husband’s whim.” She sipped her tea. “You would sooner bury him beneath your bridal bed, I suspect.”
Genie plucked up a peacock feather and a violet ribbon, holding them up to the light. “So, you are saying my circumstances are nothing at all like your play.”
“The comparison does fall apart a bit upon closer inspection.”
This was why Genie rarely paid Kate much mind. Her sister—lovely though she was—spoke in a terribly circular fashion.
“Come to that, Holstoke would be more apt to cut down a brute like Petruchio than become one, himself.” Another sip. “Particularly if you were treated roughly. Heavens, can you imagine? He was incensed by Mrs. Pritchard!” Kate chuckled.
“Holstoke is honorable.” Genie discarded the peacock feather and replaced it with a yellow ostrich plume. “Too honorable, sometimes.”
“He is quite protective of you.”
Genie chose not to reply.
“One might say ferociously so.”
“Do you have a point, Kate?”
“I think he cares for you.”
Her heart twisted tight. “He cared for Maureen.”
“That was ages ago. Surely you don’t think he is still in love—”
“Holstoke is the protective sort,” Genie retorted. “Only look at how he treats his sister. I am certain he would protect a ragged pup he found on the street, provided that pup did not eat his hat. It is simply who he is.”
“Hmm. I doubt very much he would offer to marry a ragged pup.”
“He has no special feeling for me, silly.” Except that he had pinned her to the carriage seat and demanded she agree to wed him. She’d scarcely known what to say. Those eyes had pierced through every response, leaving her staggering.
She’d wanted to tell him the truth. Then, she’d thought of Mama and Papa and Kate. Dear, circular Kate with her Shakespeare obsession and sweet, fanciful notions about a love match. Kate deserved happiness untainted by scandal. Mama and Papa deserved to be released from the Great Burden of Genie. For that matter, Dunston and Blackmore deserved a respite from threatening all the rude men who insulted her.
She should have told Holstoke the truth. But after being dismissed from Mrs. Pritchard’s employ, her plan to open a shop and achieve independence as a scandalously fashionable milliner had suffered a blow. If she could not even manage to remain employed as a lowly assistant for a full year, how could she expect to run her own shop successfully?
In truth, Holstoke’s offer—demand, really—had come at a vulnerable time. She’d seen a way out, and she’d taken it. She would marry him, even though it transferred the Great Burden of Genie onto Holstoke’s undeserving shoulders. Even though she might never be the sort of wife any fully functioning man would want.
She would try. That had been her silent vow as she’d gazed up into shockingly heated green ice and given the answer he’d wanted. She would try to be a good wife.
Surely Holstoke would not be too demanding. He’d always struck her as rather chilly, more interested in plants than passions. He hadn’t seemed cold in the carriage, of course, but that had almost certainly been anger rather than ardor. No, in all probability, Holstoke would require little more from her than what was necessary to beget children.
And children would be lovely, even if the begetting was not.
Kate snorted. “You are daft. After the wedding, you will realize I am right. Whenever you’re near, he seems unaccountably feverish. I cannot explain it.”
Genie shook her head and dropped the yellow plume in favor of brown velvet ribbon. “Fairy stories again?”
Kate clicked her tongue and leaned across the table. Then, she plucked up a length of coral silk and draped it over Genie’s wrist. “The red, dearest. It was red all along.”
Later, as Genie pleated satin lining and stitched piping around a tall poke, she contemplated both the pitfalls and benefits of becoming Holstoke’s wife.
First the pitfalls: They had little in common. According to Maureen, who corresponded regularly with Hannah, Holstoke spent much of his time pottering about his gardens and glass houses, writing scientific papers which he then submitted to the little plant club that continually denied him entry. Genie could not imagine a more tedious enterprise. She knew nothing about plants, apart from which ones best decorated a lady’s coiffure, but surely there were more thrilling ways to spend one’s hours.
Additionally, she had not lied about Dorsetshire. Rambling about the coastal countryside with nothing but wind and wildflowers to divert her thoughts from the abysmal loneliness? Good heavens. She must devise some useful purpose, else be driven mad.
As she unwound a length of green ribbon and began wrapping wire to form leaves and stems, she focused upon the more beneficial aspects of becoming Holstoke’s wife.
Truly, she did admire the man. He was kind to his sister. Noble. Tall. And, as she’d come to realize, quite handsome in his way. The eyes were extraordinary, of course. The lips … yes, he had superb lips. She might not even mind kissing if she were kissing Holstoke.
Sighing, she curved her green vine along the hat’s brim and stitched it into place. Best not to delve too far into the subject of marital relations. It made her stomach bubble and ache.
She frowned and moved on to more practical considerations. A generous allowance was likely. He was wealthier than any man of her acquaintance—including the Duke of Blackmore. Maureen had described Holstoke’s castle as “astonishingly palatial for an ascetic man.” Genie wasn’t certain she believed her, as Maureen could be overly lavish in her compliments. However, Lady Wallingham had once complained Holstoke was “determined to lay ownership to every grain of English soil.” His holdings must be vast, indeed. Surely he would not begrudge his wife sufficient funds to purchase a few millinery supplies.
Her grin grew as she thought upon it. Oh, how splendid her new workshop would be—yards and yards of ribbon, acres and acres of lace. Proper shears and sturdy blocks and a sizable table. Ten—no, twelve feet at least. Yes, a long, beautiful table she need never share. Not with Fancy Nancy. Not with anyone at all.
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Good heavens, this marriage might be just the thing. For the first time since Papa had kissed her forehead and shaken Holstoke’s hand with hearty approval, she did not feel queasy. She felt … good.
A tall, handsome, honorable husband whom she admired. Children, eventually—she quite enjoyed children. A generous allowance. The possibility of a truly expansive millinery workshop. This marriage promised to be far more palatable than she’d anticipated, particularly if Holstoke proved an undemanding husband.
She nibbled her lip. Unfortunately, she could not be certain of the last part until they were, in fact, husband and wife.
A knock sounded at the door. It was Emerson. “Beg your pardon, my lady. You have a visitor. Mr. Moody has asked to speak with you.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Do show him in.”
Red-cheeked and smiling, Lewis Moody entered the parlor with his cap in hand and bowed. “M’lady. Thank ye for seein’ me.”
She stood and went to greet him. “Don’t be silly, Lewis. I am pleased you’ve come. Tell me, how do you like working for Mr. Smith?”
“Splendid, m’lady. He is a most generous employer. Already, I have learned new methods of feltin’ and …” Lewis swallowed and dropped his eyes to his cap, twisting the thing in his hands. “That is why I come, m-m’lady.”
“Lewis, do call me Eugenia. We were once conspirators, you and I,” she teased. “Surely we needn’t be so formal.”
His eyes came up, gleaming and avid. Round cheeks flushed deeper until his freckles disappeared. “Lady Eugenia.”
“Hmmph. That will do, I suppose.” She gave him a chiding grin. “Now, what brings you here?”
He swallowed again. “I—I wish to thank ye proper, m’la—er, Lady Eugenia.” The portly man blew out a breath and glanced to the ceiling before meeting her eyes once again. “Ye’ve shown me great kindness, and I am most grateful.”
“Is that all? Oh, Lewis, you needn’t have come all this way—”
He stepped closer. “It is what I most admire. Ye never treated me anythin’ other than kind, though ye be a lady and I nothin’ but a common hatter.”
She tilted her head, acknowledging his thanks with a pat upon his shoulder. “Well, I am pleased you have landed well after I caused your misfortune.”
Abruptly, he dropped to his knee and grasped her hand.
“Oh! What in—”
“I wish to pledge m’self to ye, m’lady. Lady Eugenia.”
“Lewis, really. There is no need—”
He clutched her fingers and gazed up at her with a worshipful air. “I shall be yer knight, though I am but a humble hatter. And whenever ye have need of me, I shall come to ye at once. Or as quick as I can locate a hack. Assumin’ walkin’ ain’t faster.”
She swallowed the bubble of laughter that threatened to erupt. Sweet, silly man. He’d been reading too much Ivanhoe. “You are a true gallant, Lewis Moody.” She wondered if she shouldn’t fetch a wooden spoon and declare him Knight of the Ottoman Empire.
He kissed her fingers and grasped her hand in both of his. “My sword is yers, Lady Eugenia. Now and forever.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw a tall, lean shadow move through the open doorway and into the light from the parlor window.
Drat. Drat, drat, drat.
“A man who wishes to continue breathing would be well advised to keep his sword a proper distance from a lady.” The low, flinty voice flicked off the oak-paneled walls with an icy snap. Green eyes shone like frost. “Particularly this lady, who is soon to be my wife.”
Genie’s stomach sank.
Lewis’s eyes went ridiculously round. He dropped her hand and scrambled to his feet. Spun to face the towering lord.
“Holstoke,” she breathed, quickly stepping between the two men. “It was simply a gesture of gratitude …”
He ignored her, stalking slowly toward Lewis, pinning the man with his unblinking stare. Heavens, Holstoke did have a talent for intimidation. He halted mere inches from her, straight and tall and cold, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes boring into Lewis above her shoulder. Softly, he spoke one word: “Leave.”
Lewis squeaked. And bowed. And fled. For a portly man, he moved fast.
“Was that really necessary?” she said, watching Lewis scurry away for a second time in one week.
She’d expected Holstoke to thaw after the other man’s departure, but he merely transferred that frigid, opaque, penetrating stare to her.
“Why are you looking at me that way?”
Nothing shifted. He scarcely blinked, his neck rigid, his body still.
“Holstoke. Say something.”
When he finally did, she wished she hadn’t made the demand.
“As we will be married tomorrow, let us be clear, Eugenia.” His voice was soft. Cold. “Whatever your prior proclivities, when you are my wife, you will conduct yourself as befits my wife.”
“Proclivities,” she murmured, her belly swooping painfully.
“I will not be made a fool.”
It took a moment to catch her breath. “Is that what you think of me? That I have proclivities?”
“I am a rational man.”
She snorted.
“Rationality means following reason and evidence to a logical conclusion. Where you are concerned, evidence abounds.”
She hadn’t thought anyone could make her bleed again. But he’d done it. The gash was a tearing pain through her middle. Breathing hurt. Looking at him hurt. Why had she thought he’d be different? Because he, too, refused to conform?
How daft. Even a peculiar man was still a man.
He leaned closer, no signs of annoyance or anger. Simply ice. He smelled lightly of lemons. Otherwise, he was a stranger. “Tomorrow, when you promise faithfulness, I will hold you to it,” he said quietly. Carefully. Precisely. “Whatever might have come before is of little consequence. What comes after matters a great deal. Is this acceptable to you?”
She tightened her jaw. Steeled her spine. Opened her mouth to speak.
Lost her nerve.
She nodded.
Calmly, he straightened. “Then I shall see you at St. George’s. Good day, Lady Eugenia.”
*~*~*
Phineas dismounted onto Park Lane and handed the reins of Caballus to his groom. He took care with his movements. Slow. Steady. He tilted his head a bit to block the glare of the sun with his hat’s brim, but also to watch the ground.
He was half-blind at the moment, flashes of white flickering around the edges of his vision. It was but a nuisance.
The knife piercing his skull was worse.
But even that did not compare to what lay beneath it. He’d crushed that black thing as small as he could. He’d wrapped it in logic and forced it down far below the surface.
There, it burned like a coal.
He’d ignored it while finalizing the marriage settlement with Lord Berne. He’d ignored it on the ride home. It did not like being ignored.
Entering Holstoke House, he handed his hat to the footman. The boy’s handsome face swam in and out of his vision.
The coal flared bright, and he smothered it harder.
“My lord, would you care for a pot of your tea?”
He breathed until the urge to vomit passed. “Yes. Bring it to my chamber, if you please.”
The footman nodded his understanding, a crinkle of sympathy edging his handsome brow. “Straight away.”
Phineas moved to the stairs, easing up the first three steps before he heard voices. His sister. And a man.
He frowned, rubbing at his right temple. Climbing to the first floor, he followed the sounds toward the drawing room.
“When did you say Lord Holstoke would return?” the man asked.
“I did not.”
“Mmm. I thought you had.”
“You thought wrong, Mr. Hawthorn. One has the impression it is not the first time.”
“Was that an insult, Miss Gray?” The man’s voice sounded
amused. Intrigued.
“An observation. The insult is your presence here.”
As usual, Hannah’s voice was supremely calm, but Phineas knew her well. A thread of apprehension—fear and worry—ran beneath.
He made his way to the open doors. Inside, Jonas Hawthorn stood too close to her, a mere foot away. Little wonder she’d treated him with hostility.
“Hawthorn,” he snapped, wincing at his own voice. “What are you doing here?”
The runner turned slowly, as though reluctant to remove his eyes from Hannah. Her cheeks were … pink. What the devil? Hannah rarely blushed. He had obviously upset her deeply.
Hawthorn crossed the room in a few long strides. He inclined his head briefly as he approached, the only sign of deference to Phineas’s title. “Coroner’s inquest for Miss Froom is complete. They’ve concluded murder by poisoning. I expect the results for Lady Theodosia shortly. Froom and Glencombe also have hired surgeons. Reports should come within the week. They remain convinced you’re behind their daughters’ deaths.” A slow grin appeared. “Now, me? I don’t believe it. Why would a murderer offer to help catch himself?” Hawthorn shook his head. “You do still intend to cooperate, don’t you, Holstoke?”
Glaring light from the windows brightened the halos obscuring his vision. He struggled to bring Hawthorn’s face into focus. Brown hair, gray eyes. Square jaw and deep cynicism. Handsome, he supposed, though a bit rough. He appeared to be around Phineas’s age, an inch or two shorter—six feet, perhaps. Phineas blinked and examined the man’s clothes. Rough, black wool coat. Brown trousers. Plain waistcoat. All were ill-fitting and loose, giving him the appearance of a vagabond.
Eugenia had been right. Hawthorn dressed quite plainly, as though he either couldn’t afford better or couldn’t be bothered. Bow Street runners typically received a middling salary, but those with ambition supplemented their incomes by claiming rewards offered by men like Froom and Glencombe. A competent officer could certainly afford a decent coat. A talented one could live quite comfortably, indeed. If Drayton hadn’t already assured him Hawthorn was “the cleverest of the Bow Street lot,” Phineas might assume his skills were as shabby as his apparel.
