by Elisa Braden
“Walters, arrange luncheon, as Lady Holstoke requested.” Holstoke’s voice was low and calm—until the butler left. Then, it was low and angry. “What in blazes is going on between you and my sister?”
Genie slid her hand from his arm and wandered away to sniff the beauteous orange lilies decorating a marble table. “I don’t know what you mean,” she lied.
“Yes, you do. Explain.”
“These are cut from that spot beneath the giant oak, are they not?”
“Eugenia.”
She spun to face him. He wore an intimidating scowl. Her spine rippled with shivers. “Trust me. It is for the best.”
“You haven’t the faintest notion what she has endured—”
“Actually, I do.”
“I’ll not allow anyone to do her further harm.”
She rolled her eyes. “As though I would wish to. Cruelty was your mother’s favorite sport, Holstoke. Not mine.”
He released a breath and rubbed at the back of his neck. “She is fragile.”
“Not as fragile as you might—”
“Damn and blast, Eugenia. You are a bloody scythe.”
She blinked, reeling at his harsh tone.
“When will you realize you cannot swing wildly about, catering to every passing whim, without cutting those around you to ribbons?”
Swallowing, she dropped her gaze and tried to absorb the sharp, burning ache. She tried to remember that he’d had little sleep and nothing decent to eat in the last two days. She reminded herself that minutes earlier, she’d been overwhelmed by admiration for the man, and that his protectiveness toward his sister was one of the reasons.
He stalked toward her until the toes of his riding boots entered her vision. “It is well past time for you to curb your impetuous nature. Boldness of your sort is not charming. It is brazen and destructive.”
“Are you through?” she asked.
Silence, long and tense.
“Well, then,” she said to his chin. “I suggest you ask your valet to arrange a bath, as it may improve your mood. Luncheon will be served in forty minutes. Until then, I will show myself about the castle.” She started past him.
He grasped her arm.
“Let go,” she said softly.
“I will not,” he gritted.
“This is becoming a tiresome habit. Let go, Holstoke.”
He pulled her closer. “Tell me why I am wrong.”
“We haven’t that sort of time. At most, I will live only another seventy years.”
His hands moved to her waist and drew her hips hard against him. “Tell me.” His face hovered near hers now, his breath hot against her chin. “Please.”
“You despise my boldness.”
One of his hands slid up the center of her back. The other loosened and removed her bonnet. His jaw came down beside hers as his nose nuzzled her temple.
“But without it, I would not be here.” She stiffened against mutinous tingling as he nibbled her earlobe. “Stop that.”
“Your boldness makes mistakes, Eugenia.”
“Once in a great while.”
“It causes you to speak without thinking.”
“Hmmph. That only shows how little you know of me. I rarely speak without thinking. My thinking is simply faster.”
“Look how often you lay your hands upon people.” Holstoke’s own hands had returned to her waist. Now, they squeezed as though he were agitated. “It is impulsive. Inappropriate.” His lips caressed her neck. His nose nuzzled and drew her in.
The tingles swarmed her senses. Weakened her knees. “Strangely, you don’t seem to mind when my brazen hands land upon you.”
“I’ll not have you touching other men, Eugenia.” His whisper fell hot against her ear. “Not ever again.”
“Hmm,” she murmured. “Anything else? Shall I refrain from speaking out of turn? Would you prefer I wear yellow?”
His chest pumped now, his eyes darkened and heated and riveted upon her mouth.
“No answer? Then, I have a suggestion, if it is not too bold.”
Hands gripping her hard, he squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his forehead to rest against hers. Gently, she cupped his chin. He jerked then pressed into her like a cat, his whiskers rough against her palm.
“Nobody knows my faults better than I, Holstoke. Not you. Not anyone. It is impossible to eliminate them, for if it weren’t, I would have done so already. One does not endure the biggest scandal of the past three years without wishing one were differently made.”
He opened his eyes. Held hers.
“Do not ask me to change my fundamental nature,” she whispered. “It won’t work, and you’ll only make us both miserable.”
Frowning as though she’d said something bizarre, he opened his mouth. Lifted his head away from hers. “I—I don’t want you to change.”
“No?”
“I want you to promise you will not touch other men.”
Her mouth quirked. She let her hand drop to his chest and gave him a pat. He really was a most peculiar man. “If I give my promise, you must grant me something in return.”
“What?”
“Trust me with your sister.”
His frown deepened.
“That is my condition. I shall even promise not to harm her. See how reasonable I am? I have offered you two promises for only one small bit of trust.”
“Why should a condition be necessary? A wife’s obedience should be—”
“I have already promised obedience. Perhaps you missed it. No doubt distracted during the vows. My hat was breathtaking, I admit.”
“Eugenia—”
“Now, you are demanding my assurance that I will not incidentally touch other men. Rather unreasonable, even by your standards, and yet I am willing to accommodate you.” She sniffed. “You have married a very generous woman.”
He looked tormented. There was no ice, no barrier. Simply a dark, private battle. “She is precious to me, Eugenia.”
“I know.” She waited, holding her breath.
His hands squeezed her one last time, his fingertips digging in. It didn’t hurt, but it spoke of the intensity inside him. Trust could not come easily to the son of Lydia Brand. His throat rippled on a swallow. “Very well,” he said. “Grant me your promise, and I will grant you my trust.”
Her admiration, temporarily dampened by his dark mood, swelled again. She managed to keep from kissing him, but just barely. “You have it.”
Once again, his eyes slid closed. He gathered her in and pressed his lips to the top of her head then to her temple then to her neck.
She thought she heard him whisper either, “Sank cod” or “Thank God,” several times, but she could not be certain. Her heart was pounding too loudly to hear much of anything.
Holstoke’s valet, a wiry man with a neat ring of hair around a bald head, entered the hall. “I do beg your pardon, my lord. My lady. Mr. Walters has asked whether her ladyship would care to visit her chambers before or after luncheon.”
“Before,” answered Holstoke.
“After,” answered Genie simultaneously. She blinked up at her husband, who glared down at her. “Why are you vexed?”
“It is too long to wait.”
“To see a chamber?”
He released a breath. Withdrew his hands. Turned and paced away from her while rubbing his neck. He whispered either, “Bloody hell” or “Flooding yell,” several times. She assumed it was the former, though his frustration made little sense. What difference would an hour or two make?
She approached the valet, whose name she could not remember, then smiled and nodded.
“Ross, my lady,” he said quietly, inclining his head. “At your service.”
Thank heaven for kindly, understanding servants. She nearly reached out to touch his arm. Just as her fingers lifted to do so, she folded them at her waist. “Thank you, Ross. Please tell Walters I shall enjoy seeing my chambers after luncheon. And, if it is not too much trouble, would y
ou arrange a bath for Lord Holstoke?”
Ross smiled. “Of course, my lady. May I do anything for you?”
She waved and grinned in return. “Oh, do not trouble yourself. I shall be contented with a good luncheon and a chance to walk about this magnificent place.” She leaned closer. “I have only seen the entrance hall, so far.”
Ross chuckled. “Might I suggest taking it slowly, my lady? Beauty is best when one has time to absorb it.”
“I agree entirely. Why, as we were coming up the drive—”
“Thank you, Ross. That will be all.” Though the abrupt command was aimed at the valet, Holstoke glared at her.
She set her hands on her hips. “What now? I kept my promise.”
“You smiled at him.”
“Honestly, Holstoke.” She held up her hand as he started to speak. “No, I will not promise to refrain from smiling. For pity’s sake, go and have a bath. I shall see you at luncheon.” She shook her head, retrieved her bonnet, and selected one of the pointed arches before leaving her husband to his own devices.
For the remainder of the afternoon, she explored the castle and spoke with servants. First, she encountered the housekeeper, Mrs. Green, in a drawing room near the entrance hall. The walls were swathed in soft yellow silk, and the furnishings were all gentle blues with the occasional spot of white. The windows were tall and looked out on the courtyard.
Mrs. Green was lovely. Genie sipped tea with her for a half-hour while learning everything she could about the household. Then she gave the housekeeper a list of changes, starting with luncheon. It would be served every day at precisely two, with dinner at eight.
Of course, their first luncheon was less than auspicious. Holstoke glowered from his end of the table in the cozy morning room, while Hannah refused to speak, stabbing at her plate with resentment. Genie did note, however, that both of them ate every bite of the delicious herbed lamb, pillow-soft bread, and honey cakes that were presented. The asparagus and cauliflower, she noted, were received with less enthusiasm.
Later, she roamed the remainder of the castle, ambling from room to astoundingly lovely room. In each chamber, she spoke with servants she passed, all of whom appeared capable, efficient, and best of all, kind. Every one had a gentle way about them. From the laundry maids to the under-butler to Mrs. Green and Mr. Walters, each spoke respectfully yet with sincere warmth that was noticeable.
Genie assumed it was Holstoke’s doing. He would not have haughty servants around his sister. Rather, he would only hire those who treated her tenderly.
Still, she’d noticed one befuddling theme in regard to the male servants, the footmen in particular. To a man, they were … well, rather plain. One might even say unattractive. She counted at least three whose teeth scarcely fit in their mouths. Another two were spotted or pockmarked. And the rest lacked a discernible jaw or had too much forehead or … drat. They were ugly. There was no way around it.
Ordinarily, a peer’s footmen, particularly in a household of Primvale’s grandeur, would be both tall and handsome. It was very nearly a rule, and Genie knew how well Holstoke liked his rules. Ugly footmen were rare and short ones scarce, indeed. Yet, all of Holstoke’s footmen matched either one description or both.
How very peculiar. But, then, Holstoke was a peculiar man. Only hours earlier, he’d demanded she never touch another man. Strange, indeed. This penchant for unattractive servants must be another of his many idiosyncrasies.
She shrugged away the observation as she continued her tour of Primvale Castle. It was magnificent, of course, from the two-story, walnut-paneled library to the thirty-foot-long dining room painted an unusual shade of amber to the master bedchamber with its emerald-green velvets and silver silks.
Chatting with Mr. Ross, who demonstrated how his lordship preferred his lamps lit low in the evenings, Genie discovered Holstoke suffered headaches. Dreadful, debilitating headaches, by the sound of it. Fortunately, the friendly Mr. Ross assumed she already knew—an assumption she did not bother to correct.
Next, she wandered through connecting doors into the mistress’s suite, which was now hers.
It was yellow.
The same yellow silk that dressed the walls of the main drawing room decorated the bedchamber reserved for Holstoke’s wife.
Yellow was not Genie’s favorite color. But it was Maureen’s.
Slowly, she wandered deeper into the room, running her fingers across the sky-blue damask of the coverlet, tracing the golden-mahogany posts of the canopied bed. The carpets were French, the designs swirling in shades of blue and rose. The windows were large and arched. The center one was a set of glass doors that led onto a terrace overlooking the sea.
It was a bloody masterpiece. Every carved feather of the marble cherubim flanking the fireplace, every feminine whorl of the writing desk, every blasted tassel on the little cerulean pillow that lay waiting to comfort its mistress on a rolled-armed sofa.
It was perfect.
For Maureen.
A moment passed in which she was certain she would collapse in upon herself.
She’d known. She’d known he’d loved Maureen once. She’d realized the risk that his feelings might not have changed. But she’d hoped a man as rational as Holstoke might understand how fruitless his feelings had been, particularly after six years.
Yet, here was the truth, dressed in yellow and cerulean blue. He loved Maureen still. He’d kept an entire room for her with feathered marble and tasseled pillows. He’d likely designed his gardens for her and amassed his wealth for her and gone to London for her.
The hollow filled with pain. It grew roots and seeped into the crevices until she thought she might crack open.
She tightened her fists and stared out toward the sea. Evening approached. The sun’s rays had turned golden. Slowly, she forced herself forward. Opened the glass doors. Stepped out onto the terrace.
The breeze nearly blew her back into the chamber. But she needed it. Wanted the wind’s strength. She gripped the cold stone balustrade and leaned forward, keeping her eyes on shimmering water.
It was better that she knew now. This way, she would never expect more than he could give.
She watched a gull swoop in an arc, white and gray and graceful. It blurred, and she swiped at her cheek.
Silly, girlish fancies were daft, anyway. Ladies indulged their husbands far too much when they were in love. Genie would not be daft. She would be firm. Practical.
Swiping at her cheek twice more, she swallowed the burning constriction in her throat.
She would know he did not love her. Could not love her. And she would know it from the start. It was an advantage, really. Knowing meant she would not stupidly imagine a kiss meant anything at all.
“My lady?”
She sniffed and blew out a breath before turning and giving the pretty, red-haired maid behind her a polite smile. “Yes?”
“I am Harriet, my lady. Mrs. Green suggested I might act as your lady’s maid, if it pleases you.”
Genie nodded. “That would be fine.”
The girl stepped forward. “Would you—may I fetch you a handkerchief, my lady?”
Swiping at her cheek with impatient fingers, Genie shook her head. “It is only the wind. A shawl would be lovely, though. And my bonnet. The pink one with the flowers.”
Harriet retrieved a soft white shawl and the bonnet, and Genie left the chamber she now regarded as Maureen’s room. Then, she set out to explore the wonders Holstoke had created outside the castle. For the next several hours, she meandered through garden after garden, beginning with the northern side of the castle, which featured a broad terrace leading down to a parterre. Orderly, formally arranged squares were filled with flowers. Between the squares were graveled paths dotted with benches. At the center of the design was a fourth fountain surrounded by yet more flowers. Good heavens, she’d never seen so many flowers. Beyond the formal north garden was a lake surrounded by leafy trees, irises, and flowering shrubs so vividl
y red, they appeared silken.
Slowly, she explored each garden “room,” working her way from north to west, the latter of which included two connecting walled gardens, one dedicated entirely to herbs and the other to vegetables. While these functioned as the castle’s kitchen garden, even they were aesthetically pleasing, with everything from cabbages and cucumbers to thyme and lavender arranged in an ornamental spiraling pattern. Each section of the spirals was neatly and discreetly labeled with little wooden signs staked into the soil. When she wandered past a pretty herb labeled “balm,” she reached down and plucked a leaf, rubbing it between her fingers and breathing it in.
Ah, yes. Lemons.
She took a nibble, enjoying the light, cooling flavor.
Continuing her explorations, she noticed the air turning the same color as the lavender she now stroked between her fingers. Dusk was approaching. Dinner would be served shortly.
She breathed in the scents of the herbs and lavender. Gathered her shawl closer. Made her way to the iron gate nestled into one of the garden’s lower walls.
Drat. She’d exited on the wrong side. She spun about, searching for an easy path back toward the castle. It was then she saw the shadow. A tall, dark shadow moving about inside a long glass house.
Her heart flipped and tumbled painfully. She squeezed her shawl between her fingers. Perhaps she should simply return to the castle and see him at supper.
He moved again, and this time, she could see him fully through glass and fronds. Tall. Serious. He examined something on the table before him then rubbed his neck as though he were tired.
Heart pumping out a rapid rhythm, she started to turn back to the kitchen garden. Then stopped. Pivoted. Made for the glass house.
As soon as she entered, the blast of warm, humid air surrounded her. She draped her shawl over one arm and removed her bonnet. Glancing around, she could see Holstoke in every aspect of the place—the neat, labeled shelves filled with plants both familiar and exotic, large and small. The long table strewn with several stacks of paper.
And there was Holstoke.
Her hand drifted to her belly. She paused to catch her breath.
He was in shirtsleeves. No waistcoat, no cravat, and certainly no cravat pin. Just a white linen shirt and dark trousers.
