Jo Beverly

by Winter Fire

  He surged out of the bed. “You unreasonable termagant! Whatever you’re up to, you’re completely unsuited to be companion to my great-aunts. God knows what your plan is there.”

  “Plan! My only plan is to take care of them. What is yours, my lord?”

  “To rid them of weevils like you.”

  “Weevils!” Infuriated, Genova pushed him away with all her strength. He toppled, but he grabbed the front of her robe as he fell, taking her with him back onto his mattress. Genova thumped on top of him, hearing her tambour frame crack.

  As soon as she had her breath back, she hit him over the head with the sagging halves of it. “Plague take you, you poxy knave!”

  Laughing, he snatched it, tossed it, then cinched her to him for a sizzling kiss, turning them as he did so, so she was under him.

  Genova fought and he released her lips, still laughing. For the first time in her life she understood the urge to scratch someone’s eyes out, but the vile man had her trapped.

  And she was on fur. On the deep wolf fur of his cloak that she felt sliding beneath her, even through clothes. Somehow, she’d lost her slippers, so when she tried to use her feet to escape him, silky fur fought her.

  “I’m sorry about your needlework frame,” he murmured in apparent seriousness, though something not so sober danced in his eyes.

  “Let me go so I can see what damage you’ve done.”

  “You pushed me.”

  “With provocation.”

  “Perhaps.” Smiling, he nuzzled her cheek. “Or is this what you wanted all along?”

  She heaved at him again, but he hardly moved. “Let me up or I’ll scream.”

  “Do you really want to be forced to marry me?”

  “I’ll see you hang for rape.”

  “Unlikely, don’t you think?”

  His confidence was as unshakable as his body, and probably with reason.

  “You’re a fascinating woman, Miss Genova Smith,” he whispered against her cheek, so she had to fight for sanity.

  “And you are a rakish reprobate, Lord Ashart.”

  If she could get a hand free, could she reach his pistol? She wriggled. His response was to press down more heavily, amused eyes on hers.

  “Does it take one to know one? You’re an adventuress, my spicy pandolce, and if you want adventure…”

  He lowered his lips to hers and somehow she could not bring herself to fight as she should. Pandolce. The Christmas sweet bread of Genova in Italy. Sweet as his lips on hers.

  It had been so long since she’d blended her mouth with a man’s like this, felt a strong body over hers. She sighed and surrendered, knowing she’d wanted this since she’d met him. And dear heaven, how he could kiss….

  “Ash! Molly! Oh, by Jupiter, I do beg your pardon.”

  Genova wrenched her lips free and stared over the marquess’s shoulder. A man and woman in outer clothes stood in the open doorway. If she was stunned, so were they. They were staring at her as if she were a three-headed monster.

  “I say…” said the man, a smirk starting.

  Ashart was off her, standing, and she was somehow standing beside him in a movement so swift she could hardly comprehend it. But she comprehended disaster. She’d been discovered in a man’s bedroom in her nightclothes. On his bed. Under him.

  Kissing him!

  For the first time in her life she wanted to throw a fit of the vapors.

  “Miss Smith fell,” Ashart said, as if bored.

  Genova glanced, praying that some magical transformation had dressed him, at least in a robe. He was still in his long nightgown open down his chest, his feet bare.

  “How dare you burst into my room, Brokesby?”

  The thin-faced man with small eyes laughed nervously. “I say, Ash. Arranged to meet Molly here. Assumed she’d be with you. This is a turn up for the books, though.”

  A maidservant passed by in the corridor behind the couple and stopped to boggle.

  Ashart swept up a silky gray robe and put it on as he walked to the door and shut it, the couple inside. Genova could feel the fury in him as if it were a heat, but what good would fury do?

  “Permit me to make this situation clear, Brokesby, so that you and your sister will be in no danger of displeasing me with your tattle.”

  Brokesby and his equally thin-faced sister went still, but Genova wasn’t sure even Ashart’s fury could silence them. There was something in the sister’s eyes that already relished the whispering of this tale.

  “This parlor is part of the rooms taken by my great-aunt Lady Thalia Trayce, and this lady is her companion. I spent the night here because there was no other bed. She came into the room to retrieve her needlework and fell in the dark.”

  Genova looked around, picked up her cracked tambour frame, and dangled it as hopeful evidence. One splinter had pierced the cloth, and she anxiously eased the work off it.

  “Of course, Ash. Of course! But what of Molly?”

  “We thought she was here,” the woman said.

  “And why, Tess, would you think that?”

  Alerted by menace, Genova looked up. The marquess’s expression was merely cold, but color flared in the woman’s face.

  “She did say she might…”

  “She did say she might to me, too. To be precise, she made an appointment to meet me here, which is why I have spent a devilish night in an uncomfortable bed. She never arrived and I am considerably displeased with her. I hope,” Ashart added, in a tone that sparked prickles on Genova’s skin, “not to be displeased with you, too.”

  The couple seemed to have the same reaction. They backed toward the door spouting reassurance.

  Then the adjoining door opened and Thalia came in, smiling brightly in her ruffled pink robe. “Ashart, Genova! How naughty of you to tryst in déshabillé, but love will be love.” She beamed at the Brokesbys. “I see you’ve discovered our little secret. Ashart and dear Genova are engaged to marry!”

  Chapter Ten

  E veryone seemed suddenly turned to statues. Unsure how to react, Genova, too, did nothing, praying without hope that this was all a dream. After a few seconds, she flicked a glance at the marquess. In a rare show of unguarded emotion, he had a hand to his face.

  He lowered it. “Dear Thalia, you know that was a secret.”

  Thalia seemed completely unaware of danger. “You would not want to keep it secret at the expense of Genova’s reputation, dear. Sometimes you young people do not think.”

  She turned her guileless smile on the Brokesbys. “I’m sure you are both the soul of discretion, but things do slip out, don’t they? So hard to remember what one should and shouldn’t say. The announcement will soon be made, but no one would want scandal to touch the happy union, I’m sure.”

  “No, no, of course not!” said Miss Brokesby with all the confusion Thalia seemed able to create. She did not, however, seem to doubt the story, nor did her brother. Who would think Lady Thalia Trayce party to impropriety?

  Ashart opened the door. “I’m sure you wish to be on your way. If you see Lady Booth, oblige me by giving her this news. I’m sure it will interest her.”

  The woman tittered as the pair left.

  Ashart shut the door. “And with luck, choke her on her own bile.” But then he turned to his great-aunt. “Why did you do that, Thalia?”

  She looked up at him, eyes wide. “For the reason I gave, dear. You would not want scandal.”

  “I do not want…”

  “I know, dear. Men hate to have their hand forced, but when I saw you kissing Genova like that, I knew you’d recognized the bond between you. It was clear to me from your first meeting!”

  Ashart looked at Genova as if this had been a plot. “Our first meeting, Thalia, was less than a day ago.”

  “But it can happen like that! It was so with my dearest Richard, and I have always regretted proceeding at the tempo of propriety. For then, you know, we would have had a little time as man and wife. Indeed, the whole pattern
of our fates might have been different.”

  Genova went to her. “Thalia, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you’d lost a lover.”

  “It was a long time ago, dear. A lifetime ago. I hope to be reunited with Richard after death. But the Bible says that in heaven we do not grow old.” She looked up at Genova, brow furrowed. “What will he think of me now?”

  Genova knew then why Thalia dressed in a youthful style, but couldn’t think of anything to say except, “With God, all things are possible.”

  Thalia chuckled. “Apparently that is what dear Beowulf says—‘With a Malloren, all things are possible.’ Naughty boy. But I was touched when his grandfather named his London development Marlborough Square. Richard was a great admirer of Marlborough.”

  Tangled in familiar confusion, Genova looked to the marquess for help but saw only hard-held patience.

  “And now God’s omnipotence is proved by your finding each other! But”—Thalia waggled a finger at both of them—“it was not clever to behave like that before the vows are said. I will leave you here for a minute or two, Genova, but no longer. I remember the passions of youthful ardor. There is no reason for you to delay the wedding, but until the vows are said, you must behave yourselves.”

  As she returned to the bedroom, Genova thought she heard her say, “A Christmas wedding. How nice….”

  She turned to Ashart, who seemed at this moment to be the only other sane person in the universe. He walked to the window and flung back the curtains. Dawn was now a bloody band on the horizon.

  “Swear if you wish,” she said. “I’ve lived on board ship.”

  He laughed. It was short, but it was a laugh, and it released some of the tension. “So I gather from your imprecations when your embroidery frame broke.” He turned to her. “Is your work damaged?”

  She looked at the frame, a thing awkwardly limp like a broken bird. “Only a little hole and some pulled threads. I should be able to conceal them.” She looked up at him again. “My lord, what are we to do? Thalia saw us! How did she see us?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I assume our fall woke her and she came to see what had happened. Then she returned to her room, leaving us to our ‘passion,’ perhaps with the door ajar out of concern for you.”

  A frown lingered in his eyes that was more than annoyance at the situation.

  “I could not have arranged for your friends to interrupt us,” she pointed out.

  “Did I say you had? And they are no friends of mine.”

  “At least you know them. I’d never seen them before! That means they can’t know who I am—” But then she groaned. “Thalia. Do you think she really believes we are in love?”

  “Oh, yes. In many ways she has a childlike view of the world.”

  Genova wasn’t so sure. Thalia’s eccentricities clearly grew out of her lost love, but Genova had thought for some time that the old lady acted the child to get what she wanted. But why should Thalia want her great-nephew to make such a poor match? Merely to secure a good whist player in the family? Whatever her motives, she was quite capable of playing her cards to achieve that end.

  Genova could deal with Thalia, but she was growing worried about the marquess. He wasn’t reacting as she expected. She was beginning to take seriously the idea that all the Trayces were mad.

  “Who were those people, and what did they want?”

  “Sir Pelham Brokesby and his sister, Tess. What did they want? To catch me in bed with Molly, I assume.”

  He muttered something, and on the whole Genova was relieved not to hear it.

  “Why?”

  “The devil alone knows. Molly must have thought that being found here with me and the baby would finally prove something. She’s demented.”

  “It would seem so, But if that was her plan, why did she flee?”

  “Finally came to her wits?”

  Genova truly felt surrounded by lunatics. “And abandoned her baby on you, even though you insist you are not the father? That is to come to her wits?”

  She saw every feature tense. “That baby is not mine.”

  “I cannot believe that.”

  “And I care not one whit.”

  Genova inhaled and tamped down her temper. If he had no shame, she could never win that battle. “To return to more pressing matters, my lord, I cannot marry you.”

  He relaxed and leaned back against the windowsill, gray silk robe loose over his white nightshirt, his elegant feet still bare. A normal human should be cold, but he didn’t look it.

  “Already married?”

  “Of course not. But it’s impossible.”

  “Not strictly speaking.”

  “In all practical senses. My lord, we have no connection at all.”

  “Thalia?”

  “I’m her servant!”

  “Nonsense, but I take your point. We must keep up the pretense for a little while, however.”

  “What? Arrive at Rothgar Abbey as a betrothed couple? It will be around society in days!”

  “It will be around society in days anyway. Tess Brokesby is generally known as Tattling Tess. Even if she sewed her lips shut, the urge to tell someone about this would win.”

  Genova put a hand to her mouth. “Dear heaven.”

  He came over and lowered it, quite gently. “No need for dramatics, Miss Smith. A betrothal is not binding before the law. Over a few days at Rothgar Abbey, I’m sure we’ll find occasion to demonstrate that this was a hasty and improvident commitment. Thus, no one will be surprised when you give me my dismissal.”

  I might be, she thought, dizzied by the mere touch of his hand. It was purely physical, of course, but still powerful as a hurricane. “Everyone will think we anticipated the wedding.”

  “People may wonder, but they’ll have the continued approval of my great-aunts to put in the balance. You may, of course, gain a reputation for passion.”

  “That’s as bad!”

  A smile warmed his eyes, and his thumb brushed her hand. “Not always…”

  She snatched free. “You merely prove my point! I am as good as ruined.”

  “Nonsense. If there are repercussions, Trayce power and influence will brush them away. My word on it, Miss Smith. You will not suffer.”

  He was brushing her concerns away, and she almost spat out her opinion of his word. Wisdom won the battle, however, and she was glad. She must not stir the wolf now, when she felt too vulnerable, too shaken, for the fight. Bitter though it was to admit it, she might need his support to come through this intact.

  “So,” he continued, “we have only to play this game a little, then disengage, preferably in a public and spectacular manner. At least no one will be surprised that I momentarily lost my head over you.”

  “Is that supposed to be flattering, my lord?”

  “I’m known for my fine taste in women.”

  “Lady Booth Carew?” she asked sweetly and, with relish, saw it hit.

  He recovered. “She’s a beauty with a magnificent figure and appealing talents. Come, Miss Smith, you must know you’re an uncommon woman.”

  “But not that my uncommon assets are gold coin in the marriage market.”

  “Talk not of gold, but of fire.” Not touching her, standing feet away from her, he caused heat to flare in her with a look. “Fire to warm. Fire to burn. I kissed you because I wanted to, Miss Smith, and one day, before we so sadly part, you will respond fully to a kiss of mine. My word on it.”

  After a moment, his brows rose. “Is it so impossible to imagine?”

  Thanking heaven that he took her shattered silence for disdain, Genova glared at him. “Only think over your recent behavior, my lord. Remember, pray, my earlier words. I would not marry you if it was you or the hangman, and if you fail to sort this out, you will rue it to your deathbed!”

  With that she marched into the bedroom. Unfortunately, she slammed the door.

  The baby came off the breast and began to wail.

  Milk spurted across
the room.

  Regeanne put her hands on her hips and glared. “Miss Smith!”

  Genova collapsed in a chair and gripped her head in her hands. She wished she were a baby and could wail, too.

  But then she sat straight, recalling some words that had flown past her in the fraught exchange. “Over a few days at Rothgar Abbey…”

  He planned to stay? She’d assumed that he would escort them to the door, then ride away.

  She might have to deal with the tormenting wretch for days?

  Ash began to dress, considering the changed situation.

  The last thing he needed at this moment was another scandal, but this absurd betrothal gave him an excuse to invade Rothgar’s lair, if he cared to use it. How could he abandon his beloved so soon?

  Though he and Rothgar were both courtiers, had seats in the Lords, and moved through fashionable London for a large part of the year, they were skilled at avoiding each other. All battles had been fought at a distance.

  No longer.

  If Rothgar was behind Molly Carew, then Ash was ready to take the battle to him, and he had the weapons needed to win. He would force his cousin to exonerate him, and that would change everything.

  He’d been acting and reacting to strings pulled from the past, and in the process permitting the decline of his inheritance. During his minority, he’d not had power to change things, but he’d been in control of his property for five years now without breaking free.

  It was time, but the Mallorens stood in his way, as shown by the affair with Molly. It was time to end the duel, but carefully, without getting his throat cut or being stabbed in the back.

  The first essential step, however, was to clear his name with the king. Without access to the inner rooms of power, he’d achieve nothing. So, Rothgar—and where better to deal with him than in his home, where guards might be down, and weaknesses revealed.

  He pulled a leather notecase out of his saddlebag and wrote instructions for Fitz. Ash would need suitable clothes and jewels at Rothgar Abbey. Magnificent clothes and jewels, so he would be armed if necessary.

  He heated wax with a candle and sealed the letter, considering other possibilities. This also meant time to explore Miss Genova Smith. Perhaps she was innocently involved. That, too, should become clear when they arrived at the Abbey. Innocent or not, he had no doubt that they’d fight again. If the fates were kind, they would fight their way into bed.