Jo Beverly

by Winter Fire

  “Somewhat circular, but why not? What shall I pay? More kisses? A circle of delights. No, a spiral, like a whirlpool…”

  Alarmed by that image, she pulled free. “Guineas.”

  He stared, all humor wiped away. “I did not think you mercenary.”

  She put distance and cool air between them. “I see no reason why I shouldn’t be, but as it happens, the guineas won’t be for me, but for the baby.”

  She saw him react with sharp impatience, and her shiver was not of pleasure this time.

  She raised her chin. “I may not be able to force you to admit your responsibility and provide for Charlie, my lord, but now I can compel you to provide the funds. Anytime I must.”

  After a moment he laughed. “Very well, my Amazon. A guinea a kiss. How many guineas, I wonder, are needed to support a child for life? A hundred? A thousand?” His voice mellowed into a seductive purr. “In how many days?”

  Her mouth and throat dried.

  No wonder he’d laughed.

  “We have an agreement, Miss Smith?”

  Kisses were only kisses. It rang hollow in her mind, but she would not, could not, back down. This would all be under her control.

  She stirred moisture in her mouth and swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

  He captured her hand again, sliding closer. “Then come let us start our account.”

  Every scrap of sense screamed a warnings but the rest of Genova sank willingly into the whirlpool so that his last word was murmured against her lips and sealed them. Need for this had been building since their morning kiss, had been mounting to fiery heat during their debate, and was crowned by his mastery now.

  His hands, clever hands, traveled over her, and hers were doing the same. She slid one beneath his jacket, savoring the hot, hard lines of ribs and hip and spine. Another cradled his head, holding him close, as if he might try to escape before she’d had her fill.

  It had been so long, too long, since she’d kissed a man like this.

  She’d never kissed a man like this.

  Never a man like this…

  His mouth was hot and skilled, with a taste still new, but remembered from the morning and already delicious. It stirred fires in her she’d never imagined. Soon her whole body burned for him, rubbed against him as if layers of clothing could melt away and bring them, as she scandalously longed to be, skin to searing skin….

  It was he who broke the kiss, he who put space between them.

  For pride’s sake, Genova stopped herself from pursuing. At least he looked as wild as she felt, eyes dark, breaths deep. His disordered coat, hair, and cravat were, she knew, entirely her work.

  She had to say something, something that would cover the way she felt. “I think that’s more than a guinea’s worth, my lord.”

  “What’s the price for a night, then?”

  After a devastated moment, she slapped him.

  She surged to her feet to run, but he caught her to him. “I apologize. I apologize! I didn’t mean it like that.” Then he laughed. “Yes, I did, but I meant no slur. Lord,” he groaned, “I can’t even make sense.”

  She pushed and he let her go. She gathered herself as best she could. “I accept the apology, my lord. I think we were both a little carried away.”

  “A little…”

  She had to conceal how strongly she’d been affected. If he knew, he’d pursue and she’d drown in the flames. Could one drown in flames…?

  “There must be no more of this,” she said, proud of her flat voice.

  “Must,” he repeated softly.

  She put out a hand to hold him off, though he hadn’t made a move.

  “Yet we must act the lovers for a day or two, Genova.”

  “Not like that!”

  “No, alas. Not like that.”

  She was braced for attack and afraid she would succumb, but he turned and picked up something from the window seat. It was the pins and combs that had held her hair in place. She put up a hand and found it in wild disorder. It was thick and heavy and must look a tawdry mess.

  She gathered it with shaking hands into a tight knot and took a proffered pin to skewer it in place. Then another, and another, reassembling Genova Smith, woman of sense. The combs were decorative, and she thrust them in last. Her hair could look nothing like Regeanne’s skillful arrangement, but it would look vaguely as she was used to wearing it.

  He was watching her, his face shadowed, for his back was to the light Could he hear her pounding heart? Could he smell her perfume as she smelled a spicy, subtle scent from him?

  She tried to hold him off with words. “Remember, my lord, if you seduce me, I will hold you to the betrothal.”

  After a moment, he nodded. “Then be strong for both of us, Genova Smith, for we will be dancing very close to the flames.”

  He picked up her shawl, clearly intending to wrap it around her, but she grabbed it and backed toward the arch. “There’s no need to escort me, my lord.”

  He stayed where he was, all cool, disordered, desirable elegance in the moonlight. “Perhaps I was hoping you knew the way back.”

  “Back to where?”

  “Ah, an interesting question. For we’re not where we were when you entered this room, are we?”

  Breath caught by that, Genova turned and walked out of the gallery.

  Ash watched the place where he’d last glimpsed Genova Smith, his body still hot with desire for her, with dangerous, irrational physical need.

  The woman was magnificent, but terrifying. She seemed to accept no boundaries, and he did not want her hurt by whatever happened here. He wanted her, but that way would lead to a disastrous marriage. She was not the bride he needed.

  He remembered his coarse, appalling words and groaned. When had he last said anything so clumsy?

  Perhaps never.

  Why? Why had those words escaped?

  Because he’d been thinking them. Thinking them in his mind, in his blood, in his throbbing cock. Hades! She could inflame him like spark to tinder. He pushed his hands against his temples. Once was enough. No other woman was going to rip his life apart with rich curves and wicked, knowing eyes.

  His fingers touched his hair and he realized the destruction the woman had wrought. He pulled the loosened ribbon free, memory rippling through him. If Genova Smith had been insinuated into the great-aunts’ household with this in mind, Rothgar had chosen his weapon well.

  He walked to confront his cousin’s austere portrait. “My bane, as always,” he said under his breath. “Are you behind Molly’s plot? Is Genova Smith your tool? This time you won’t win, not even with a siren on your side.”

  A siren that didn’t sing but argued.

  Havoc.

  A good word. The ancient battle cry that swept away all rules of war and set free rape, slaughter, and destruction. “Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war.”

  Dogs. A Persian gazelle hound that had been trained not to go after the quarry it had been bred to kill.

  There hadn’t been a single word between him and Rothgar without meaning.

  “You should not let her ride and spur you.”

  Ash cursed at the portrait and strode out of the room.

  Genova entered her bedchamber quietly. Three candles and firelight made it welcoming, but the bed-curtains were open and the bed was empty. For a moment her overwrought nerves threw up wild scenarios of murder or kidnapping.

  By the next breath she knew what had happened. Thalia had rested a little, then realized that a game of whist was possible and that had been enough.

  Regeanne helped Genova out of her gown, hoops, and stays, but then Genova said she would do the rest herself. She wasn’t used to a lady’s maid.

  She washed and put on her nightgown, which was warm from hanging before the fire. The bed would be cozy, too, for the handles of two warming pans stuck out of the covers. She moved one over to Thalia’s side, drew the heavy curtains all around, then settled into the haven.

  Warmth,
however, did not soothe unwelcome heat.

  Was it truly unwelcome?

  How was it even possible that she feel this way? She and the marquess were strangers in every way.

  She might as well protest that rock cannot burn. She’d seen lava flow, as hot and molten as the desire that had erupted between her a stranger on a moonlit window seat.

  Chapter Twenty

  S leep came slowly, so that exhaustion caused Genova to wake later than usual. When she emerged from the bed in the morning, the fire was well established and the room warm. The gilded clock said nearly nine, but Thalia was still asleep, each breath a soft whistle, her frilly bed cap over one eye.

  With a smile, Genova quietly redrew the bed-curtains, then added another piece of wood to the fire. She tenderly rearranged some of the figures in the presepe. It was Christmas Eve—both her birthday and the beginning of her favorite season. She wouldn’t let other events steal that from her.

  Here, at last, she would experience a true English Christmas.

  On ships and in ports around the world, English people tried to re-create Christmas, but it was never quite right. Hot climates did not suit the food, and the mounding snow of Canada or the Baltic seemed too lush. Last Christmas had been shadowed by grief.

  Traveling here, she’d realized the truth. An English Christmas needed cold but a starker setting and the afternoon death of the light.

  She went to the window and looked through frost feathers at the right sort of setting. The frosted grass of the park became in the distance black fields streaked with white. Old trees made crooked skeletons against a steely sky.

  In this setting rich foods and evergreens would be carols of hope, and the Yule log would promise the return of long sunny days.

  Contrasts and necessities. Winter darkness could make fire precious. Starvation made a dry crust taste like pandolce.

  Pandolcetta mia…

  Her stomach rumbled.

  Genova laughed, glad that her wanton body still paid attention to honest hungers.

  So, clothes. If Christmas traditions were followed here, today was for gathering greenery to bring into the house. Warm clothes, then.

  Genova tapped on the closet door, then opened it, but Regeanne wasn’t there. She could dress herself in her simplest gowns and did so. She chose a plain closed dress of fawn-colored wool, adding warm woolen stockings and an extra flannel petticoat.

  She gathered her hair into a simple knot, pushing aside the memory of last night, of Ashart holding pins in his beautiful hand. Of the touch of that hand…

  Perish the man!

  She fixed the knot, then pinned a small cap on top, thrusting one pin so hard she pricked herself. Tears threatened, and they weren’t from the pain.

  Her stomach rumbled again. Hunger explained her weakness. How did she obtain breakfast in this house?

  She eyed the bellpull, but she wasn’t familiar with that modern convenience. Besides, if she ordered breakfast here, she’d wake Thalia. She was reluctant to venture out into the strange house, but food must be available somewhere, and she would not be a timid mouse.

  She wrapped her warm everyday shawl around her shoulders and left the room. If she didn’t find breakfast, she’d seek out the kitchens. She was close to a servant, after all, and bread and cheese would do.

  She turned left. To her delight she remembered the way and soon arrived at the main staircase. The house seemed quiet, but she thought she could smell food somewhere and hear faint voices and rattles.

  She went downstairs, fighting the feeling of being an intruder, wincing when her skirts brushed the banisters and stirred the tiny bells. She couldn’t help thinking of a cat being belled to stop it from pouncing on unwary birds.

  At the bottom she looked around and noticed a powdered, liveried footman outside a door. He bowed. “Breakfast is served in here, mistress.”

  She walked toward him, noticing that he wore gloves and a thick, quilted waistcoat. Lord Rothgar was a considerate master.

  The footman opened the door at just the right moment so she could enter without much warm air escaping. A modest table was laid, and one man sat there, cup in hand, reading a magazine. The Marquess of Rothgar.

  Groaning at her faux pas, Genova made to retreat, but he rose, smiling. “Miss Smith. Another early riser. Join me, please.”

  Genova curtsied. “I’m sorry if I intrude, my lord.”

  “The table is laid for a reason, and I prefer conversation, if it is available, to reading at breakfast. Of course,” he added, holding out the chair next to him in invitation, “if you cannot bear the thought, I shall have some reading matter brought for you.”

  Genova sat, both unnerved and flattered. It was simple courtesy, of course, an obligation to make guests at ease, but she felt as if she was truly brightening his day.

  He took his seat, ringing a golden bell by his plate. A footman appeared from the corner of the room as if by magic. Genova realized that there was a service entrance concealed by the paneling. There would be a serving pantry, and probably stairs from there to the kitchens. Beyond the magnificent scale of this house lay another world necessary for its functioning.

  She requested eggs and chocolate. A platter of rolls already sat on the table, so she took one and buttered it.

  Once the footman left, Rothgar said, “Tell me, Miss Smith, what is your opinion of Lady Booth Carew?”

  Genova had expected polite talk about the weather, not this. “It is not my place….”

  “Come now, didn’t you fight Barbary pirates? I’d think you could wield sharp-edged truth.”

  She could hardly refuse, and owed Lady Booth Carew no charity. “Very well, my lord, she seemed a thoughtless, selfish woman. Even so, I’m shocked that she abandoned her baby to strangers.”

  “Not all mothers are devoted, and of course, she may not have thought the child would end up with strangers.”

  Delicately put, but the inference was familiar. “Lord Ashart.”

  “Quite. He supports at least three bastards that I know of, but Lady Booth was optimistic if she thought he would support hers.”

  The footman returned then, saving Genova from an immediate response. So, Lord Rothgar kept himself informed about his cousin. Sadly, her mind was stumbling over the fact that Ashart was known to have bastards. Ridiculous to be shocked or offended. He was a libertine and a rake, and at least he did support them.

  “What do you suppose Lady Booth thought would happen?” Rothgar asked, pouring chocolate for her.

  Genova hadn’t considered that question before, and sipped as she did so. “I think she’s a very stupid woman.”

  “But not insane.”

  “I can only assume that she thought Lord Ashart would take care of the baby, and be embarrassed by that. Which suggests that she doesn’t know him well at all.”

  “Or perhaps that she had some other plan. We will discover the truth eventually.”

  Wasn’t there a saying about the mills of the gods grinding slowly but being impossible to evade?

  “In the meantime,” Rothgar said, “her baby and maid seem settled in the nurseries, and I’ve alerted the neighborhood for a Gaelic speaker. Have you celebrated Christmas in England before, Miss Smith?”

  Some time later, Genova realized that she’d been skillfully drawn out to talk about her life. She remembered discussion of foreign parts, her hopes for the Christmas season, and even mention of her mother’s death and her father’s sickness and retirement. She didn’t think she’d revealed her discomfort in her stepmother’s house, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.

  The conversation broke when Lady Arradale came in, sat opposite Genova, and ordered coffee. Her smile seemed to indicate that nothing could make her day more perfect than to find Genova Smith sharing the breakfast table with her husband.

  Talk turned to Christmas plans.

  “Most of the guests will arrive by two,” Lady Arradale told Genova, “which will allow us a couple of daylight hours to
ravage the countryside. It adds to the pleasure to return to the house as darkness falls.”

  “It certainly makes the mulled wine and spiced ale welcome,” Rothgar commented, “which leads to celebratory spirits.”

  “Quite.” The countess thanked the footman for the coffee, then smiled at Genova. “I found Christmas in great disorder here, with evergreens brought into the house before Christmas Eve. Can you imagine!”

  The marquess seemed merely amused. “I have previously held Christmas festivities a little earlier, Miss Smith. I now understand that I’ve been dicing with fate.”

  Lady Arradale frowned at him. “Everyone knows it brings bad luck.”

  “And yet, we have survived.”

  “By the skin of your teeth.”

  “Do teeth have skin?”

  “Only when revoltingly unclean.”

  Lord Rothgar winced theatrically. “Not at the breakfast table, I pray, my love.”

  Lady Arradale laughed and apologized to Genova, who was pondering the strange question herself.

  “I have imposed good order,” the countess stated, “which means that Christmas will be celebrated at Christmas, and begin today.”

  “Thus demanding a mostly family gathering,” Lord Rothgar explained. “Most people wish to spend Christmas in their own homes, so no one has been invited who is not connected to the family tree.”

  “I’m not.” Genova instantly wished she could take the words back. She’d not been invited at all.

  “But you are betrothed to my cousin.”

  She’d managed to forget that detail.

  Lady Arradale poured herself more coffee. “I’m told Old Barnabas promises mild temperatures for the afternoon, and even some sunny skies.”

  “Old Barnabas,” said Rothgar, “remembers when he’s right and forgets when he’s wrong.”

  Lady Arradale swatted his arm. “He will be right because I wish it so.”

  “Ah, in that case the sun will shine as in July.”

  A flicker of such sweet intimacy passed between them that Genova felt intrusive. She rose. “I must go and see if Lady Thalia is awake, and how Lady Calliope does.”

  Rothgar stood to assist her. “Thank you for your company, Miss Smith. And please, don’t curtail your enjoyment to fret over my great-aunts. It is my honor and pleasure to provide them with all the attendants they require.”