by Winter Fire
Genova suddenly felt sorry for the young woman. “What if the vows are broken, Miss Myddleton? The law doesn’t allow a lady to end a marriage for that.”
“It’s remarkably hard for a gentleman,” Ashart said. “Thus, the bonds are best considered binding, no matter what becomes of the vows.”
“Is that why you’re not bound, Ashart?” Miss Myddleton demanded.
“But I am. To Miss Smith. My word is given and will be kept unless she insists on her freedom.”
It was cruel as a blade, and Genova winced. Miss Myddleton snatched away her hand, a spot of angry color in each cheek. Had she not heard before? Or chosen not to believe.
“I must wish you both happy then,” she said, pitch too high.
“Must,” Ashart echoed, eyes on Genova.
“Must,” Genova replied.
When the heiress marched off to talk to others Genova said, “That was unnecessarily cruel.”
He dropped the amorous manner. “Is your soft heart touched? Damaris Myddleton wouldn’t be trying to sink cat’s claws into plain Mr. Dash.”
“I wonder.”
He was probably right, however. Miss Myddleton might be attracted to handsome Mr. Dash, but she wouldn’t invest her fortune in him.
The young officer came over. “We’re planning the correct handling of the Yule log, Ashart. Hoping you’ll give your advice.”
He’d probably been sent to drag in the unwilling bachelor. With a bow to Genova, Ashart went to join the other men.
Lady Arradale and Portia had not come down yet. It was possible they wouldn’t be joining the party at all, since traditionally only unmarried people brought in the greenery. Lord Bryght seemed to be part of it, however, and she saw Lord Rothgar join the men.
“Miss Smith.”
Genova turned to find Damaris Myddleton approaching and suppressed a sigh.
“I understand you’ve spent time at sea,” the young woman said. “How fascinating. I hope to hear some of your stories.”
Genova recognized a masterly tactic. Open rivalry would get Miss Myddleton nowhere, so now she angled to become a confidante.
When the stars fell into the sea.
“I would be delighted to share them,” she said politely, “but your life would be as fascinating to me, Miss Myddleton.”
“Then I will trade stories of fashionable circles for your stories of foreign parts.”
Miss Myddleton’s smile was an excellent simulation of warmth, but there was acid in the word foreign. Genova, it was made clear, did not belong. The fact that she knew it did not improve her temper.
“I’m sure that will be delightful.” She did not try to sound sincere.
The slanted eyes narrowed. “Lady Thalia said you fought off Barbary pirates.”
“She does tend to exaggerate.”
“But not by much, I think. She also says you are redoubtable. I’m sure you are. I must tell you, however, that I intend to marry Ashart, and I believe I can get what I want.”
Perhaps a better woman would tell the truth, but Genova fired back, “You’re welcome to try.”
“Oh, I will. I have his grandmother’s approval.”
That was a heavy gun and Miss Myddleton clearly knew it.
“I didn’t expect to meet him here, of course,” she went on, looking at her quarry across the room, “but it seems an excellent opportunity to settle matters.”
Genova found herself fascinated and even admiring in a way. Most well-bred women were trained to take the indirect path, to get their way by coyness and wiles, or to depend on a man to win them what they wanted. She had to like one who fired directly at her target.
“Will it not be difficult for you to marry into a family so at odds with the Mallorens?”
Miss Myddleton looked back at her. “I’m not a Malloren, and anyway, with Ashart here, the feud must be over.”
“It isn’t. Don’t do anything to create more difficulties.”
The young woman studied Genova, looking alert and intelligent. She might even make Ashart a good marchioness, especially if she drew back and made him hunt her and her fortune.
“Difficulties for whom?”
“For everyone, but particularly for Ash.”
The intimate term slipped out and shattered any hope of accord.
“I will never create any kind of difficulty for Ashart, which is more than can be said of you, Miss Smith. One bitter rift may be ending here, but the wrong marriage will create another. You will alienate Ashart from his grandmother, from the woman who raised him. They are devoted to one another.”
With that salvo, Miss Myddleton stalked away and Genova struggled not to show the effect of her words. The hunting cat, damn her, was probably right.
Then she came to her senses. None of this mattered because this betrothal was false. Ashart probably would marry Damaris Myddleton, and at least the heiress had spine enough to stand up to him. He needed that.
The doors were flung open then for them to leave. Fresh, cool air and sunshine were a brisk relief.
Ashart came over. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course,” she said composedly, linking her arm with his. “Perhaps a little dull from food and wine.”
It was time to put her plan into action. She didn’t think she could endure this mock betrothal much longer.
“Some brisk exercise in the open air will be just the mustard,” she said.
With a laugh he kissed her quickly and slipped the guinea into her pocket, out of sight of others but in a sliding touch that she could not ignore.
She almost faltered, but pursued her plan. “I’m so grateful that Englishmen don’t wear mustaches,” she said as they went down the steps. “So ticklish.”
“Vast experience, I gather.” But he stopped her midflight and kissed her more thoroughly, the slide into her pocket firmer and more challenging. “You’re cheating, my pet.”
“We established no rules.” As they continued down the steps, Genova saw that all eyes were on them, but the mood seemed indulgent. “So you must not object. Am I taxing your fortune?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said as they reached the gravel and he drew her into his arms. “I can muster the price.”
As his lips met hers, Genova recognized a familiarity. Her own lips, her body, shaped themselves to his without thought. She’d come to this stage with Walsingham. It had taken weeks.
She pulled away. “You stole one I’d prepared, but that doesn’t matter. It only needs the word. Must, must, must, must, must!”
She danced away as she said it. He pursued and captured her, his eyes bright. This would, she realized, work perfectly to convince everyone they were besotted lovers.
She waited for five more kisses.
He kissed her hand, then up her sleeve to brush the last kiss against her sensitive neck. It seemed time paused for a heartbeat at the sweetness of it.
“To spill out guineas might raise questions,” he whispered near her ear. “What must I do?”
Genova disengaged, adjusting the set of her cloak. “I will remember what you owe me.”
He smiled. “I’m sure you will.”
“It’s a lovely day,” Genova said, taking a step away and looking around at the sun-gilded estate. She needed recovery before the next foray. “Exercise in the fresh air is so invigorating.”
“Indeed.”
With memories of Malta, she understood his innuendo. She gave him a look. “Not in England in December, sir.”
“But you give me hope for summer.”
“By summer, I gather you will be married to Miss Myddleton.”
His brows rose. “Do you? I look to you for defense.”
“Come now. You want to continue this mock betrothal for six months?” It would shatter her. No, melt her. Evaporate her.
“Why not?” he asked. “A suit of armor is always useful.”
“I’m afraid I can’t oblige. I have a mind to marry, and soon.”
“Why?”
; “I’m twenty-three years old.”
“But hardly desperate.”
She saw no harm in telling him the truth. “My father has remarried and I’d like a home of my own. In fact, I hoped to meet suitable gentlemen here.”
“And I’m in your way. I see, but selfish aristocrat that I am, I intend to hold you to your bond.”
It caused a frisson, but of course he meant only for the next few days. Genova saw Miss Myddleton eyeing them and prayed she never let her hungers show like that.
“Don’t marry Miss Myddleton unless you love her, Ash.”
Now, where did that completely inappropriate statement come from?
He seemed to be wondering the same thing. “She wouldn’t thank you for that.”
“She might. One day.”
“Does it not occur to you that I would try to be a good husband?”
Surprised by his sharp tone, she studied him. “I’m sorry. But she’ll fall in love with you, you see. Don’t you understand the powers of your attractions?”
“I must marry. What solution do you present, O fount of wisdom?”
His tone stung, so she stung back. “Pray for love, my lord, but in the meantime, try chastity.”
He laughed. “I think that would more likely engender desperation. And then what folly might I tumble into?”
Unfortunately, Genova knew exactly what he meant.
The group was finally in order and were being marshaled to walk across the lawn toward a distant stand of trees. For some reason, perhaps romantic tact, she and Ash had not been shepherded along with the rest.
That would not do. Genova hurried after them.
Chapter Twenty-six
B reath still misted a little in the air, but the sun was warm on her skin. The air was sharply fresh as it never was in summer. Geneva inhaled, trying to clear her mind of madness. The cause of her madness fell into step beside her.
“Running away? Were nine kisses too much for you? Do you want to end the game?”
“I will end the game if you agree to support…that child.” Diplomatically, she avoided saying “your child.”
When he didn’t reply, she glanced at him “Why not? I know you already support other bastards.”
“Who the devil told you that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Probably not. I can’t take responsibility for Molly Carew’s child.”
She stopped to confront him. “Why not?”
She saw anger flare. “Because to do so would be seen as an admission that Molly was telling the truth. That the child is mine. And he is not.”
“How can you possibly be sure?”
“I have no intention of explaining myself to you, Miss Smith. You must simply take my word.”
If the thought wasn’t ridiculous, she’d want to shake him. “You needn’t protect my innocence. I know the ways men seek to avoid fathering a child.”
At his look of shock, she wished the words unsaid, but why did the world insist that unmarried meant abysmally ignorant?
“How?” he asked.
She turned and marched on. “I have no intention of explaining myself to you, my lord. You must simply take my word that I am not a ruined woman.”
He fell into step beside her. “I said nothing about ruin. If you’re not a maiden, Genova, the next few days could be a great deal more interesting, and you must know it.”
“Must?”
“I pay no forfeit for that, but you, on the other hand, do.”
He stopped her, kissed his own gloved fingers then brushed them across her lips. “Seven owed,” he said.
How could that touch be as devastating as a passionate embrace?
Genova turned and hurried on. She’d given him a wrong impression and now felt as if armor had been stripped away. Heaven knows what he’d do next, or how she’d respond.
“It’s quite enlivening to be thought a wicked woman,” she said to correct things, “when I’ve spent my life enshrined in virtue.”
“A saint doesn’t kiss as you do, Genova.”
“Not even if married?”
“You’re a widow?”
She heard shock and was tempted to let him think that. It wouldn’t do. “I was engaged to marry.”
He stopped her again, gently, looking truly compassionate. “He died?”
She turned her head away, staring blindly at a gnarled and leafless tree. Look what she’d done now. She didn’t want to talk about Walsingham.
“He lives. I broke it off.” Then the words tumbled out. “And thus I broke his heart. You see what a wicked woman I am.” She had never before admitted the shame she felt at having treated Walsingham so cruelly.
“Why did you end it?”
Why couldn’t she rebuff his quiet question?
“Because I didn’t love him,” she said with a sigh.
“Because I believed that marriage should be made for love.”
“Believed?”
“Believe,” she corrected, compelled to turn and face him, because she did still believe, despite everything.
“Remarkable. I suppose your parents were idyllically besotted.”
She raised her chin at his tone. “They were in love. It’s not so unusual a situation.”
“No?”
“Lord Rothgar and Lady Arradale are in love.”
She expected flippancy, but he said, “Perhaps.”
“And Lord and Lady Bryght.”
“And I would have thought him as cynical a bastard as I am. I grant you your point. The same goes for Walgrave as best I can tell, and he and I used to hunt in the same pack.”
“And consider Thalia. In love after sixty years.”
“Maybe,” he said.
“You can doubt that?”
“Doesn’t love have to be tested by reality and time, or else isn’t it only a dream?”
She blinked at him. “You’re right.”
“I am, occasionally. And for the most part, love fails under the test.”
“You’re not right about that. I gather your parents were not devoted.”
“Oh, intensely, but not to each other.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and they headed toward the others, who were now a dangerous distance ahead. “My father was devoted to wine and dice—an unfortunate combination, you must admit. My mother loved another but was compelled to marry my father. Upon his death, she married her true love and moved abroad.”
“A sorry tale, but she did love.”
“But pity the poor child who perhaps hoped he was loved, too.” He stopped. “Though devil alone knows why it should matter. I hardly ever saw her before my father died.”
A loud crash rocked the earth beneath their feet.
“Alack and alas,” he said, “they’ve conquered the Yule log without my vigor. Will the house of Rothgar fall with an equally earth-shaking crack? Come, before we miss the drama.”
He grabbed her gloved hand and pulled her toward the trees at a run. She picked up her skirts and went, still dazed by his words. They were true, painful, and perhaps words he had never spoken to another.
He probably wished them unsaid, but for all those reasons and many others, Genova was storing them in her heart and her mind like a precious treasure.
They ran into the woodland and she almost tripped on a branch. He put an arm around her, sweeping her along, up over a rotting boll, down under a low branch.
“Stop!” she cried, gasping.
He swept her into his arms and carried her. “What have you been doing with your vigor, Genova, my sweet?”
She laughed into his shoulder, still having to suck in breaths. It was that or cry. It was as if the earth had cracked and they’d fallen into another, deeper world.
His wicked earring twinkled before her eyes. His fine jaw, slightly darkened, was close enough to touch, close enough to kiss. His smell could already make her head swim.
He looked down at her, then stilled, reflecting, surely, her bewildered thoughts. The w
orld receded and Genova trembled, with fear as much as anything. She did not want to feel like this. Not about this man. Not when nothing connected them but artificial threads.
But was that true?
He looked away and strode forward.
“At last!”
Genova turned her head and saw they’d entered a clearing where everyone was observing them with an amused expression. Except Damaris Myddleton, of course.
It had been Lord Rothgar who’d spoken. To Genova’s astonishment, he was stripped down to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and his wife was playing the servant by carrying his outer clothes.
Some other men were in the same casual state, and other women were loaded with clothing. Despite the crisp air, some of the men had taken off their cravats, as well, so that their shirts stood open. One had rolled up his shirtsleeves.
The gentlemen were playing woodsmen for the day. The real woodsmen, fully dressed in rougher clothing and heavy boots, observed the games with good humor. It would be a treat for them to have the lords doing the work.
A tree trunk two or more feet in diameter lay across the space. It was cut roughly at one end, but more neatly at the other, and without side branches. Even Genova’s inexpert eye could tell that this tree was long dead and had been carefully prepared for the ceremonial felling.
Ash slid Genova to her feet in a way that caused a ripple of shock, and not just in her. She pushed him away in reproof, and he fell back farther than she pushed.
Despite his smile, the wolf was back. She knew it was recoil because of what he had revealed, but she frowned at him anyway. It was the only appropriate response.
“I hope you have enough vigor left for the sawing,” Lord Rothgar said, indicating the big two-handed saw. Two guests—Lord Theo Dacre and Mr. Thomas Malloren, Genova thought—picked it up and set to, pushing and pulling the big saw so it bit into the wood.
Ash shrugged out of his coat with a slight air of disdain and held it out to Genova. She took it, resisting a need to snuggle it close and inhale his scent.
“I suspect I can play the maid more easily than you can play the carpenter, my lord.”
“Play the maid?” He unpinned his cravat and unwrapped the length of soft, lace-trimmed cloth. He draped it around Genova’s neck and fixed the jeweled pin through the ends, his fingers brushing against her throat. “I thought you claimed to be pure,” he murmured, his eyes coldly rakish.
