by Winter Fire
But it required marriage and money. It required someone like Damaris Myddleton, whom he did not, could not—could never, he suspected—love.
“What I desire, my lord, is a husband. A true husband, a loving home, a safe, secure world into which to bring legitimate children.”
Breath painful in his throat, Ash pushed that vision away. Duty must come before desire.
He couldn’t face company. He returned to his room and found it pristine, all trace of love removed.
Chapter Forty-three
B oxing Day.
Genova opened her eyes and knew it must be late. She’d danced until the dancing stopped. Danced with every man in the house, she felt. Except Ash.
She’d not seen him again.
She’d kissed until the mistletoe boughs were stripped of power, and drunk to hold the numbness that let her dance and kiss. When she’d eventually staggered to her bed, she’d collapsed into sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
And here she was, awake to a miserable new day.
She felt smothered by too much sleep and the remnants of drink, but memory, alas, lived on. What a wonderful gift it would be to be able to scrub away painful memories as if scrubbing a spot off a wall.
Thalia was fast asleep and snoring. Genova ran her hands over her body, remembering. Despite the follies and dangers, their lovemaking could have been wonderful if she hadn’t been so stupid. Now she had to face him again.
No sooner than she had to.
She climbed out of bed and went to summon Regeanne, but then remembered being told that at Rothgar Abbey, Boxing Day was the servants’ holiday. As much as possible, people were to manage without.
Someone had lit the fire and left washing water by it to keep warm, so she used it, then dressed, choosing a simple, dark green gown. There must be breakfast laid out, but she was reluctant to emerge to face the world. To face Ash.
In any case, she wasn’t hungry. Her eye caught the automated hearth. Fire on demand. Fire under control. What message had there been in that gift?
She sat by the window, looking out over the estate. She supposed Ash’s estate at Cheynings must be similar. But then she remembered Lady Calliope saying that it was neglected because that woman spent nothing on it.
Doubtless Damaris Myddleton’s money would create a deer park, topiary, and a knot garden. That lay below this window, beyond a small lawn edged with box.
A dog raced into the area as if pursuing prey. Then another. A moment later, she realized they were chasing a ball. One caught it and ran back, pursued by the other. They met a man. Two men. And two children.
Lord Rothgar and his brother Lord Bryght were laughing at something, their two elegant dogs frisking, begging for the ball to be thrown again. Persian gazelle hounds someone had told her. Lord Bryght hurled the ball over the hedge, and the dogs streaked off.
Little Master Malloren, bundled up in layers until he was almost round, toddled after, chirruping. An older boy—one of the guests, but she didn’t know his name—went after, apparently to keep an eye on the little one.
The dogs ran back and one gave the ball to Rothgar. He carelessly dried it on his breeches, then called to the boy. The boy turned and, grinning, caught the ball. The dogs loped over to him, tails wagging. The boy hurled, but it only went as far as the hedge. One dog raced after it anyway. The other had a toddler around its neck.
Genova rose, even though she was too far away to do anything, but the dog lay down as if trained to it and obliged with a sort of gentle wrestling match until Lord Bryght rescued it by scooping up his son and tossing him into the air. Lord Rothgar produced another ball and joined with the older boy in amusing the indefatigable dogs.
Genova leaned against the windowsill, watching this family play, touched that it survived, even among the aristocracy.
Someone knocked on the door.
She opened it and found a maid there, curtsying. “Lady Arradale and Lady Bryght are breakfasting in Lady Walgrave’s room, and invite you and Lady Thalia there, Miss Smith.”
She supposed a lying-in meant some servants were needed.
Genova considered the invitation warily. Could the ladies have learned what she and Ash had done? What would be the result? An attempt to force the marriage? If true, better to deal with it swiftly, but there was no need to wake Thalia.
She took up her shawl and followed the maid.
She was ushered into a quite crowded room, since as well as the three ladies, a nursery maid sat by the cradle, and an older woman sat by the window. She was probably the midwife. Genova was welcomed with apparent delight and invited to the sofa where Portia and Lady Arradale sat. A table before them was spread with food, and carried pots of tea, coffee, and chocolate.
Lady Elf, blooming, was lying on a chaise.
Genova was braced to be quizzed about Ash, but chatter was general. Portia teased her on enjoying last night but seemed to have no suspicion of anything but dancing.
At a pause in the conversation, Genova said, “I saw Lord Rothgar and Lord Bryght out in the garden with the dogs and Master Francis.”
“They all needed to work off Christmas fidgets,” said Portia. “Especially Francis!”
“He’s a charming child.”
“Isn’t he? May the next one be as perfect.”
Something in her smile suggested that the next one might be on the way. Lady Elf announced that children were always different, giving her own family as example, and relating some hair-raising tales.
One involved the twins climbing out of a window and down the ivy on the north wall. For some reason, this made Portia blush. That story led to concern over Lady Elf’s twin, who was in Nova Scotia, where matters were stirring unpleasantly due to some problems over taxation and the military.
Talk wandered between politics, society, and family, and Genova learned that Lord Rothgar had been here a number of times. He’d held the baby, even though it had been fussing.
A quiet excitement alerted her to the significance of that. Lady Arradale’s eyes were bright, and the other ladies seemed as thrilled. Had Lord Rothgar finally proved to his own satisfaction that he could deal with a crying baby?
Had that problem been part of the reason for having this accouchement here? If so, it was an extraordinary gesture by his sister and brother-in-law.
The baby began a warbling complaint, and everyone’s attention turned to him as he was brought, fussing, to his mother to feed. The guests stood to leave.
When Lady Arradale and Portia picked up a tray each, Genova remembered the lack of servants. It was extraordinary and could end up being amusing. Could these grand people fend for themselves? Then she wondered if the nursery staff was on holiday, too. She must go and see how Sheena was.
Outside the door, Genova and Portia were alone for a moment. “Are you still going to divorce yourself from Ashart?” Portia asked.
Genova prayed nothing showed on her face. “That is our arrangement.” In fact, she would do it today. They didn’t argue anymore, but surely she could find some pretext.
“But you deal extremely well. Everyone notes it.”
“We merely act well, Portia.”
With that, Genova escaped. She found the nurseries deserted apart from Sheena, Lawrence, and the baby.
Lawrence Carr started nervously. “I have permission to be here, ma’am!”
Someone had found him sturdier clothes, and he’d had either a bath or a good wash. This was a kind house, but he’d be more comfortable elsewhere. What was she to do with them, and why were they here? Were they hiding from the servants’ holiday because they felt out of place?
“Would you be welcome down at the servants’ feast, Lawrence?”
“We were asked, ma’am, but Sheena’s shy. Then there’s the baby. There’s no one else to look after him.”
Charlie was awake but happy. “Has he been fed?”
“He has, ma’am. Not long ago.”
Genova went over. “Give him to me, t
hen, and go off and enjoy yourselves.”
“I don’t know, ma’am….” But he turned and spoke to Sheena, whose eyes lit with uncertain hope.
Genova smiled at her and took the baby. “Off with you. If he’s any trouble, I promise to find you.”
Lawrence translated, clearly urging. Sheena whipped off her mobcap and apron, and hand in hand they hurried away.
“And may they enjoy themselves,” Genova said to the baby as she carried him downstairs. “Now you’re to behave yourself, Charlie. It’s true that perhaps Lord Rothgar won’t be hurt by your wailing, but it’s never pleasant, so be good.”
To amuse him, she brushed by the tinkling bells all the way down the staircase, then she wondered where to go. She wanted to avoid Ash, but there was no point in that, either. He couldn’t be avoided entirely unless she ran away.
Sounds of childish laughter drew her to the Tapestry Room, and she found it had become a temporary nursery. A gaggle of children was playing under the eyes of various women, some of them looking more comfortable with the situation than others. She noted that the older guests had taken themselves elsewhere, and it was not surprising. Mayhem threatened.
She retreated. It didn’t seem suitable for a tiny infant. She almost collided with Ash.
They stepped back from each other as if pushed by a spring, and an awkward silence settled. She’d throw the grand disengagement fight now if she didn’t have a baby in her arms.
“I’m looking after Charlie,” she said, managing a smile, “so Sheena and Lawrence can enjoy themselves with the servants.”
“I see.” He looked at the baby. “Strange, but though I never thought him mine, I feel an interest. I thought of asking the young man if he wanted employment. He seems loyal and enterprising.”
It wasn’t hard to smile at him then. “That’s a kind thought. They might want to return to Ireland, though.”
“True. I should be able to arrange something for them there, I suppose. I have to make up for my many sins in some way.”
He looked as if he was seeking words. She couldn’t bear more apologies.
She stepped aside. “I’m blocking your way, but it’s mayhem in there.”
“So I gather. Genni…”
There was a sudden pounding on the door.
“Good Lord,” he said, turning. “Are we invaded?”
“No servants, remember.” They were alone in the hall, so Genova thrust the baby at him. “Here. I’ll open it.”
She was halfway there when Lord Rothgar overtook her. “Permit me.”
He swung open the door to reveal a man in a heavy caped cloak, who instantly stepped aside to reveal a short woman swathed in a blue, fur-lined cloak.
“Grandmother,” said Rothgar, sounding genuinely at a loss. “What a delightful surprise.”
“Out of my way!” she snapped. She marched forward and the marquess obeyed.
“Where is my grandson?” The dowager marchioness stopped dead. “By gemini, Ashart, what folly have you sunk to now?”
Genova hurried over and grabbed the baby. “It’s not his—it’s mine!”
She realized that didn’t sound right, but she didn’t want to be the cause of more trouble. She had the distinct impression that if the Dowager Marchioness of Ashart had a cannon, she’d be firing it.
The old lady didn’t, however, look like Loki. She was short and round, and soft white curls bubbled out from a lace-frilled cap topped by a mannish but elegant three-cornered hat. The cap was tied beneath her double chin with bright blue ribbons.
Her eyes were formidable enough, however, when she glared at Ash. “What are you doing here? You’ll drive me to my grave!”
People were coming out of rooms to see what was going on. Genova wanted to gag the impossible old woman.
Ash walked toward her, seemingly at ease. “Celebrating, Grandy.” He bent to kiss her cheek. “Merry Christmas.”
She pushed him away. “Fiddle-faddle. Come. We are leaving.”
“Is that the royal we?”
The dowager stared at him, and Genova was surprised not to see steam.
“Why not stay?” Ash coaxed. “There are things to talk of.”
He was going to try to change her mind here, in front of a houseful of Mallorens? Genova had to fight a need to protest.
Lady Ashart felt no such restraint. “I wouldn’t stay in this house if it were the last one in England!”
“Oh, stop your foolery,” said a gruff voice. Lady Calliope was borne down the stairs by her servants, crowned by her monstrous red wig. It was a magnificent entrance.
“You’re here, Sophia, and your servants are in time for a rollicking good party belowstairs, which they doubtless deserve if you’ve dragged them over three counties at Christmas.”
“That’s true,” said Thalia, appearing with a fan of cards in her hand. “What a shame to run away! A shame all around, for as Genova said, if anyone was ever at fault, they’re all dead now.”
“You always were a twit. And who the devil’s Genova?”
“My promised bride,” said Ash, taking Genova’s free hand in a way that showed the diamond ring.
If she’d not been burdened with a baby, she might have knocked him over with a buffet. As well that she didn’t. There was altogether too much firing already.
“What?” the dowager exclaimed and Genova understood why brave men quailed before her, “I heard the Myddleton chit was here.” The dowager’s eyes swept the room. “Where is she?”
“Here.” Damaris Myddleton walked forward and curtsied to the old lady. “I’m glad you’ve arrived, Lady Ashart. I haven’t known what to do.” She turned to face Ash and Genova, with a steady gleam of victory in her eyes. “As you know, my lady, Ashart is already promised to me.”
Chapter Forty-four
S ilence fell except for the faint laughter and calls of children.
For a moment Genova believed it, but then she knew the claim was impossible. “You must be mistaken, Miss Myddleton.”
“Of course she is,” Ash snapped.
Damaris Myddleton laughed, cheeks fiery. “How could I be mistaken about that?” She swung to the dowager. “Is it not true?”
It seemed as if a hall full of avid listeners held their breath.
“Yes,” the dowager said.
Genova saw that Ash was frozen. He didn’t want to prove his grandmother a barefaced liar.
There was one way out of this disastrous moment. Genova saw Lady Arradale nearby and passed the baby to her. Then she turned on Ash.
“You rancid fish!”
He blinked at her.
“Scum on the sewer of life!”
“Genni…?”
She’d already noted the open door to the breakfast room, and now she ran for it. Clearly breakfast had been provided from yesterday’s food along with preserved fruits and such. There was a bit of everything.
“Genni, for God’s sake—”
He was close behind. She picked up a bowl of stewed plums, turned, and hurled the contents full at him. “You scurvy blackguard! I never want to see you again!”
He swept plums off his face. “Genova—”
She scooped out soft butter and threw. “Canker!” Cream. “Dunghill cock!” A jug of ale. “Strutting capon!”
“Capon!” he roared and threw himself at her so they tumbled squishily to the floor in the doorway.
She wriggled free because of a lucky elbow to the nose and pulled off the ring. As he scrambled up, she hurled it at him. “Gilded popinjay. Take back your vile diamond!”
They certainly had a fine audience, and despite a broken heart, Genova was enjoying herself.
She ran into the hall and saw an almost empty dish of sugarplums. She tossed the contents, frosting him with sugar. Then she grabbed a basket of walnuts and pelted him with them, one after another as he kept coming after her, undeterred.
When she ran out of nuts she looked for more missiles and realized she’d made a tactical error. He ha
d her trapped near the fire and the presepe. When he lunged and grabbed her, she couldn’t escape.
She tried to wrench free back in the direction of food, but he cinched her to him unbreakably, her back to him. “Damn you, woman, I love you! Only you!”
“To hell with that!”
“To hell together, then.” Close to her ear, he hissed, “Break up over Damaris, dammit, and I’ll have to marry her!”
That fueled true fury. Genova bent forward, then swung back hard, connecting with his jaw. He cursed and his grip loosened. She ripped free and ran for the food. She turned back swinging a large ham bone.
He went down on one knee, stained, messy, and gorgeous, holding out the diamond ring. “Sweet Genni, forgiving Genni, redoubtable Genni. Marry me? Don’t hold my stupid words against me. It’s not really my fault if you turn me into a gibbering idiot.”
It was like running aground on hidden rocks. Distantly, Genova heard the dowager cry, “Ashart!” and Miss Myddleton shouting something.
Genova’s attention was all on him. “What?”
“I love you, Genni, I adore you, and I want to marry you. I need to marry you. You’re my sanity, my anchor, my balance on the edge. I was trying to find the right words earlier when my grandmother arrived.”
Genova looked around at the shocked but entertained guests.
Damaris Myddleton, seething, was locked in Mr. Fitzroger’s arms, presumably to stop her joining the fray. The Dowager Lady Ashart stood stock-still, glaring as if she wished she were the Gorgon and could turn Genova to stone.
It was also as if she was daring Genova to say yes.
Genova turned back to Ash, happiness bursting out in a laugh of delight. “Yes, Ash, beloved, I’ll marry you. But please, not that ring!”
“No!” cried Miss Myddleton. “He’s mine!”
Genova didn’t take her eyes off Ash’s brilliant, joyful face. He rose, pocketing the ring. “You see, you’re my wisdom, too. But,” he said, taking her into his arms, “I am not a capon.”
She smothered laughter in his sugary shoulder. “I know that.” She wove her arms around his neck, and they kissed slowly, gently, a sweet promise of a lifetime of heady delights.
