“Did you?”
“No.” Then he added, “Harems are found in other parts of the world, Genevieve, but not in India. I did meet some beautiful women, though. They were ladies, if not born in England.”
Genevieve didn’t want to discuss it any further. “What time do you think it is?”
“Around eight,” he said calmly.
“Eight!” She sat up straight. “Felton came for me at six!”
“You weren’t there,” Tobias pointed out.
She pulled her foot out of his hand, but he didn’t let her up. “You’re marrying me now, Genevieve.”
Protest flared to her lips and died. Of course she had to marry Tobias. She’d lost her right to marry Felton.
Tobias looked down at her and his heart sank. Obviously Genevieve was having second thoughts, but there were no second thoughts to have. “He doesn’t really want you,” he said, as gently as he could, trying to explain. “Felton sees you as an acquisition, Genevieve, not as a woman to love.”
“Nonsense!” she said, and the stifled note in her voice made him feel panic and then anger.
“He would put you on the mantelpiece to admire,” he insisted.
“No, he wouldn’t,” Genevieve replied, and her voice was so sad that Tobias had to stop himself from shaking her. He set her on her feet and walked to the edge of the door, where he looked over the Commons. Fear had always made Tobias angry.
“Do you know what you would have been if you’d married Felton?” he demanded without turning around. “The same thing you were for six years as Mulcaster’s wife. An old man’s possession. It sounds as if Mulcaster considered you the next best thing to a china shepherdess, and Felton was going to dust you off and make you exactly the same.”
“Felton is not an old man! How dare you say such a thing?”
“He acts as if he is,” Tobias snarled. “He looks at least forty.”
“He is exactly thirty-two,” Genevieve informed him.
Tobias turned around and leaned in the doorway, watching her twist her curls into an untidy, glorious knot at herneck. “It must be the way he sleeks back his hair,” Tobias said maliciously. “Makes him look as if his hair is going.”
“You’re jealous!” Genevieve snapped, shooting him an irate look.
“Not of him,” Tobias retorted. “I’ve had you, if you remember.”
“You unaccountably vulgar—vulgar cad!” Genevieve shrieked, suddenly darting toward him and striking him in the chest with her fist.
Tobias looked down at her flailing away at his chest, her hair falling loose from its knot and swirling around her shoulders, and he felt a great well of desire that would never go away. “Genevieve,” he said, grabbing her arms so she had to listen to him. She kept flailing against him, her eyes glistening with tears. “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it, with every bit of his heart. “We never should have made love. You had every right to marry Felton.”
She stopped, and her eyes were searching his. The pain in those greeny-gray eyes was enough to make him bellow with rage. But he just stood, holding her fragile wrists in his great paws.
“It’s not only your fault. I could have stopped you.”
The pain in her voice was like another dagger. He couldn’t bear it. “He wasn’t worthy of you, Genevieve!” The truth of it burst from his chest.
“Don’t tell me of his underhanded business dealings,” she said wearily, turning from him. He let her go without protest. “I was married to one of the most avaricious men in all England for six years. I can judge illegalities as well as the next person. Felton may sometimes walk on the far side of the letter of the law, but he doesn’t engage in truly nefarious practices.”
It was true enough. “But he doesn’t want you.” Genevieve laughed, and it wasn’t a humorous sound. “He won’t now, at any rate.”
“I mean it,” Tobias said fiercely. It was slowly dawning on him that he’d made the worst mistake of his life. By taking away Genevieve’s ability to choose between him and Felton, he’d destroyed their marriage. Now she would always pine for that sleek bastard in a corner of her heart. The horror of it made his voice harsh. “I can show you,” he said.
“What do you mean, you can show me?”
She had turned her back to him and was leaning in the doorway now. The curve of her slender neck, just visible below the knot of her hair, made him ache with sudden desire. Beyond her the rain was still falling, softer and more quietly. All the boys had run home, and the huge Commons was inhabited by nothing but a few birds pecking at crumbs, heedless of the rain splashing on their beaks.
He didn’t touch her. “I can demonstrate to you, clearly demonstrate, that Felton does not love you as you expect.”
“How? By giving me proof that he has a mistress?” she asked, not bothering to look back at Tobias. “I don’t care.”
“What do you mean, you don’t care?” he roared, whirling her about. “You don’t mind having a husband with a mistress? And in our marriage? Shall we marry and I sally forth every Thursday night to spend the evening with a pretty little French minx, and you won’t give a damn? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Genevieve narrowed her eyes at him. “If you go off with some pretty French minx, I am quite certain that I can amuse myself!” she retorted.
Tobias opened his mouth to bellow and thought better of it. “You haven’t answered my original point, which suggests that you know as well as I do that Felton hasn’t the proper feeling for you.”
“He has, not that it matters now,” Genevieve said steadily. “He simply doesn’t express himself in the boisterous manner that you do. He is a gentleman.”
“We’ll see, shall we?” Tobias said.
Genevieve bit her lip. Tobias was obviously enraged, though what he had to be angry about when she was the one losing her fiancé, she didn’t know.
“I can prove to you that your so-called gentleman doesn’t give a fig for you,” he said curtly.
“Fine,” Genevieve snapped. “Fine! You do that. You can prove it to me this very evening, why don’t you?”
“That might be a problem, as Felton expects to spend the evening with you,” Tobias said, shrugging on his coat. “Why don’t we say tomorrow afternoon, at my hotel?” He looked around the hut. “I very much regret to tell you that our piglet will not be able to attend, as he made good his escape while we were otherwise occupied.”
Genevieve looked around the hut. “Oh, no! What will he eat?”
“He’s a pig,” Tobias said. “He’ll find something. Shall we be gone? The rain seems to have lessened.”
They tramped across the Commons side by side. The piglet was lost. Genevieve’s shoes were ruined. That seemed all one to the fact that her life was ruined. Her elegant, beautiful little shoes were ruined, and her life was ruined, and now she was marrying a big brute instead of her sleek, sophisticated Felton.
Luckily the wind was tossing the oak trees, sprinkling them liberally with rain. And if warm drops mingled with chilly water on Genevieve’s face, no one could possibly tell the difference.
Chapter 7
The Betrayal
Naturally, Lucius Felton appeared in response to Tobias’s notiglet was obias had stowed Genevieve behind a screen, in the corner of his private sitting room at Symon’s Hotel. Felton came in, wearing an immaculate gray jacket, fitted in such a way as to make his lean body look as polished as marble. Tobias thought for a moment about smashing his fist into Felton’s jaw but bowed and waved him to a chair instead.
Felton took his time, the insolent bastard, strolling around the room and glancing at the furnishings. “I’ve never liked this heavy Egyptian style,” he said. “Thomas Hope has done England a great disservice, to my mind.”
Tobias could play this game as well as the next man. He walked over to stand next to Felton and smiled, the smile of an Indian snake charmer. “Genevieve tells me that I should f
urnish my house with the cabinetry of George Bullock,” he remarked. “Do you know of his work?”
“Spectacular pieces,” Felton said idly, inspecting a huge griffin foot that supported the screen behind which Genevieve sat. “Your grandchildren will squabble over who gets your washstand.”
Tobias turned briskly to the two seats next to the fire. “Whisker is now in my possession,” he said without preamble.
Felton drifted to a seat opposite him and sat down, delicately balancing a mahogony walking stick against his chair. “Ah, what a fortunate man you are,” he purred. “Let me see if I have this correct. You are starting your stables with Prudence, Nyar, Minuet, Smolensko, and Whisker? Impressive.”
“More than impressive,” Tobias said gently. “Those five horses represent the finest racing stock in all England.”
“True,” Felton admitted.
“I understand you had to shoot a mare at the Brighton Derby,” Tobias said, lashing on a bit of false pity. “Silk, from Ormonde and Angelica, am I correct?”
But a glance at Felton’s eyes made Tobias close his mouth. That was agony that flashed across the man’s face.
“I’ve had second thoughts about taking the horses to India,” Tobias said, watching Felton closely.
“They are unlikely to survive the trip,” Felton told him flatly.
“I am thinking of giving them to you.”
There was utter silence, broken only by the faint clatter of carriage wheels in the street outside. Tobias waited, willing Genevieve to keep silent in her corner of the room.
“I saw Genevieve Mulcaster for the first time quite accidentally,” Felton said, lifting his stick and staring at it as if looking for scratches. “I was investigating a colt in a nearby village. She had to do her own shopping in the village, you know. Mulcaster was too damn cheap to hire enough servants. I saw her, crossing the square.”
Tobias could see the picture in his mind. A dusty little English square, and then there was Genevieve, with her laughing face, her magnificent hair, and that glorious, lush little body. It seemed he had madesomething of a mistake. Perhaps Felton—
But Felton was shrugging. “I love her as much as I’m capable,” he said, putting his stick down. “But more and more I am persuaded that I am not capable of the emotion that Genevieve would wish to receive.” He looked at Tobias. “Might I point out that her affection for me may prove a problem for you?”
“Or it might not,” Tobias said.
“Perhaps you can convince her,” Felton said, with a wry twist of his lips.
And Tobias realized with a shock that under different circumstances, he’d quite like the man. Damn him to hell. “I shall do my best,” he replied noncommittally. “The horses will be sent to your stud tomorrow.”
“Perhaps you’ll walk me to the lobby to discuss the matter?”
Tobias was a little surprised, but he closed the door behind them. He walked down the hallway as quickly as he could; if Genevieve was distraught by Felton’s betrayal, he wished to comfort her. It couldn’t be an easy thing for a woman to hear herself traded for five horses.
Felton stopped when they reached the ornate lobby of Symon’s Hotel, with its high, arching ceiling and magnifi-cent Egyptian furniture. He paused for a moment to light a cheroot and then looked at Tobias, shaking back a lock of hair. “You might want to tell Genevieve that she oughtn’t to wear perfume on days when she is playing spy,” he said.
Tobias stared into his heavy-lidded eyes. “You knew she was there.”
Felton blew out smoke. “I want the horses.” Then he looked at Tobias. “Don’t fool yourself, Darby. I wanted her as well.” His voice was hard. “But”—he blew a cloud—“I believe she’ll be happier with you.”
Tobias put out his hand. “I wish you well with those horses, Felton.”
“They’ll have to do, won’t they?” And he walked out the door into a blaze of sunshine, a slim figure in gray, swinging a polished cane and walking with a controlled prowl.
Tobias watched him go. Under different circumstances, he would more than just like the fellow. They would indeed be friends.
Then he turned. Genevieve was waiting.
Chapter 8
The Worth of Five Horses
She wasn’t crying. She was sitting in the very seat that Felton had deserted, twisting a lock of hair in her fingers. She looked up when he entered the room. To his utter relief, she didn’t seem hysterical or heartbroken.
“How are you?” he asked.
“All my life, I’ve been toss back and forth between men like a delectable sweet. Why should I feel any different now that I have discovered just how much the sweet is worth in horseflesh?”
Tobias’s heart sank. He sat do wn opposite her.
“I should like to go home now,” Genevieve said in a cold little voice. “Unless you would like to take further advantage of your marital rights, or should I call them premarital rights?” She waved her hand toward the closed door leading to Tobias’s bedchamber.
“Am I such a bad bargain, then?” he asked. “I told you that Felton didn’t have proper feeling for you. But I do have that feeling for you, Genevieve. And you feel for me as well, whether you wish to admit it or not.”
She looked at him, and he couldn’t read her expression. “I am struck by what excruciatingly bad taste I have,” she said conversationally. “First you, and then Felton. Both of you utter muckworms. How could I be so unlucky?”
“Muckworm is a harsh term,” Tobias said, controlling his temper with an effort. “I’m sorry if you didn’t care for my offering Felton the horses. I wanted you to see what kind of man he was.”
“Oh, I’m not talking about that,” she said with a sharp little laugh. “I consider your true nature to have been exposed the morning after we eloped, the morning when you did not arrive to ask my hand in marriage.”
“Isn’t the relevant point that you married another man?”
“I had nothing to do with it,” Genevieve said with brutal precision. “You took me in a carriage to Gretna Green without having the common sense to evade my father, took my virginity in the carriage, and then failed to stop my ensuing marriage to Lord Mulcaster.”
“I apologize for not having the forethought to avoid your father,” Tobias said, carefully controlling his voice. “It was the first elopement I had arranged, and I didn’t know much about the route.”
“You should have asked someone!”
“I believe that I was not thinking rationally at the time.”
“You had been drinking!” Genevieve spat. He looked so innocent, and yet he was the worst kind of rakeshame.
“All evening,” he agreed. “I was jug-bitten.”
She was starting to feel shaky. “Otherwise I suppose you would never have thought of such a thing as to elope with me,” she said, trying for a dignified tone.
“Likely not,” he agreed. He folded his arms over his chest.
“Well, it’s nice to have clarified that bit of information,” she said bitterly.
“Would you have eloped with me?” he asked.
“I did so, didn#x2019;t I!” she snapped.
“But you were muzzy as well,” he reminded her. “All that champagne...I doubt you would have eloped with me had you not been imbibing champagne, Genevieve. We were both inebriated.”
“I was not inebriated. I have naught to blame my bird-witted behavior on except youth and stupidity.”
“You seem to have embroidered the occasion in your memory, but I have no difficulty remembering that I scarcely knew you from Adam and a few hours later was scrambling down a country lane planning to flee to Gretna Green.”
“You knew me! We’d known each other our whole lives.” All those days when she’d dressed carefully, spending hours combing her hair and dreaming of the unpredictable, beautiful boy next door, and he would say that he scarcely knew her? “You must be joking!” she cried, more furious than ever. “My father was your parents’ nearest neighbor f
rom the time you were eight years old until your father lost his house.”
He shrugged. “Of course I know that fact. And I’d seen you occasionally. But I did not know you, Genevieve. Not until I met you at that musicale.”
Genevieve could even remember the first time she saw him. It was the Whitsuntide Fair, and Tobias was twelve years old. Right in the middle of a play put on by the village children, Mrs. Briglet sprang from her chair with a piercing shriek because he’d tucked a hedgehog into her reticule. Genevieve had worshiped him from the moment she watched him dash from the square, laughing madly as his father howled after him, “Devil’s Spawn!” Tobias Darby was the opposite of everything Genevieve had ever known, growing up in her quiet, passionless house, and being raised by an elderly father who was fond of her, although easily tired by her over-boisterous nature, as he called it.
Her rage grew. “What a pretty picture,” she said cuttingly. “You meet a young lady at a musicale whom you claim to barely know. You are intoxicated, and she the same. You dash out into the night, hire a carriage, and take off for Gretna Green. You manage to deflower her twice—”
“You can’t deflower someone twice,” he put in. But he wasn’t amused.
“You—you take a moonstruck girl and, and take your pleasure twice in a moving vehicle, and then once her father appears, you decide to travel to India, without even bothering to make a formal appeal for her hand. You, sir, are a blackguard! Worse than your father, in fact!”
He was suddenly very white. “How could I have made an appeal for your hand? You married Mulcaster.”
“Don’t tell me a barefaced lie!” she cried. “If nothing else, you owe me the truth! On second thought,” she added bitterly, “why don’t we omit the flummery? I quite understand that your conscience has been bothering you. Well, it needn’t. I am a respectable widow, thanks to Erasmus having the kindness to marry me after you soiled me. I have a jointure, and no need for a husband.”
“But I have need of you, Genevieve. And it wasn’t a soiling.” He looked straight into her beautiful eyes, choosing his words carefully. “Am I understanding you correctly—”
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