The Notorious Lady Grantham: A Grantham Girls companion novella

by Amanda Weaver

  The peak was nearing, something that had never happened to her with Leo. All the chatter of women she’d heard growing up led her to believe it rarely did, and men weren’t much concerned if a woman found her release or not. But again, Archie confounded her expectations. He was close to his own release, she could tell, but he fought it back, the tendons in his neck straining as he struggled, waiting for her to find her pleasure first.

  Even as he fought, he leaned down and brushed a gentle kiss across her mouth, and it was that—his tenderness in the middle of this raw passion—that finally undid her. Pleasure exploded within her, rushing out to her fingertips and toes, causing her to arch up against him. A moment later, he followed her over the edge, letting out a hoarse shout into the quiet of the night.

  “Are you well?” Archie finally broke the silence following their lovemaking.

  “Quite well,” she assured him, nuzzling more securely into the space under his arm, up against his side. “You?”

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead as he played with the tips of her hair. “I can’t remember when I’ve been so well.”

  She pushed herself up enough to rest her crossed arms on his chest, so she could see his face. “I’m glad you came to Paris to study.”

  He grinned, his teeth glinting white in the lamplight as he smoothed a hand over her hair. His palm was so large he could almost cradle her whole head in one hand. “It’s the best decision I’ve ever made. I almost didn’t, you know.”

  “Didn’t come?”

  “I was set on Rome. Had it all arranged. At the last minute, I saw an exhibition of some works of Parisian artists and decided I had to be where they are. It turns out, to my great good fortune, that it’s also where you are.”

  She smiled, pressing a kiss to his chest. “It’s my great good fortune, as well.”

  “Gen,” he began hesitantly. “I still want to go.”

  She stilled, suddenly filled with dread. “To Rome?”

  “There’s a school of painting there I meant to study at. They agreed to hold my spot for a time, but not forever.”

  He was leaving. She’d just found him, just fallen in love with him, and he was leaving.

  “I see.” Her voice sounded quiet and tight. She made to lift herself off his body, but he reached up and took her face in his hands.

  “Gen, wait—”

  “No, I understand.”

  “You don’t. I can barely take care of myself, as you can see. How could I take care of you too? I wish I could take you with me, but—”

  Hope flickered back to life in her chest, and she brought her gaze up to meet his. “You wouldn’t have to take care of me, Archie.”

  “Of course I would.”

  “I can take care of myself.” Her fingers curled into his shoulders possessively. She wouldn’t let him go, not now that she’d found him. “I can help care for you, too. I can find work in Rome. I speak a little Italian.”

  The corner of his mouth tugged up in a smile. “You do?”

  She nodded. One of her mother’s lovers years ago—kinder than most—had been Italian. He’d taught her a little. “I could work while you go to school.”

  Archie shook his head. “I can’t ask that of you.”

  “You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

  His eyes softened with fondness. “You would do that for me?”

  “I’d do anything for you. Anything.”

  “What about your life here?”

  What life did she really have in Paris? Her job in the bookshop was inconsequential. Monsieur Fouchard probably wouldn’t even realize she’d gone. Hopefully, Maman would soon find a new protector, and Gen would once again be left to look after herself alone. Leaving Paris would mean leaving behind the looming threat of LeVeq. And Leo…well, their relationship was over for good. She would speak to him tomorrow and attempt to turn him away from André. Beyond that, there was nothing else she could do for him.

  There was nothing, really, to hold her in Paris. She looked into Archie’s face. Perhaps it was foolish, to fall so deeply for him so quickly. Foolish to consider leaving her entire life behind to follow him. But something deep in her heart urged her to trust him, to throw caution to the wind and embrace this love, this man, and never let go. He wouldn’t let her fall, she was sure of it.

  “None of it matters as much as you.”

  Archie leaned up and pressed a brief, hard kiss to her mouth. “Then come to Italy with me, darling. You said you wanted to leave Paris, to see the world. Come see it with me. We’ll start with Rome and make our own way from there.”

  “I can’t wait. When can we leave?”

  A broad grin split his face. “We’ll leave as soon as I can arrange it. Go home tomorrow and pack your things. You can stay here with me until it’s time to go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Gen, I want you by my side.”

  She gave his shoulder a teasing poke. “And in your bed, I suppose.”

  “Most certainly in my bed. In my days, and in my nights. You and I, together.”

  She blinked away a sudden burning in her eyes. “That’s what I want too.”

  “Then we’ll both have what we want.” He pulled her forward, kissing her soundly. “I’ll make you very, very happy.”

  “I’m already very, very happy, Archie.”

  His hand stroked down the length of her naked back, tracing the shape of her bottom, and sending a new little thrill of desire through her. His eyes darkened with lust as he grinned at her. “Shall I make you even happier?”

  “And how shall you do that?” she teased.

  He rolled suddenly, flipping her onto her back and pinning her under his body. “I believe earlier I said something about exploring every inch of your body with my hands and my mouth.”

  “You did,” she said breathlessly, already on fire for him and he hadn’t even begun to touch her.

  “Perhaps I should make a start,” he said, lowering his mouth to her breast. “Such thoroughness will likely take the rest of the night.”

  He did not exaggerate. It was nearly dawn when they at last fell into an exhausted sleep in each other’s arms.

  Chapter Four

  London, 1897

  “During our waltz last night, Conte Santini practically begged me to give him an answer,” Hazel said as she and Genevieve strolled along the edge of the Serpentine in Hyde Park. “He says he’s in an agony of suspense awaiting word of his fate. Rather overwrought, don’t you think, Gen?”

  The morning was rather mild for mid-December in London, although a bank of low, gray clouds threatened snow later. The air was crisp, with a gusty wind whipping up small whitecaps on the Serpentine. The winter-bare tree branches made a swaying black latticework over their heads.

  Hazel wanted to get out in the park and be seen before the weather forced them back inside for the day. It felt as if they’d stopped to exchange greetings with half of London out for the same reasons.

  It had been a week since Gen had seen Archie—Lord Wrexham—at the Bashcombes’ ball. She’d been waiting ever since, not sleeping, scarcely daring to breathe, for the storm of scandal to break over her head. It hadn’t. No condemnation had come. No ominous knock on her door, no whispers behind her back. Hazel’s parents hadn’t descended to wrench their innocent daughter from her tainted clutches. It seemed Archie—for the moment, at least—had decided to keep what he knew to himself.

  “Perhaps the count has truly grown fond of you,” Gen said absently, staring out across the choppy expanse of the lake.

  Hazel snorted indelicately. “More likely all his bills are coming due, and his bank account is dry.”

  “What do your parents think?”

  “Oh, you know Papa is suspicious of all Italians, but Mama is rather enamored of the idea of visiting me in Italy. She does wonder if I can do better than an Italian count, though. She did so have her heart set on a British title for me.”

  Genevieve suppressed a wince of dis
taste. When had it come to this, this soulless bartering of young girls for titles? For all her fear of growing up to be a courtesan like her mother, it was beginning to feel as if she’d gone one step further, becoming the procuress instead.

  “Maybe I’ll wait to give him my answer until after Christmas. He’ll be well and truly desperate by then,” Hazel mused with a calculating gleam in her eye. “Oh, look! Isn’t that Lord Wrexham ahead? Let’s go say hello.”

  The name jolted Gen out of her reverie. Yes, there he was, coming toward them from the opposite direction. He was still a fair way off, and half hidden by a bush, but it seemed the particular size and shape of his body had become indelibly seared on her brain. She’d know him anywhere.

  “I thought you’d gone off him,” she hazarded. Perhaps they could turn back, or take another path to avoid encountering him.

  “As a husband, most certainly,” Hazel replied. “But flirting with him might draw interest from other quarters, don’t you think?”

  Genevieve was helpless to do anything but continue forward, closer and closer to Archie. As they rounded a curve in the path and he came fully into view, Gen was startled to realize he wasn’t alone. He held the hands of two small children. His children. Her heart gave a painful thump at the reminder of this other life he’d chosen.

  He had a boy and a girl. The boy, about six, was a copy of his father, with the same dark russet hair and fine-boned face. The little girl was younger, perhaps four, with a cascade of lovely golden curls she must have gotten from her mother. Once, when Gen was a young and naïve girl, she’d indulged herself imagining what her own children with Archie might look like. What a stupid little fool she’d been.

  Archie’s attention was on his son, who was saying something to him, so he startled when Hazel called out to him.

  “Good morning, Lord Wrexham. These must be your lovely children.”

  Gen registered the flash of shock when he lifted his head and saw her, and the momentary discomfort in his expression before he schooled his face into a polite smile.

  “Miss Shaw…Lady Grantham. Yes, these are my children. This is Hugo, and this is Charlotte.

  “They’re lovely. Aren’t they adorable, Gen?”

  “Ah, yes, charming.” Engaging in conversation with Wrexham was too daunting to face, so Gen hid behind the convenient presence of his children. “Hugo, you look nearly grown. How old are you?”

  Hugo laughed. “See, Papa? I told you I was nearly grown. That lady thinks so, too.”

  “She’s to be referred to as Lady Grantham,” Archie corrected him gently. “And yes, Hugo, you do look nearly grown. But you didn’t answer Lady Grantham’s question.”

  Hugo looked up at Gen with Archie’s green-gold eyes. “I am six and one quarter,” he said solemnly.

  A sharp gust of wind rattled the branches overhead, and Hazel let out a cry of dismay. “Oh! There goes my hat! It’s headed right for the lake!”

  Her new hat, a weightless confection of straw and ribbons, careened through the air. Hazel took off sprinting across the grass. For all her newly found cynicism and sophistication, she was still, at heart, an impetuous young girl.

  “Be careful, Miss Shaw!” Archie called after her. “The grass is slippery by the water’s edge.”

  The wind carried his words in the opposite direction, and Hazel continued down the slope toward the water. Archie made a start after her, then hesitated, glancing down at his children.

  “I’ll look after them,” Gen said. “Go.”

  His eyes met hers for an instant, then he raced away after Hazel.

  “I hope Papa catches that lady’s hat,” Hugo said. “If she were to fall into the lake, she might drown.”

  “Then there would be a funeral,” Charlotte added somberly. “With a black coach and mourners who would weep, and everyone would wear black for years and years.”

  “While that’s true, Charlotte, it’s also rather grim. Let’s hope your father saves Hazel’s hat before she drowns in the lake.”

  Charlotte sighed, not at all looking as if she hoped for that happy outcome.

  “Charlotte, Hugo is six—”

  “Six and one quarter,” Hugo interjected.

  “Yes. Right. My apologies, Hugo. Six and one quarter. How old are you, Charlotte?”

  “She’s only four. Still a baby,” Hugo offered.

  “I am not a baby!” Charlotte protested. “I am four and a half!”

  “Four and a half is indeed very grown-up,” Gen told her.

  Charlotte gazed up at Gen a moment before calmly slipping her hand into Gen’s as if holding it were second nature. Gen’s heart gave an unexpected pang of longing. She’d had little experience with children and had never thought to gain any, outside of the offspring of the girls she trained up.

  “Your dress is very pretty,” Charlotte said with a forthright seriousness at odds with her angelic face.

  “Oh. Why…thank you.” Gen glanced down at her black bombazine walking suit, trimmed in black braid, with a black fur collar cut close to her face. Not exactly what she’d have thought would appeal to a little girl, but what did she know about children? This child, in particular, seemed to have very singular tastes.

  Gen had taken to dressing in unrelieved black from her earliest days in London. It made her look older than she was, which was the initial purpose. But it also lent her an air of perpetual mourning, although no one had ever dared ask who the mourning might be for. Her carefully cultivated mythos—the murky Continental upbringing, the hint of a French accent that she’d never tried to fully eliminate, her severe style of dress that concealed her true age—had served her well, creating an aura of mystery around her that no one had attempted to pierce.

  “Has someone died?” Charlotte continued, a note of eagerness in her voice. “Is that why you’re wearing black? Are you going to a funeral?”

  “Charlotte loves funerals,” Hugo said, rolling his eyes.

  “I want my funeral to be very grand. The coach will have six black horses with great black plumes. I want everyone to weep and weep and wear black forever.”

  “I’m sure your funeral is a very long way off,” Gen said uneasily.

  Just then, Archie and Hazel returned, both breathing hard, Hazel’s lovely face flushed and smiling, her hat safely perched on her blond curls once more.

  “I’m sorry,” Archie said to Gen. “Ever since her great-aunt Claudia died last year, she’s been obsessed with mourning.” Adroitly, he swept the little girl up into his arms. She wrapped one little arm around his neck while she continued to gaze in open curiosity at Genevieve. “Charlotte, darling, I’ve told you it’s not polite to talk about death with strangers.”

  He was a good father. Gen didn’t know why she was so surprised. He had a great capacity for tenderness and caring, as well as many other far less desirable qualities. It made sense that his children would only know his best self.

  “I had a great-aunt who died, too,” Gen told Charlotte.

  Charlotte turned her wide blue eyes on Gen. “You did? What was her name?”

  “She was called Lady Grantham, just like me.”

  Archie swung his gaze—far more cynical than his daughter’s—at her as well. “Really?”

  “There’s been a Lady Grantham at the center of London Society since the days of King George the Third,” Hazel interjected. “Isn’t that what you told me, Gen?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Is that so?” Archie said.

  “Yes.” She tilted her chin up in a subtle show of defiance. Was he honestly angry at her for having secrets? And it wasn’t as if her great-aunt in London had ever truly been a secret. She’d have happily told him all about her eventually, had he been there to tell. But he wasn’t, because he was back in England, back to being the Earl of Wrexham. And she was just stupid, gullible Geneviève Valadon, the shopgirl and whore’s daughter he’d bedded once in Paris.

  “Well,” Archie said at last, quickly looking away from G
en in discomfort, as if he were thinking about the same thing. “We were on our way to an appointment, and we’d better not be late, right, Charlotte?”

  “We’re going to see our pictures at the gallery,” Charlotte told Genevieve.

  “We gave them a great lot of pictures,” Hugo announced. “And they’re going to have a party to celebrate.”

  “A party? Is that so?” Hazel asked, eyes bright with interest.

  “Only we’re not allowed to go, on account of not being grown up,” Charlotte said.

  “You’ll have fun staying home with Great Aunt Winifred,” Archie told her.

  Hugo harrumphed loudly. “Great Aunt Winifred is never any fun. She only says we must sit still and be quiet.”

  “She says we’ve been left to run wild in Northumberland, like wolves,” Charlotte chimed in brightly.

  Archie glanced uneasily at Gen. “We’re staying with my aunt Winifred while we’re in London. She’s not used to children.”

  “She says we need a mother to tame us,” Hugo said. “She says—”

  Archie swiftly cut him off. “Yes, well, Great Aunt Winifred says a great many things. I’ve just donated part of my art collection to the National Gallery,” he explained to Gen and Hazel. “That’s what’s brought us to London. We’re on our way to see them, now that they’ve been hung.”

  “You should come to Papa’s party!” Charlotte cried.

  Archie’s grimace was almost too quick to catch, but Genevieve noted it. “Ah, yes,” he said at last, recovering himself. “There’s to be a reception in two days’ time. Quite a grand affair. You’re both welcome to attend as my guests.”

  Gen opened her mouth to issue a polite refusal, but Hazel was too quick. “How delightful! I would love to go. Wouldn’t we, Gen?”

  She forced a strained smile. “Of course.”

  “It’ll be my last London party before I go home for Christmas. We’re looking forward to it. Thank you, Lord Wrexham.”

  “My pleasure.” He nodded to Hazel, then glanced at Gen. The serious set of his jaw sent a shiver of dread down her spine. Something told her attending this reception would only be begging trouble, but there was no graceful way out of it now.