The Unthinkable

by Monica McCarty

  He shrugged noncommittally, neither admitting nor denying. “I looked for you.”

  “Apparently, I’m not too difficult to find,” she quipped dryly.

  “That’s not what I meant. I looked for you when you disappeared five years ago.”

  She clamped her mouth closed, biting back the scathing retort that he only had to look as far as his own mother. It didn’t matter.

  “I never meant for things to turn out the way they did.”

  “You didn’t?” she said blandly. “I received your letter. I think things turned out precisely as you intended.”

  A crack of chagrin appeared in his arrogant façade. “That letter was a mistake. I should never have written it. I felt so much pressure at the time, like I’d been backed into a corner. I reacted. Horribly, I know, but I didn’t know what my mother had planned. I was young and foolish.”

  Genie flinched, disappointment surprisingly acute. Part of her had always wondered whether there was some chance that he hadn’t written that horrible note. She’d harbored the tiniest hope that it had all been some atrocious misunderstanding. Fool.

  “We both were,” she finished for him, not wanting to hear anymore on the subject. “There is no need to explain.”

  “I’d like to try.”

  Anger mounted at his conceit. As if words could make a difference. “Don’t bother. I know why you’re really here. You should know that you’re wasting your time.”

  “I’m afraid you have the advantage.” His mouth curved into a lopsided grin. “You’ll have to explain my motives as I myself am not certain.” He took a seemingly innocuous step closer.

  But Genie felt the threat. She couldn’t stand it a moment longer. The nearness of his body, the heat, the subtle spicy scent, combined to overwhelm her senses with his raw masculinity. He affected her much more than she wanted to admit. It was natural, she knew, after what they had once shared. She’d lain naked in his arms for God’s sake. But still, it infuriated her. She broke away, moving a few feet toward the warm, candlelit glow of the ballroom before turning to answer him. “Edmund explained that you refused to back down graciously. He warned that you might try to interfere with our engagement. I don’t know why it should possibly matter to you, but be assured that I have no interest in reliving the past.” The memories were painful enough.

  He smiled as if amused by a private joke, but there was no warmth in the sentiment. “Edmund,” he began sarcastically, “shows surprising candor for someone so proficient at holding his tongue about other things.”

  Genie flushed with resentment, keenly aware that she had shared those same thoughts. But how dare he malign Edmund. Edmund’s dishonesty paled in comparison to his own. “No more surprised than I in the divergent choice of friends of an honorable man like Edmund.”

  His gaze narrowed, but otherwise he gave no indication that he understood the disparagement in character that was intended. “I’m no longer a foolish boy, Mrs. Preston.” He took an intimidating step toward her. “Edmund is not the only man whose intentions are honorable.”

  Genie sucked in her breath. He couldn’t mean marriage? Did he expect her to weep with gratitude and jump at the chance to marry him after all that he’d done? She’d laugh in his face if his continued conceit didn’t infuriate her so greatly.

  But marriage did hold a singular charm. For a brief, tantalizing moment, the image of a supplicant duke brought to his knees, begging for her to marry him flashed before her eyes. Impossible, of course, but the potential for revenge wrought by marriage tempted for a long moment before she pushed it aside.

  She remembered that Huntingdon’s definition of “honorable intentions” could be subject to creative interpretation. Genie had no interest in being mired in the cesspit of his intentions again.

  Genie didn’t know what game he was playing, but she wanted nothing to do with it. “What will it take to get you to leave us alone?” she asked, throwing down the gauntlet.

  He cocked a brow. His eyes raked her body, pausing suggestively on her mouth, then lowering to her breasts. A dangerous grin spread across his features. His teeth gleamed white in the smoky darkness. “What are you offering?”

  The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

  Genie recoiled as if he’d slapped her. Huntingdon swore he saw a trace of hurt in her eyes before they turned to hard, black pebbles. The sensual mouth that he’d watched move between a pout and a smile all week—depending on whether she was getting her way—narrowed into a thin line.

  Damn, Huntingdon swore. Why had he said that? Huntingdon might not know what he wanted from her yet, but whatever it was he wouldn’t achieve it by lewd propositions. He raked his fingers through his hair, irritated by the turn in conversation. He meant to apologize, not besmirch her virtue. But she’d provoked him by comparing him to Hawk and finding him lacking. It rankled, so he’d struck back—cruder than warranted no doubt, but heightened by pent-up frustration.

  And Huntingdon was a frustrated man.

  For the better part of the week, he’d bided his time, patiently waiting for the perfect opportunity to confront her. Alone. It had taken far longer than he’d anticipated; she hovered close to her stalwart protectors. Forced patience only intensified his desire. As did the cool detachment that she presented whenever he was near. Her indifference goaded him. He craved the attention she’d once bestowed so freely. Genie was aware of him, he knew, but it was as a horse is aware of a fly.

  He wanted more. He wanted to shatter that cold mask of indifference and see her eyes burn for him… again. He wanted her to remember his mouth on hers, his hand cupping the velvet skin of her breast, his cock plunging deep into her tight flesh, catapulting her to peaks of shattering ecstasy.

  Because he could think of nothing else. Would the enchantment between them still be there? Had it ever truly existed?

  Would she still be hot and tight, making him ache to come as soon as he entered her?

  But as the week wore on, instead of attending him, her devotion to Hawk became strikingly obvious—and increasingly difficult to endure. They presented as a well-matched pair, he thought sardonically, like his prized chestnut bays.

  And the ton couldn’t get enough of them.

  Hawk had always been sought after, but Genie’s beauty and subtle air of mystery irresistibly sweetened the pot, placing them on the top of every hostess’s list. Genie moved through the ton with a grace and ease that he’d never expected, though perhaps he should have. At times he wondered whether he had ever really known her at all.

  How ironic. If he’d had the guts to defy his family all those years ago, he would have been proud to call her his duchess. He’d underestimated her. He acknowledged it, and added it to the long list of failures where she was concerned.

  She had refinement and beauty, impeccable manners, and an ease of conversation fostered by an unusual proclivity toward kindness. She also exuded a sensuality that made men fools. As a girl she’d been completely unaware of the power of her sexual charms. This woman was very aware, and moreover, wasn’t afraid to use her considerable beauty to get what she wanted. He couldn’t help but wonder how far she would be willing to go to protect her engagement to Hawk. And how far had she gone before with him to get what she wanted?

  The thought chilled him.

  His suggestive taunt had at least cracked her icy indifference. Boldly, her sultry blue eyes returned his hungry gaze, sliding down his body, lingering for a moment at the broad expanse of his chest then lowered to the substantial bulge in his fitted silk breeches. Blood surged with the weight of her eyes on his manhood.

  One side of her mouth quirked in a mocking half smile. “Offer? Why should I offer you anything? Except for silence, you have nothing that interests me. As I recall, you have very little to recommend you.” She raised her eyes from his crotch and met his stare full force, so there could be no mistaking her meaning. “Edmund more than fulfills my every desire.”

  Huntingdon saw re
d. Not from the slur on the size of his manhood—he was more than confident in that regard—but to the thought of her and Hawk together. The picture of Genie in Hawk’s arms ate like acid at his insides. It had been haunting him, and having it confirmed stung.

  She turned to flounce away, but his hand whipped out to grab her arm. A sharp jolt shot through him at the contact. Touching her opened floodgates that he’d desperately battled to keep closed. His fingers clutched the small expanse of skin between the short sleeve of her sheer evening gown and the top edge of her glove. Through the dark haze of jealousy, he noticed the firm muscle beneath the velvety skin. Skin that was even softer than he remembered.

  He bent his mouth to her ear. “It seems you have a short memory. It hasn’t been that long. Should I remind you of all that I have to offer?” The coarse threat was tempered by the huskiness in his voice.

  Taking advantage of her shock, his hand wrapped around her waist, and he pulled her into the protective shield of his chest. The unmistakable truth of his words stood between them; his long, thick, very substantial erection pulsed against the slim contour of her stomach.

  Heat flushed her cheeks and her eyes burned with indignation. She was clearly furious. Yet all he could think about was the lush rose of her lips raised in protest mere inches below his.

  Lust and anger converged, his body raged with indecision. Never had he experienced such a primitive craving to take, to overwhelm a woman with the sheer power of his body. He wanted to kiss her, to brand her with his mouth. To force her to acknowledge that she belonged to him. To dare her to deny the heat that still crackled like wildfire between them.

  Bloody hell, he sounded like some sort of animal.

  But he couldn’t help it. The mouthwatering lure of her lips was too great.

  Before she could utter the words to stop him, he lowered his head, capturing her startled gasp with the force of his kiss.

  Something caught and tightened in his chest at the first taste of her. It had been so long. The memories washed over him. He groaned, feeling like a glutton, eager to sate the hunger that had gone unfed for five years. Her mouth was achingly sweet, a sweetness that had lingered in the farthest reaches of his mind, a taste that he’d never been able to completely erase.

  With a tenderness that belied the savage urge to ravish coursing through his veins, he moved his mouth over hers, wooing with a bittersweet plea for remembrance of all that had once existed between them. Love, passion, friendship.

  For a moment he thought she responded. Her hand pressed against his chest, fingers splayed out over the wide ridge of muscle. Her mouth softened, her lips parted. For one glorious instant she succumbed.

  Or so he thought.

  He pulled her closer in his arms, pressed her firmly against his body and deepened the kiss. Lust overtook sensation. His demands turned frantic. He wanted her under him, legs wrapped around his waist, hips raised to meet his deep, primal thrust. His tongue flicked out to plunder her mouth, but her lips, so soft and pliable, closed, refusing entry. The hand that had once seemed content on his chest braced against him. She tried to break free, fluttering like a bird in the steel cage of his arms.

  Refusing to accept that she might not want him, that the same wild abandon was not heating her blood, his kiss hardened. He pried her lips apart, and swept her mouth with his tongue. She stilled. His ears buzzed and his heart pounded with excitement. He mimicked the rhythm of lovemaking with the thrust and swirl of his tongue. The carnal kiss intensified, firing his raging lust. Yield to me, he wanted to roar, but instead commanded it with his mouth.

  Her lips opened.

  Thinking he’d won, he growled, heady with masculine pride.

  Just before her teeth clamped down on his tongue, her foot smashed down on his instep, and her knee made a brash attempt at sending his bollocks to his chin. Only the cumbersome skirts of her evening gown prevented his near gelding.

  Pain cleared his head. He released her with a loud curse. Tasting blood, his hand moved to cover his mouth.

  Breathing hard, chest heaving with the force of her fury, Genie moved far away from him. Except for the anger, she seemed unaffected by the passion that had just strangled his senses.

  From her position of safety, she eyed him warily, as the lamb watches the fox. “How dare you,” she said coldly. “Along with your charm, you seem to have lost much of your subtlety.”

  “I thought…”

  “What? That I would welcome your kiss?” She laughed, an ugly sound loaded with scorn and mockery. “That we might pick up where you left off? I despise and loathe you. I am no longer a green country girl excited to folly by an inconsequential kiss or the slobbering gropings of a randy boy, Your Grace. I have learned much from my mistakes, including never to repeat the same one twice.”

  What had he thought? To overpower her good sense with sensation? Shamefully, he realized yes. Foolishly, he’d hoped to break down her resistance with passion. For a moment he’d even thought that it had worked. “Nothing between us has ever been inconsequential, including that kiss.”

  “I fear the sentiment was one-sided. I seem to have lost my taste for charming scoundrels.” The flashing in her eyes hardened. “Though I believe you no longer qualify as charming. As to what was once between us, I also believed differently, until you so conclusively proved the fallacy of those beliefs.”

  She was right. He had been the one to debase what had once been between them.

  Collecting himself, he bowed slightly. “I’m sorry. It seems I erred in judgment once again.” His tongue still throbbed and his arch felt like it had flattened. “Though I must say that your ability to rid yourself of an unwanted suitor is quite admirable. And an unusual accomplishment for a society lady.”

  A shadow crossed over her face. Clearly exasperated she asked, “What do you want from me?”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

  If he’d embarrassed her, she hid it well. She looked down her nose at him mockingly. “You’ve had that. You don’t even know me now. I’m not the same girl who left Thornbury five years ago.”

  “And I’m not the same boy who let you go.” Genie’s disappearance had forced him to take a hard look at his character. He hadn’t much liked what he’d seen. The unexpected death of his father and brother, and the responsibilities appurtenant, had completed his transformation.

  They stood staring at each other in the moonlight, the memories an ethereal but surprisingly strong bond between them. The connection would always be there, but not in the way it had been in the past. For the first time, Huntingdon realized the truth. He could not go back. No matter how much he wanted to do it over again and make things right, he couldn’t. It was too late. For a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, failure was a bitter pill to swallow.

  But where did that leave him? What did he want from her?

  “If that is all then, I bid you good night.” She turned to leave, but he stopped her—this time with words.

  “Wait.” He’d cornered her for a purpose. He needed answers, but first he owed her something. Something that was long past due. “You’re right. I do want something from you.” She eyed him cagily. He took a deep breath. “I want to apologize for what happened in Thornbury—all of it. I cannot regret making love to you, but it was wrong. As was my failure to offer you the proposal of marriage that you deserved. The letter was…” He winced as if with pain. “My behavior was appalling. I offer no excuse. I was wrong, terribly wrong. It was the biggest mistake of my life. I can only ask for your forgiveness.”

  Her eyes widened with surprise. And something else… pain? “It was a long time ago. We’ve both moved on.”

  His eyes locked on her face, searching for a sign of hesitation. Regret? Sorrow? Anger? Any sign of doubt. A faint blush still stained her cheeks and her lips were swollen from his kiss, but emotion, even anger, had fled under the mask of cool serenity. He knew better than to ask, but he had a per
verse need to know. Had she truly moved on? “Do you love him?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I do.”

  He felt like the air had been knocked out of him, leaving a dull pain in his chest.

  That was that then.

  Or was it?

  He still wanted to know what had happened to her, why she hadn’t returned as she’d promised. Had she ever loved him?

  But most of all, he needed to know the one thing that had plagued him since his mother had first voiced the possibility. The one thing for which he could never be absolved.

  Clearly determined to have done, Genie turned and started back to the ballroom.

  “Eugenia. Mrs. Preston,” he called after her.

  She looked back. Her face seemed a perfect mask of alabaster carved by a soft beam of moonlight.

  Their eyes met.

  The importance of the question he was about to ask gave him pause, but he had to know. “Do I have a child?” he asked softly, though he knew immediately that she’d heard him.

  She paled, utterly horror-struck. The façade of cold detachment collapsed. She seemed to almost cower like a wounded animal cornered and being beaten with a stick. For a moment, beneath the serene beauty, he glimpsed a different woman. A woman that had known pain. A woman that life had not treated so kindly. He saw a girl cruelly aged by hardship and misfortune.

  Taken aback by the sudden transformation, he didn’t think she was capable of replying. But her voice, when it came, resonated in the cool night air like the hard crack of a whip. “You did.”

  Before he could react, she turned and fled into the protective embrace of Lady Jersey’s crowded ballroom.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Over and over, the words reverberated in her head, unrelenting, as she slipped in and out of consciousness. “Trust me… trust me…”

  I do! Her heart cried. But where are you? I need you.

  His face floated above her, smiling, the bright sun in the midst of darkness. She reached out, frantically grasping at emptiness. Her voice found strength. “Please. Come to me, help me…,” she begged. Not in a letter this time, but from the terrified throes of torture.