The Unthinkable

by Monica McCarty

  He flinched at her deliberate crudeness. “What am I to think? Was there another reason for you to be in such a place? Damn it, Genie. Help me understand.”

  She bristled; her back straightened. “Why should I? I don’t owe you an explanation.” Her eyes narrowed. “If anyone made me a whore, it was you.”

  His eyes sparked with fire, hearing in her response what he wanted. He grabbed her arm, furious. “Don’t blame me for your choices.”

  “Shouldn’t I?” The anger she’d been holding back for years finally burst free. “Who seduced an innocent, respectable young girl with a promise of marriage? Who refused to answer my letter when I begged you to come to me and honor that promise? Whose mother forced me from my home, my family, from everything I’d ever known? Who left me with child, a child whose death nearly killed me? Who left me alone to face the ugliness of the world, and men who only want—” She stopped herself, aware that she’d said too much. She was shaking from the release of emotion that had been kept bottled for too long. Her throat constricted with a knot of hot tears. Forcing herself to take deep breaths, slowly, stone-by-stone, she erected the wall of detachment back up around her.

  Taken aback by the vehemence of her attack, he seemed honestly shocked by the level of her anger. And shamed. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I know how horribly I wronged you. Forgive me, I never realized.”

  “No. Of course, you didn’t. Why should you?” she asked bitterly. “As a man these are things you wouldn’t consider. The ‘choices’ as you put it are not the same for a man. Tell me this, Your Grace, what choice does a woman alone really have? A woman without money, without connections, without protection, without useful skills other than a passable accomplishment at pianoforte or embroidery.”

  “You had other skills,” he argued. “You are a bright, well-educated woman, surely there are many respectable professions other than being a wh—”

  “Don’t say it!” she warned through bared teeth. “Don’t you dare say something you know nothing about. About the kind women who showed me the compassion and protection that you and men like you did not. Don’t you think I tried to find employment? You know how I’d always loved children. I tried. Believe me I tried.” She stood back, moving closer to the candlelight, allowing the light to fully capture the lushness of her form. “But look at me, Huntingdon. Really look at me.”

  He did. His brow creased, unsure of what she expected, as his gaze traveled up and down over her form, briefly lingering on her breasts and face. Unknowingly lingering. Unable to completely mask the accompanying desire that flared in his eyes.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his voice rough with wanting.

  It was what she expected him to say. She shook her head, disappointed nonetheless. “And that is all that anyone sees. I was told often enough that the only thing anyone would want me for was my beauty. Isn’t that true, Huntingdon?”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her. From the top of her golden head turned silver in the candlelight, to the pointed tips of her tiny satin slippers. Standing like a goddess in her ivory gown, the thin fabric hugging the rounded curves of her breasts and hips, skimming the long length of her lean legs. He looked at her, at the beautiful features that had haunted him for years, the tiny nose, wide cobalt eyes, plump pink lips and the tight lush body that screamed out her sensuality. He felt the familiar rush of blood and all at once understood.

  The force of her accusation drove home with the increasing tightness in his groin. Like him, men would see her and want her. She could never fade into the background as a governess or servant must. No, she would be sweet temptation in any household. And completely, utterly vulnerable. He’d never thought of it like that before. Of the difficulties that a woman of quality would face when cast out with nothing. Women who had never been forced to protect themselves. No wonder she’d learned to defend herself, he thought, remembering her unique handling of him earlier. What else had she been forced to learn?

  Huntingdon felt the first inklings of unease. That perhaps the moral righteousness he’d felt when Hawk told him where he’d found her, ought to have been something else. Compassion. Or guilt.

  His own lust suddenly sickened him. It felt base and common. Had he really thought of her as just a beautiful face? Undoubtedly her beauty had attracted him, but there had been more to it than that.

  “I will not deny that you are beautiful, Genie. But you are very wrong if you think that was the only reason I wanted you. I was just as attracted by your sweetness, to your kind heart and to your gentle manner. You were funny and warm, honest and playful. You enchanted me.”

  Her lips curved into a rueful half smile. “Well, I am none of those things any longer, Your Grace. So do not fear. I have no intention of holding you to your generous offer of marriage.”

  Genie tried to bite back some of the sarcasm, but the bitterness once freed seemed to tumble out on its own accord. She was still furious at his attempts to force her into marriage with threats of ruin. He’d ravaged her hard-wrought pride with his high-handedness. She knew she was more than a beautiful face. She’d found strength within herself that she hadn’t known existed. She’d survived so much in spite of his betrayal, and it infuriated her that he could take it all away with one well-placed whisper.

  Or could he? She stopped for a moment to consider the ramifications of the errant thought. What was it that she really wanted? Security in the form of money and land. Security that would ensure she would not be vulnerable to the dictates of a man again. Social acceptance was just a means to an end because she did not want to hurt Edmund, but a place in society had never been her dream. She preferred the country to town on any day. A glimmer of an idea formed. One side of her mouth curved up. Perhaps there was a way of carving out her desires and settling old scores after all.

  Did it really matter who she married as long as she had security?

  But could she do it? She studied his face with new intensity. Even with what she’d just told him, Genie could see the conflict warring on his face. He wanted her, but still couldn’t accept her place at a brothel. Would he honor his offer this time?

  She waited for his response.

  The silence rang loudly for a long time. Too long. Finally, he appeared to reach a decision. To her surprise, honor won out this time around. He drew himself up, every inch the duty-bound duke condescending to do something beneath him. “I have made you an offer of marriage. This changes nothing,” he said stiffly. “I ask you again, Genie, will you marry me? It is your choice.”

  “Choice?” She laughed. “You speak of choice when you try to coerce me into a marriage that I do not want. And by the looks of it, neither do you.”

  He didn’t bother to deny it, but she noticed his mouth tighten.

  Genie was amazed. She wanted to laugh at the hypocrisy. He didn’t want to marry her, but would go through with it out of some strange sense of honor. She had to give him credit, he’d changed enough not to turn tail at the first sign of difficulty. Despite the possible scandalous consequences, he would marry her, even though he thought she’d been a whore. She hadn’t, but it wasn’t by any moral superiority to the women she’d met at Madame Solange’s. No, luck had been her morality. She hadn’t become a whore because Edmund had found her before she’d been forced to make that particular “choice.”

  Edmund. She’d tried to ignore the truth, but hadn’t been able to admit it to herself until this moment. Even without Huntingdon’s high-handedness, the truth could no longer be denied. Marrying Edmund was wrong. She did not love him the way he deserved to be loved—and what’s more, someone else did. After all he’d done for her, he didn’t deserve that.

  Maybe if she’d never come back to England, had never seen Huntingdon again, she could have gone through with it. Maybe if Lady Hawkesbury had not warned her of the devastation that unrequited love might bring. Maybe if there was no Fanny. But there were all of those things, and so she would not marry Edmund.

&nbs
p; When she first met Edmund, Genie had been in the blackest period of her life. He’d been a light, something to hold on to. A way out of the darkness. But for a long time, she’d been holding so tight to something that never had a chance.

  Her relationship with Edmund had begun with deception. She’d used her beauty and her body to tempt him into marrying her, tempting him with the promise of passion that would never bloom. She would have tried her best to love him, but it would have been a losing battle, one that would eventually have made him bitter. She loved Edmund, but as a friend, not as a lover. After what happened with Huntingdon, she feared how she would even manage that.

  If she did not marry Edmund, where did that leave her? She glanced over at Huntingdon, still patiently waiting for her answer.

  The answer of course was inevitable. What other choice did she have? None. She had no money and no other means of support. She could return home, but would her parents want her? Or would her unexpected return only bring them more embarrassment?

  Her eyes raked his powerful form, calculating rather than admiring. He stood there so cocksure of himself, knowing very well that he’d left her without a choice. God, she was tired of arrogant men. His attempts to erase his shame by forcing marriage upon her, irrespective of her wishes, were the same selfish actions of the arrogant boy who had seduced her with a promise of marriage. The best she could do was ensure her own protection. And there would be some irony in tying herself to a man who thought her a whore. Rather a nice blade to hold over his head. The thoughts of revenge that she’d forced aside when Edmund came into her life had resurfaced and intensified with Huntingdon’s latest maneuverings. She might have the last word yet.

  But first she had to assure her future.

  Stripping all emotion from her face, she said as indifferently as possible, “My requirements for marriage are quite simple, it matters little who the bridegroom is, as long as my terms are met. Will you agree to honor the terms of the marital agreement I have with Edmund?”

  Only a slight tick in his jaw betrayed his shock at her crass words. “Yes.”

  Genie smiled knowingly. “Do you not want to hear the terms before you agree?”

  “It matters not.”

  She ignored him. “Edmund has agreed to provide me with a separate residence of my choosing, placed in my name.”

  “What for?”

  “It’s not your concern.”

  “You can’t expect to live there? You have duties as duchess—as my wife, damn it—which will require your presence by my side.”

  Genie stiffened at the none-too-subtle reference to what would be required of her. “I will fulfill my duties.” She would not reside there—not at first, at least. “In addition, I will be provided with an annual income of two thousand pounds, again in my name only and held in a separate account.” From the way his jaw tightened and his mouth turned white, she knew he’d understood the significance of the amount. The same amount his mother used to get rid of her. She paused, working up the courage to add the newest term, one that hadn’t been necessary with Edmund. “The house and income shall be mine, whatever the state of our marriage. If you seek an annulment or a divorce, the terms of the agreement will still be in effect.”

  Huntingdon sputtered, unable to hide his shock this time. “That is simply not done, it is unheard of.”

  She arched a dainty brow. “Not completely unheard of. Am I not correct that many men make similar provisions for their mistresses?”

  He blanched, discomfited by the truth.

  Genie smiled, enjoying his discomfort. “I’ll of course understand if you wish to reconsider, but I’m afraid my terms are nonnegotiable. My solicitor assures me that although unusual, it can be done.”

  He looked at her strangely, attempting to read the reasons for such terms in her expression. But her face betrayed nothing. Let him think her cold and mercenary. She cared not, as long as he agreed.

  He nodded. “My solicitor will draw up the papers and send it over for your approval.”

  Genie relaxed. She’d done it. She would have her security and her revenge. Revenge that would assure her eventual freedom. “Then I will agree to marry you.”

  She watched his expression carefully, but if he was happy he did not show it. An unwelcome twinge of disappointment pinched her in the chest. What had she expected, to be swept into his arms and kissed? She’d been the one to treat his proposal like a business arrangement, and apparently, he’d taken a cue from her. Romance and love had no part in their agreement.

  “I’ll begin the arrangements for a special license immediately. If you have no objection, we can be married within a fortnight at Donnington.”

  Genie nodded, not questioning the urgency, indifferent about what she had once thought would be the most exciting day of her life. Five years ago it would have been.

  Huntingdon frowned then ran his fingers through his hair. “I suppose I should be grateful to Lady Hawkesbury for one thing.”

  “What?’

  “For suggesting the house party.”

  Puzzled, she looked to him for an explanation.

  “It will suffice for a makeshift wedding party, and I suppose it will be as good a time as any to break news of our engagement to my mother.”

  Her heart stopped. The Duchess of Huntingdon. How could she have forgotten her nemesis, soon to be mother-in-law? The face she’d cursed a thousand times from the darkest corners of her nightmares.

  Sleep proved an impossible dream that night. Images, faces from the past, had lodged themselves firmly in her consciousness—and unconsciousness. Try as she might, Genie could not escape them. The cold visage of the duchess as she issued her ultimatum. The hard handsome features of her son as he issued his. When she closed her eyes their images blurred, the face she’d once loved with the face she’d hated, blue eyes over blue, until the faces became one, and her chest hurt with the force of trying to tear them apart.

  Well into the small hours of the night, Genie paced the floors of her bedchamber. Her bare feet padded across the cold wooden boards like gentle slaps. Her heart still raced from the events of the evening as she tried to separate the conflicting emotions brought about by Huntingdon’s unexpected play for her hand. As she tried to understand how she could hate a man and still respond to his kiss. As she tried to reconcile how the betraying face that had haunted her for years could still inspire an almost desperate longing.

  A night that should have been the culmination of her dreams in the announcement of her engagement to the Earl of Hawkesbury had ended with her pledged to another. Five years ago the helplessness of the situation would have paralyzed her. But if Genie had learned anything from the cruel hand life had dealt her, she’d learned to adapt. To take the cards and turn them to her advantage. To survive. And if all went as planned, to win.

  Land, wealth, security, she’d have them all. And something else.

  Revenge. Just when she’d begun to soften toward him, he reminded her why she shouldn’t. Foolishly, she’d begun to believe that he might have changed. He seemed so determined. So strong. So solid. So different from the charming, carefree youth that she remembered.

  But at his core, he hadn’t changed. He still thought of no one but himself. He no longer bothered to hide his manipulation under a veil of charm. He wanted her, and it didn’t matter who he hurt to get her.

  She still couldn’t trust him. She’d seen his indecision. He’d considered withdrawing his proposal. Genie knew he would abandon her in an instant if there was a scandal. The truth wouldn’t matter to him, just society’s censure.

  But for some reason he insisted on marrying her. Because he desired her? Or for some twisted belief that he could atone for his past failures? It didn’t matter. Huntingdon would get what he wanted. She would marry him. But this time, he’d be the one to pay.

  The answer how had come to her as she searched the ball for Fanny, seeking an explanation for her enigmatic comment about Lizzie. Fanny had vanished, but th
e remembrance of her unexpected anger had not. Anger that gave her the kernel of an idea.

  Genie moved the single flame of the small lamp from her bedside table to her desk and sat down to write. The damning words flowed with surprising ease from her pen. When she’d finished her letter she climbed into bed and forced her eyes closed.

  The fractured dreams of a simple country girl had finally been put to rest. There would be no fairy-tale ending for Eugenia Prescott. It was up to her to squeeze whatever she could from a deplorable situation. Huntingdon had made himself her only choice, so she’d take what she could before it was gone.

  This time when the images assailed her she no longer tried to separate the emotions. Love. Hate. In this case, they were hopelessly entwined.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Ooh, Mother,” the young woman whispered none-too-softly to her companion as they swept through the narrow entrance of Madame Devy’s modiste shop on Bond Street. “Look, it’s her! The one who’s to marry the duke. Just wait until I tell Sophie, she’ll be positively green with envy.”

  Genie, the object of such rude consideration, had to stifle a giggle as she watched the two women navigate their enormous ostrich plumed turbans through the treacherously low doorway. If the appalling manners had not given the girl away, Genie thought, the slightly garish ensemble pegged her as part of the rich new merchant class—the nouveau riche.

  Genie winced at her own snobbery. Obviously, she’d been around the nobility for too long, she was beginning to think like one of them. It had only taken her a quick glance to recognize the subtle distinctions that branded the newcomers as of the merchant class: one too many accessories, jewelry better suited to the evening, gowns too bold in color and style. A little too everything.

  It was the difference between arrogance of birth and arrogance of fortune. In America it had been different. Very different. Though she’d admired the way a man could improve himself irrespective of the class to which he was born, she’d missed the inherent protections offered by gentle birth and station. In Boston it had been what you know, not who you know, and Genie had suffered for it.