The Unthinkable

by Monica McCarty

  Huntingdon threw his head back and laughed. “You don’t have a deferential bone in that mountainous body of yours. I thought men descended from kings didn’t bow to any other man—especially English men?”

  “You’ll not mock the Bonnie Prince, lad,” Stewart said in hollowed tones.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. You’ll have to explain to me someday how a good Tory like my father ever hooked up with a Jacobite Catholic Scot—second cousin twice removed from the ‘Bonny Prince’.”

  Stewart shrugged. “We didn’t discuss politics.”

  Huntingdon nodded. “Wise decision.”

  Nothing could ruin a friendship faster than politics. That’s why the moderate position that he’d chosen to take was so precarious. He didn’t fit neatly into one camp—so neither side completely trusted him. Nominally a Tory, nevertheless Huntingdon was sympathetic to many of the republican causes. He’d worked hard over the past few years to earn the respect of both Tory and Whig members of the Lords and Commons. He didn’t want to lose it.

  His own interests were varied. The increasing taxes to fund the war with Napoleon were an enormous burden to large landowners. Huntingdon had recognized the need to diversify his interests, to become less dependent on one source of income. So he’d begun to explore other alternatives to supplement his rental incomes. Mills, factories, and mines were the future. But recently there had been some unrest from workers in Nottinghamshire that concerned him. He nearly chuckled again, thinking about what his mother’s reaction to his plans might be. News of his intention to go into “the trade” might be sufficiently alarming to distract his mother from the blow of marrying so far beneath him.

  “Your father was never the politician that you are. He hadn’t the stomach for it.”

  “I’m not sure I do either,” Huntingdon admitted ruefully.

  “You have an easygoing charm that he never had. People like you. It will serve you well.” He paused, glancing at Huntingdon’s broad grin. “Wipe that smirk off your face, lad. I didn’t say that I think you’re charming. I know you too well.”

  Huntingdon placed his hand over his chest. “You wound me.”

  Stewart scoffed and muttered something under his breath that sounded remarkably like “conceited fool” before he continued. “Mark my words, lad. You’ll go as high as you dare climb. The only limit is your own ambition.”

  Right now, all Huntingdon wanted was a cabinet post. A position in Prime Minister Spencer Perceval’s government would help ensure the future prosperity of his estates. And it was nearly his. But even the smallest whiff of scandal could crush his hopes.

  So why Genie? His position demanded caution in his choice of a wife. Why risk his future? He didn’t know why—just that he had to. Despite the risks. He knew that the ton would discover that Genie was the same girl he’d courted all those years ago—at some point someone was bound to recognize her. He supposed it was too much to hope that his choice of bride would not be remarked upon.

  But he’d make damn sure that the rest of Genie’s past remain where it was, or his own ambitions, the future prosperity of his lands, the duty he owed to his heirs, could well be placed in jeopardy.

  Ties he’d been fostering for years would be cut without thought.

  It wasn’t just his political future at stake. Truth be told, he rather liked his place in society and didn’t relish living as an outcast—even if it was within the luxurious walls of Donnington Park. Walls that they were now approaching.

  At last Stewart rode off toward the stables, leaving Huntingdon alone to face his mother. Bloody coward, he thought with disgust. Removing his hat and gloves, he started up the stairs. A line of liveried footmen suddenly appeared out of nowhere to greet him. A skill that never ceased to amaze him. As a boy he’d tried to surprise them, but the servants had a mysterious system that he’d never been able to unlock.

  There was no mystery he’d rather unlock right now than the one of Genie. He’d gone over their conversation countless times in his head and knew he was missing something important. Genie had never really answered him about why she was residing in a brothel. Once they were married, he’d have the truth from her about what happened in America and do whatever was necessary to make sure all trace of her stay was erased. His own feelings on the matter, he would sort out later.

  He wasn’t proud of his conduct in forcing marriage upon her, but he didn’t have time to find a more delicate alternative. The wisest course would have been to step aside and allow her to marry Edmund. For an instant, when Edmund had told him where he’d found her, Huntingdon had thought about it. But something—shame? guilt? remorse? passion?—prevented him from heeding his voice of caution. He’d searched for her for so long hoping for a chance to remove the stain upon his honor, that giving up had become unthinkable.

  He’d just do his damnedest to ensure that the truth about her “husband” and her temporary residence in a brothel—whore or not—were never discovered.

  Or Huntingdon would find himself ruined right alongside his reluctant bride.

  Nothing like the intrusion of a little reality to shatter the perfection of a peaceful morning. He flipped his gloves to a footman and stomped into the house, barely heeding the trail of muddy footprints quickly mopped up behind him.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” his mother rebuked the instant Huntingdon entered the blue drawing room. “I’ve just received a most informative correspondence from Lady Davenport.”

  The Duchess of Huntingdon stared at him expectantly, but Huntingdon didn’t bite. Seated at a small writing desk, gowned head to toe in her usual black, his mother appeared very old and very frail. He ignored the unwelcome twinge of sympathy and poured himself a cup of strong coffee from the sideboard. He wouldn’t feel sorry for his mother. Not after what she had done to Genie. To him. To their child. So pointedly, he took a seat on a small sofa with his back angled rudely away from her.

  “Well, don’t you want to hear what it said?”

  Huntingdon shrugged, indifferent. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  She made a small sound of annoyance. “Apparently the whole city knows of your plans to marry.”

  “I did post an announcement in the Times, Mother.”

  He heard the unmistakable rustle of silk skirts as she rose and walked toward him, placing herself in his direct line of sight.

  “That’s not all.”

  He took a long draw of the soothing black elixir, knowing very well that she was waiting. He forced himself to look at her. “I assumed it wasn’t.”

  “Hyacinth writes that she cannot believe you did not tell her, but that she will hear the whole story from you when they arrive at Donnington for the house party.”

  Puzzled, he met her gaze. She had his attention now.

  “It appears that everyone knows that Mrs. Preston is none other than the girl you have been searching for, Miss Eugenia Prescott, formerly of Thornbury.”

  “Damn,” he cursed, dropping the cup on the saucer; it landed with a sharp clatter. He’d hoped to have some time, some peace before that particular connection was uncovered.

  Nonetheless, he brushed aside the momentary displeasure. “It was to be expected. Genie is still an incredibly beautiful woman and someone was bound to remember her.”

  His mother stared at him, her eyes hard. “Yes, but the question is whether Mrs. Preston is ready with an explanation for why she left and why she did not return until recently. An explanation that you have not yet thought to give me.”

  “You know the answer to the first and didn’t ask as to the latter.”

  The duchess looked pained. “I must admit I was reluctant to broach the subject.”

  “As well you should be. It is none of your business. Genie does not owe you—or anyone else for that matter—an explanation.”

  “I’ve apologized a thousand times for sending her away. I thought I was doing what was best. I was trying to prevent you from making an ill-advised match. I
didn’t realize…” Her voice dropped. “Will you ever forgive me?”

  “I sincerely doubt that possible,” he said harshly.

  The duchess flinched and something that looked remarkably like tears filled her eyes. Impossible. His mother never showed such pedestrian emotion. She waited a moment, seeming to collect herself, before saying anything else. “Perhaps, I do not deserve your forgiveness. The connection was obviously stronger than I realized. Maybe someday when you have a son of your own, you will understand that I was only doing what I thought best. What any mother in my position would do.” I might have had a son of my own. When he did not respond, she continued. “Mrs. Preston might not owe anyone an explanation, but that will not stop the ton from demanding one. I realize that I am the last person that could possibly dissuade you from this marriage; I only ask that you have care. If there is anything in the girl’s past, bury it well. Or it may well bury all of us—including your Mrs. Preston.”

  He held his mother’s stare for a long moment and nodded. Despite her faults, the duchess was a shrewd woman. As the rest of the ton was bound to do, his mother had guessed that there was a mystery to uncover. A very destructive mystery. He wondered how the current duchess would react if she knew that his future duchess had spent time in a brothel?

  He studied the sharp, patrician features of his mother. She’d probably be as horrified as he’d been. The realization annoyed him. He didn’t like acknowledging any similarities to his mother, especially one that reeked of judgment and closed-mindedness.

  But the duchess’s point was well taken, bringing to a head the very issue that he’d been trying to ignore. Scandal would prove disastrous, and not just to his own interests. Genie would suffer, perhaps more so. An image of Percy’s sneering face swam before him, multiplying, until there were hundreds of similar sneering faces joyously relishing the downfall of one of the most preeminent peers in the land.

  Uncertainty had wormed its way into the snaking tunnels of his conscience. Once again, Huntingdon questioned his decision to marry her. Was he doing the right thing, knowing that in doing so it was bound to bring up the inevitable inquiries? Did he have any right to drag Genie through the gossip? To hurt her all over again? To destroy the newfound strength that he so admired, but which he sensed stood on a shaky foundation?

  And for what? All for reasons that he couldn’t articulate beyond the simple explanation that he wanted her. Because every bone in his body cried out to have her no matter what the cost. Trite, he acknowledged, but nonetheless true. Was it justification enough to risk so much?

  He rose from his seat with a start, accidentally knocking the table with his knee. The mostly undrunk coffee sloshed over the side of the saucer and formed a large puddle on the tabletop. A footman quickly appeared to wipe away his mess. Would that all of his messes could be so easily cleaned up.

  He didn’t want to think about this. He was a duke, damn it, he could do what he wanted. Selfishly, he wanted to ignore the quandary of whether the determined duke used to getting what he wanted could jibe with the honorable man he strove to be.

  Frustration at the untenable situation gnawed at him. He just wanted to make everything right, to right the wrong he’d committed all those years ago. Was that so wrong?

  The answer reverberated in his head.

  As if she guessed the torment she’d unleashed within him, the duchess quietly let herself out of the room, leaving Huntingdon alone to silence the nagging voices of his demons.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Three days later, it wasn’t guilt, but a very different demon that tormented him.

  It was approaching midnight two days before he was to be married, and he was alone with his mother in the marble salon. The duchess peered up from her needlework, the soft glow from the fire pleasantly warming the ghostly gray of her complexion. She smiled, blissfully unaware of his agony. “I’ve never seen you so edgy. Wearing a path in the carpet won’t make them arrive any sooner.”

  “I know that,” Huntingdon snapped, then controlled his emotion. She doesn’t know, he reminded himself. With uncharacteristic concern for his mother’s feelings, he’d not told her just how late they really were. “I’m well aware of the delays imposed by traveling on wet roads.” And of the perils.

  That was what terrified him. To the point where he could no longer completely hide his disquiet. He scoffed. Disquiet, it was more like barely constrained panic.

  The situation was laughable really. The cold, reserved duke brought to his knees by the simple delay of a carriage. But it was a very important carriage, with a very important occupant.

  Anxiety, irrational or not, had swallowed him whole. He felt trapped, unable to concentrate on anything else.

  The clock struck twelve. Like some wretched omen. Twelve long ominous booms, tolling each hour of delay with horrifying finality.

  His heart raced and he felt his hands and forehead grow damp. He turned from his mother’s prying eyes and resumed the only occupation he could handle at the moment, pacing.

  Where are they? The Davenports had arrived this morning, the other guests yesterday afternoon. But Genie and the Hawkesburys were nearly twelve hours late. Twelve agonizing hours. They’d traveled most of the one hundred and fifteen miles from London yesterday. After a night at an inn, they had been due to arrive at noon. As the afternoon hours passed into night, he’d grown steadily more frantic, his mind letting loose with all sorts of unspeakable horrors. From an attack on the road, to an accident, to wondering if she’d changed her mind. But it was the image of a carriage accident that struck him cold, recalling with poignant similarity the deaths of his father and brother.

  “Didn’t you say that they might stop for the night?” the duchess asked. “I thought you’d decided to retire for the evening.”

  As if he could sleep when Genie might be out there on the road, lying twisted in a bloody, muddy heap. Dear God, the grisly images would drive him mad. But he couldn’t allow his mother to see how disturbed he truly was for fear that it would recall her own demons. So he’d lied.

  For good reason. The death of his father and brother had nearly killed her. For the first time in recent memory, Huntingdon felt true compassion for his mother.

  He forced himself to act nonchalant. “I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d come down to find a book.”

  “In the salon?” she asked with disbelief.

  He shrugged. “I heard something and came to investigate. I didn’t expect you to be up this late.”

  “Sleep is not as restful as it used to be,” she answered. Again he felt a shock of sympathy. He’d lost a father and a brother, yes. But his mother had lost even more—he was only beginning to realize how much more. She studied his face and seemed to come to a realization. “You know, Huntingdon, you’re not the first man to get married.” The duchess dropped her embroidery ring in her lap and sunk back against the velvet cushions of her chair. “As I recall, your father was a bit nervous before our wedding.”

  Jitters. She thought he was suffering from something as benign as wedding jitters. The idea was so preposterous he could laugh outright if the reality wasn’t so painful. Better that she thought he was a nervous groom than to have her relive the agony of their family tragedy: the seemingly inconsequential delay in arrival, the rain, the waiting, the increasing horror as time crept slowly by.

  The roads were treacherous, carriage accidents common. But not twice, it couldn’t happen twice in one family. But where were they? Why had they not sent word? He’d sent a couple of grooms out hours ago. They should have returned by now.

  He forced himself to take a deep breath and managed to feign embarrassment. “I just want to make sure that everything is perfect for the wedding.”

  “You’ve thought of everything, what could possibly go wrong?”

  Cold fear strangled his throat. So many things, he thought, but could not give voice to his greatest fear—that there would not be a bride.

  The sound of footst
eps approaching the salon drew his immediate attention to the door. The groomsmen? He froze, holding his breath in a moment of helpless purgatory as he waited to see who approached. Did the footsteps seemingly hesitate and falter, or were his ears playing tricks on him? Desperately, he craved news, but just as desperately he didn’t.

  He couldn’t lose her again.

  The solemn face of Grimes appeared in the doorway. “The Hawkesbury carriage has been spotted in town, Your Grace,” he said matter-of-factly, not realizing the significance of his words, or how heavily Huntingdon weighed upon them.

  Huntingdon exhaled long and hard. Relief washed over him like a torrential downpour. Hope. There was hope.

  He tore from the room.

  “Huntingdon, wherever do you think you’re going at this hour?” his mother called after him.

  But he didn’t bother answering, already calling for his mount.

  The tinkle of her amused laughter trailed behind him as he dove out into the night. But his mother’s amusement at his supposed jitters didn’t bother him. Fear had done what nothing else could—shattering the illusion of indifference. He cared all right. And it terrified him how much.

  Condensation fogged the window of the Hawkesbury carriage, Genie wiped at it furiously with the side of her hand. The cold dampness instantly seeped through the thin leather of her glove, turning the brown leather black. Anxiety, however, overrode discomfort. She barely noticed the added chill to her already frozen fingers. Their journey was near its end.

  “Here, use this,” Edmund said, pulling a handkerchief from his waistcoat and handing it to her. “But I don’t expect that you’ll be able to see much of anything this late.”

  Genie smiled her gratitude and attacked the persistent fog again, this time with the square of ivory linen. The window finally cleared, she peered into the darkness. High on a hill, still some distance before them, a shape began to take form.