by Regina Scott
She’d seen every debt settled without the creditors appearing on their doorsteps, even though it had required her to learn about the most unsavory parts of London, where her father had gambled. And she had kept his secret from her mother and sister. The only thing she had held close, the one thing she had refused to sell, was herself. Carstairs was right—apparently her name and beauty still commanded a price in the marriage mart. She just couldn’t bring herself to put them on the block.
She slammed the door of her room and cast herself down upon her bed, pounding the feather mattress with her fists. They had no right to ask it of her, any of them. Why did she have to be the sacrificial lamb? Why must her happiness be the one forfeit? Surely she had the right to marry for love. If her father had been alive, he’d understand. But, of course, he wasn’t alive. That was what had brought her to this pass.
Somehow, she had thought things would be different at Wenwood. When she had left here at fifteen, it had seemed an idyllic place—warm, peaceful, full of friendly people who honestly cared for her. London, with all its bustle and noise, had seemed superficial in comparison. The girls in her finishing school had only cared for fashion and flirting, and they had ridiculed her when she tried to introduce more substantial topics. The men who courted her after her come out had been no different. Well, there had been a gentleman dressed as Romeo at her first ball. He had been romantic, importunate, fascinating. Unfortunately, he’d never seen fit to come calling afterward. She knew in her heart she had been comparing all those gentlemen to her ideal, an ideal personified by her memories of Alan Pentercast.
And now even those memories had been shown false.
If she had any doubts about his cavalier behavior, it was only the motive for it. At best, he was looking for a pretty wife to brag over at the village inn. At the worst, he wanted to align his family with one that was higher on the social ladder. If he had cared for her at all, he would have waited to propose. He would have courted her properly, at least made the pretense that he was interested in her more than her family name. And Mr. and Mrs. Chimes thought it was an excellent match! She wanted to scream at them all to go away, leave her alone.
By dinner time, she had calmed sufficiently to join her mother and sister at the dinner table. She noticed that Mrs. Chimes was serving; Chimes hadn’t apparently forgiven Gen for her outburst. She sighed. Since he knew the story, perhaps she should explain the whole to him. Maybe if he understood how she felt about the issue, he wouldn’t harp on it. Lord knows, she needed his support if she were to carry this off.
She picked at the dinner, chiding herself for not making the most of it. The main course was a savory roast chicken in a wonderful orange sauce. She was sure she wouldn’t be able to afford it again soon. In fact, she was a little worried how she had been able to afford it now. Chimes was in charge of the provisioning. Had he been so angry with her that he had done something rash? Or had her mother been shopping somewhere again? She was almost afraid to ask, but she had to know.
“I thought we were going to have ham tonight,” she ventured to her mother, thinking about what had surely been left over from their meal of the night before.
Her mother frowned. “I don’t believe I’d asked you to plan the meal tonight, Genevieve. Don’t you find these to your liking?”
Frustrated, she shook her head. “They’re delicious. I just wasn’t expecting them.”
Her mother managed a smile, picking up a bite of the golden brown flesh. “It was a nice surprise, I must admit. Mrs. Pentercast said her son was sure you would like the hens this way. It’s called chicken a la provence, and they were served to King Louis.”
Gen choked on the meat and dropped her fork. “Are you saying these are French hens?”
Her mother’s frown returned. “Well, I suppose you could consider them such. Alan insisted I take three of them, and the way you’ve been about economizing, I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Three French hens!” Allison laughed. “And it’s the third day of Christmas. Just like in the Forfeits game.”
Gen had no appetite for the rest of the meal. Somehow, the chicken tasted even more like crow than the partridge had.
Chapter Five
Interlude, Baritone Solo
A
lan Pentercast watched the Munroe carriage trundle down the drive and allowed himself a smile. There, if he wasn’t mistaken, went his gift for the third day of Christmas. Nine more days until Genevieve Munroe agreed to be his bride. He had to stop himself from rubbing his hands together with glee. The Pentercast forefathers must be rolling in their graves to think he would unite the forever-feuding families.
Let them roll, he thought, returning to the Manor. She was worth any trouble she put him to. He’d known that long ago, but it had taken him time to convince himself that her father would ever agree to allow him to court her. Surprising how agreeable Rutherford Munroe had been when Alan had had the temerity to approach him in London last year.
He shook his head. So much time wasted. If only the man hadn’t died before telling Gen his plans. With their families’ sworn enmity, Alan could hardly waltz in the first day they arrived and announce that her father had given his blessing. They’d have thrown him out on his ear.
Still, he hadn’t exactly made a better impression by waiting until Christmas Eve. He winced as he remembered how he’d blurted out the proposal like a callous youth overwhelmed by his first crush. She may have been the first woman he’d admired, but he’d had his share of flirtations since. He’d even acquired a bit of polish, or so he had thought. Just having her next to him, her hand touching his to pick out the raisins, and he was reduced to a stammering fool. Small wonder she’d reacted so badly.
He remembered the first time he had realized she was truly a woman. Oh, she’d been a taking little thing since the day she was born, but he’d been much too sophisticated at seven years her senior to pay much attention to a female of the clan Munroe. He’d only become head of his own family a year before her father had decided to take them all to London. And he remembered a distinct feeling of pride that Rutherford Munroe would entrust the safekeeping of the Abbey to him, a Pentercast. Cocky young man that he had been, he hadn’t even wondered when he was invited to London to Genevieve’s come out. Her father must have had it planned for some time.
It had been a masked ball. He had wondered at the time why anyone would want a come out to be a surprise, but Londoners were famed for their eccentricities, and the Munroes were famed among Londoners. He had managed to find a shop that specialized in costumes and arrived at the event dressed in velvet doublet and hose, a redoubtable Romeo. The parallel of the feuding families had been irresistible. Behind his mask, he thought no one in the room would know the tall, wavy-haired gentleman who arrived fashionably late. His anonymity had given him a sense of power over the more sophisticated people of the ton.
He had been propped up against one of the Grecian pillars that supported the high ceiling of the huge ballroom, trying to decide how to safely dispose of the warm, flat champagne he had been given, when he saw her. She seemed to have just entered the room, standing near the door, hesitating. In her heavy burgundy velvet with the low waist, tight bodice, and slashed sleeves, she was the perfect Juliet to his Romeo. Just the thing to liven up the otherwise dull event. He set the crystal goblet in the middle of a potted palm and hastened to her side.
She was still scrutinizing the room when he reached her and, for the first time, he found himself just a little unsure how to proceed. The dark color of the velvet bespoke a married lady, or at least one with some experience on the ton, yet it was only a costume and he wondered if he could trust his first instincts. She was a tiny thing, not much bigger than his mother, but far more slender. She seemed completely oblivious to his presence, which he was ashamed now to admit had galled his youthful pride. So, he had decided to do something rather audacious.
“‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand,’” he quoted from the bard,
“‘this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this—my lips, two blushing pilgrims ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.’”
He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. She was fully within her rights to give him the cut direct for such impertinence. To his delight, she had raised her vibrant blue eyes to his with a look that was decidedly saucy.
“‘Good pilgrim,’” she had replied in kind, her voice husky and low, “‘you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss.’”
If he had thought to take the jest further, he was only slightly disappointed when she held out her gloved hand to him. He had raised it to his lips, holding it entirely too long. The gentle tug from her told him she knew it. He released her with difficulty, finding himself once again tongue-tied. She glanced out into the room where they were just lining up for a set. “It seems to me that Romeo did not dance. Are you so afflicted, sir?”
“Before such beauty, madam,” he told her, offering her his arm, “I could fly.”
Her delighted laughter had carried him across the room.
He managed two dances before someone swept her away. He thought she looked disappointed, but behind her mask and across the room, it was impossible to be sure. He returned to his pillar to consider his next tactic.
Though he had only been planning on staying in London for a few days, it seemed he might be able to extend his time. He could imagine seeing the sights with her on his arm. But how to get the lady’s direction? He knew he had already caused a bit of a scandal, with Mrs. Munroe looking him daggers each time he turned in her direction.
Dare he risk a third dance? Surprising how just one evening in the lady’s company and he was willing to throw caution to the winds. He no longer cared why he had been invited or which of the various women in the room might be young Genevieve. All that mattered was meeting his siren again.
He cornered her at the refreshment table just before midnight. The young man who had led her there scowled at Alan through the sequined mask he wore. Alan seemed to remember he had been dressed all in pink, and that someone had said he was trying to emulate some exotic bird in the Regent’s garden. He decided that ignoring him was the best approach, leaning instead in front of the lady to catch her eye.
“I hear the next dance will be a waltz,” he murmured for her ears alone. “Come with me?”
He could see her cheeks below the mask reddening in a blush. “You are a most determined Romeo, sir. Alas, my mother would never allow a waltz at one of her parties.”
He stared at her, and the young man in pink managed to put himself between them with a huff. Alan couldn’t seem to move as the young man led her farther down the table. She glanced back at him and frowned, as if noticing how still he had become. Looking back, he could only imagine he had paled.
Her mother? Then she could only be…
He remembered his own cheeks reddening in mortification and how he had staggered across the room, barely managing to reach the far side before the bells chimed midnight and everyone in the room unmasked. As he slipped out the front door, his own mask still firmly in place, the resultant laughter seemed to mock him and he had fairly run back to his hotel.
It had taken him hours to convince himself he hadn’t gone mad. If his own father had been alive, he knew the fellow would have had his hide for even thinking what he was thinking. To fall in love at first sight with the one woman he could never have? His costume must have gone to his head. Even if the attraction lasted the night, he had no chance.
But the attraction had lasted. All through the miserable ride home on the posting coach. Through the weeks that followed. Each time someone returned from town with news to tell, and he could breathe a sigh of relief that she hadn’t married. Each time he attended one of the weekly dances in Barnsley and found every lady in the room wanting. Yet he had convinced himself he had no chance.
He had a chance now. Nine more days to let her see the man he had become. Nine more days to show her that he would make her the best of husbands. Nine more days to convince her that he wasn’t the personification of Pentercast evil. He didn’t much like the way her accusation still stung. He was his own person, not a reflection of all Pentercasts past. In fact, he’d never given a fig about his family’s notorious reputation, except when it kept him from reaching for his dreams. He refused to let it get in the way now.
Her father had been so understanding that he was sure that she wouldn’t be infected with the famed Munroe prejudice against Pentercasts. He’d obviously been mistaken. Yet surely she was too intelligent to rely on the impressions of others to guide her. She’d been the most clever student in the village school years ago. He’d watched her turn away dukes with a quip.
Not that she’d noticed the times he’d come to London to check on her the last three years. Each time he’d gone, he’d been afraid of what he’d find. Surely some other man had recognized her as a diamond of the first water. Surely someone else had claimed her hand and her heart. But much as she was in demand, he never saw any indication that she had fallen in love with any of her many suitors. It was that realization that had given him the courage to approach her father.
No, he wasn’t being truthful with himself. It wasn’t the fact that she was still unwed that had prompted him to hope. It was the fact that he finally saw he had something to offer her. She would never have considered him a catch, he was sure, because of the Pentercast name. However, in talking with her father and making inquiries about town, he had learned that the family was punting on the River Tick. And when it came to money, the Pentercasts had never had a problem, even if it meant working for it.
He glanced about the Manor house corridor, seeing his reflection glowing back from the polished wood paneling. The windows along his left gleamed in the sun, which made the green velvet drapes at their sides glow with an inner fire. The Aubusson carpets that lay scattered down the wide corridor echoed the greens and added the softness of sapphire and amethyst. In the Lawrence painting, his mother looked out of the gilt frame with a smile of complacency.
No, the Pentercasts had no trouble with money. A shame the Munroes found that fact so objectionable. He smiled to himself as he remembered how firm Genevieve had been that he not use his wealth to win the wager, and her hand. She must know the difficulties her family faced. She must have realized she had but to crook a finger and any number of wealthy suitors would lay their hearts, and fortunes, at her feet.
His smile froze on his face as the thought struck him that perhaps she had done just that, perhaps she had already accepted someone else’s offer of marriage. He shook his head. No, she couldn’t have accepted his wager if that were the case. Whatever reason she had for refusing to wed, he would sweep it aside. He’d waited too long for any other outcome.
He was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost missed his brother trying to scoot around him. But Geoffrey bumped his shoulder in passing, and Alan reached out to catch his arm. “Easy there, my lad. Where are you going with dinner but a couple hours away?”
His brother squirmed under his gaze, and Alan felt a prick of concern. Geoffrey spent entirely too much time at the local tavern. Scrumpy, the Somerset apple cider, had its own teeth. Already he could see the beginning of the red veining in his brother’s ruddy cheeks and long nose that spoke of too many pints downed. The boy ought to know better, with their own father dead at forty-five and useless years before that.
Still, he supposed, it wasn’t surprising. The lad had entirely too much energy and no place to spend it. Alan had the estates to keep him busy, but Geoffrey had no interest in the land. He had had less interest in school, and Alan had reluctantly agreed not to return him to Oxford when he had begged off. A career in the military might have been a choice, but Alan wasn’t sure he wanted his younger brother subjected to the horrors of the Peninsular Campaign. Still, something would have to be done with the you
ng man and soon, for it seemed to Alan that he was quickly moving down a path that had only despair at its end.
“I was only going down to the inn,” Geoffrey told him. “The lads were talking about racing Dutch Mattison’s three-year-old against that prime bit of blood Tom Harvey bought at auction in London. They were going to bring the horses round this afternoon so we could all decide who to wager on.”
Alan let go of him. “Sounds like a lark. Don’t let Tom talk you into riding again, and try to be home in time to change for dinner for once.”
Geoffrey grinned at him. “Thanks. Oh, and do you think I could borrow a fiver? If I win, I’ll double your investment.”
Alan cocked his head. “I’ll make good the wager, if you’ll do me a favor in return.”
Geoffrey looked dubious. “What?”
“I want you to go out hunting tomorrow morning. I don’t care what you catch, as long as it includes four blackbirds.”
“Blackbirds?” Geoffrey wrinkled his nose. “What on earth do you want with dead blackbirds? I’m told they make tough eating.”
Alan didn’t want to think about where he might have learned that. “Just get them for me and have them back to the house by ten if you can. I have an appointment in the village.”
Geoffrey agreed with a shrug. “All right. That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Alan assured him.
Geoffrey looked up at him. “First cozying up to those Munroes, and now dead blackbirds. You begin to worry me, Alan.”
Alan grinned at him. “Now, there’s a switch.” As Geoffrey’s look didn’t waiver, he felt his smile fading. “Cut line, Geoff. I can’t believe my behavior is so aberrant. The Munroes are our neighbors, and it’s high time we put this ridiculous bickering to an end. Do you truly have no use for them?”
“Not much.” Geoffrey shrugged, but he dropped his gaze. “The mother has no more color than a white-washed fence, and the older daughter scares me.”