by Candace Camp
“Gabriel was in a good deal of pain himself at the time,” Myles reminded her. “He feared his friendship for Alec had led him to push his sister into the engagement.”
“Gabriel’s sister was as foolish as she was selfish, and the fact that she died as a result does not change her into a martyr. For Alec’s sake I will try not to dislike Gabriel. But I shall never forgive Jocelyn.” Genevieve’s eyes flashed, her jaw setting.
“What a lioness you are! I can only pray that I will never be the object of your enmity.”
“Don’t be absurd. You would never turn your back on Alec. No one can deny your loyalty.”
“Despite my many other shortcomings.” Myles grinned. The music struck up behind them, and he held out his hand. “Enough talk of feuds past. Come, Genny, let us dance.”
Genevieve smiled and went into his arms.
When Myles returned Genevieve to her grandmother’s side, Lady Rawdon had been joined by Alec and Damaris, as well as Lord and Lady Morecombe. Morecombe bowed politely to Genevieve, though he shot her an ironic glance that said he knew full well her true feelings about him. Genevieve returned his greeting without the iciness she would normally have employed. After all, she had told Myles she would try to like him, and since his wife was Damaris’s best friend, the Morecombes would clearly often be around. She smiled at Gabriel’s wife with more warmth. Genevieve had been around Thea several times the past few days as the wedding preparations demanded, and somewhat to her surprise, she found herself liking the woman.
Alec was smiling, as he had been all day, and his blue eyes, even lighter than Genevieve’s, were bright with happiness. Impulsively, he reached out and pulled his sister into a hug, the affectionate gesture surprising them both.
“I am very happy for you,” Genevieve told him quietly.
“Thank you.” Alec released Genevieve, grinning. “No doubt ’tis a great relief for everyone, given the state of my company the last few weeks.”
“You were a bit of a bear,” Genevieve agreed drily. With Damaris here in Chesley the past month preparing for the wedding, Alec had roamed the halls of Castle Cleyre like a ghost—albeit a testy and combative specter.
“He is always a bit of a bear,” Damaris put in, smiling up at Alec in such a way that it turned her words into an endearment.
“I suppose I was a trifle irritable,” Alec allowed, earning a derisive laugh from the others.
As the group chatted, laughing, Genevieve saw Thea draw Sir Myles aside. Thea spoke a few words to him, nodding toward the other side of the room. Genevieve looked in the direction she indicated and saw a young woman sitting stiffly beside an older lady, watching the dancers. Myles nodded, smiling down at Thea, and excused himself. Genevieve watched as he strolled across the room and bowed to the young lady, then led her out onto the floor.
“That was kind of you,” Genevieve commented as Thea moved over to stand beside her.
“Oh. ’Twas little enough. I can always rely on Myles’s good nature.” Thea absently reached up to stuff a cinnamon-colored curl back into place. Genevieve had yet to see Lady Morecombe when at least one or two of her wildly springing tresses weren’t trying to escape their moorings. “I intend to steal you away as well.”
“Me?” Genevieve asked, surprised.
“Yes. We must whisk Damaris from Alec’s side—no easy task, as you can see—and help her change into her traveling dress.”
“Oh,” Genevieve said blankly.
“That is what the friends of the bride do, isn’t it?”
“Oh. Well, yes, I—I suppose so. I’ve never—I haven’t any—” Genevieve stopped, flushing. “I mean, I have friends, of course. Just not of that sort.” With every word, she was making more of a fool of herself. It was so difficult talking to people she did not know, particularly when, as Thea was apt to do, they did not follow the well-worn grooves of polite chitchat. Genevieve pulled herself straighter, retreating into the cool reserve she had always used to cover her awkwardness. “One does not, really, in the city.”
“No doubt it is different here in Chesley,” Thea agreed cheerfully, taking Genevieve’s arm in a firm grip and pulling her toward Damaris.
Startled, Genevieve went with Thea and watched, somewhat bemused, as she slipped an arm around Damaris’s waist, then, laughing and shaking her head at Alec’s protests, led the new Lady Rawdon away. Thea and Damaris chattered merrily as they went up the stairs, and Genevieve followed behind them, uncomfortably aware that she should enter into their conversation, yet unable to think of anything to say.
They were talking about Damaris and Alec’s upcoming honeymoon trip to the Continent. Traveling abroad was a topic on which Genevieve knew she could say something, unlike the books the two had discussed yesterday, but every sentence she came up with sounded stilted in her head, and by the time she had formed one that did not, the topic had changed to Damaris’s trousseau.
“I hadn’t nearly enough time to buy a full one,” Damaris said with a sigh as they entered her bedroom. “But at least I managed a few new dresses.”
Spread out on the bed was her carriage gown, a handsome creation of vivid blue in a high-collared, vaguely military style, accented by large frogged fastenings down the front. Genevieve sucked in her breath in a spontaneous burst of admiration.
“Oh, Damaris! It’s wonderful.” Genevieve went forward to examine the dress more closely. Dissimilar as the two of them were, Genevieve and her new sister-in-law found common ground when it came to fashion. She reached out to smooth her fingertips across the material. “Such a beautiful color. It will look perfect on you.”
“When I return, you must borrow it sometime,” Damaris told her, adding with a sparkle of humor, “After all, I wore your frocks often enough at Cleyre.”
“I wish I could.” Genevieve sighed. “But you have the coloring for it. I would look like a ghost walking. Years ago, when I first came out, I wanted desperately to wear something bright.” She heard the wisp of longing in her voice and quickly added, “But of course Grandmama was right. Pale colors suit me best.”
“You should wear it anyway,” Thea told her firmly. “I have foresworn all my old dull dresses.”
“I have heard love does that to people,” Damaris said with a teasing glance at her friend.
Thea laughed. “Yes, I suppose it does. I recommend it for everyone.”
“Well, all one has to do is move to Chesley. You met Gabriel here, and I met Alec.” Damaris turned toward Genevieve. “You should look around, Genevieve; your future husband may be among the guests.”
Genevieve was not certain what Damaris meant but smiled politely.
“It isn’t Chesley,” Thea protested. “It’s Saint Dwynwen.”
“Saint who?” Genevieve asked. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“Her. She was a Welsh saint.”
“The patron saint of love,” Damaris added. “There is a statue of her in the church. Did you see it? In the side chapel, where the tombs are.”
Genevieve vaguely remembered a rather battered wood sculpture. “It’s, um, rather old?”
Thea laughed. “Older than old. We have no idea when it was carved. A local knight took it from a Welsh shrine during some campaign or other in Wales. He also brought home a Welsh bride. He was quite smitten with her, you see, and claimed that his prayers to this saint had been rewarded.”
“It’s a very romantic story,” Damaris said. “But the local legend is about what happened after that.”
“What happened?” Genevieve asked, intrigued.
“It is said that when one prays before that statue with a true and earnest heart, love will come to you,” Thea explained.
Genevieve raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And do you know anyone to whom this actually happened?”
“Yes. Me,” Thea said simply.
Genevieve had no idea how to respond. She turned toward Damaris. “And you did that as well?”
“Oh, no. I was doing my best to avoid love, no
t find it,” Damaris replied drily.
“Well, I am certain it wasn’t Alec who did so.” Genevieve giggled at the thought of her large, fierce-visaged brother kneeling before an ancient statue to pour out his heart.
“Mm. It seems a bit unlikely,” Thea agreed. “But perhaps one doesn’t need to ask, only to have it in one’s heart.”
Alec’s heart, Genevieve knew, was as romantic as anyone’s, however he appeared. Her heart, on the other hand, was that of a true Stafford. She smiled faintly. “Then I fear it is quite useless for me.”
It took a good deal of time and what Genevieve’s grandmother termed a “raucous display” before the new bride and groom were on their way. Genevieve smiled and waved with the rest of the guests, but she could not deny the little clutch of loneliness in her chest. She had not lost her brother, of course; she knew she could always rely on Alec. But it would not be the same.
“Everything is changed now,” her grandmother said, echoing Genevieve’s thoughts in a manner that no longer surprised Genevieve. The countess turned and started back into Damaris’s house. “We must think to your future.”
“Must we?” Genevieve asked.
“Of course.” The countess sat down, allowing herself the first small show of weakness since the wedding began. “The gossip Alec’s marriage will engender makes it even more imperative that you marry well.”
“I? Marry?” Genevieve turned toward her grandmother in surprise.
“Yes. The family’s reputation will suffer, of course, once people learn about the matter of Damaris’s unfortunate birth. Your marriage to a man of excellent name would do much to counter that.”
“But . . . I have no plans to marry.”
“Not yet. You needn’t look shocked, Genevieve. Surely you do not expect to remain a spinster?”
“Well, no, certainly not. But I had not thought of marriage . . . anytime soon.”
“There has been no need to think about it until now. But you are twenty-five years old, my dear. Not on the shelf, of course, but still . . . there’s the matter of children to consider.”
“Children?” Genevieve responded weakly.
“Goodness, Genevieve, there’s no need to parrot my words. I am simply reminding you that it is time. With Alec taking a bride, you will no longer be the hostess of Stafford House. You won’t run Rawdon’s household. You will scarcely enjoy giving over the reins to another woman. But, there, we don’t need to discuss it now. Plenty of time later.” Lady Rawdon turned away and scanned the remaining guests, and her hand went to the pocket of her elegantly simple dress. “Oh, dear. I seem to have lost my spectacles.”
“Your pince-nez?” Genevieve asked in surprise. The countess wore the little glasses only for close work.
“Yes. They must have slipped out of my pocket at the church. Be a dear and fetch them for me.”
“Of course.”
Pausing only long enough to pick up her cloak, Genevieve walked to St. Margaret’s, a squat, stone, square-towered church that lay across a small footbridge from the rest of the village. Inside the empty church lit only by the rays of the afternoon sun, Genevieve went to the front pew, where she and the countess had sat. There was no glint of the spectacles, though she ran her hand over the cushion to be sure, then squatted to search beneath the seats. Genevieve sighed and stood up. It wasn’t like her grandmother to be forgetful—or wrong, for that matter. But Genevieve could not imagine why the countess would have sent her on a fool’s errand, either.
Whatever the reason, Genevieve was glad to have a little time to herself to think about her grandmother’s startling words. The countess was right, of course. It was time that Genevieve married. However pleasant Damaris might be, she was accustomed to running a household; she would not leave the reins of her new home in Genevieve’s hands. And Genevieve was not the sort to relish living in a house under another woman’s control. It was not as if Genevieve had planned never to marry. She had always expected to, presumed she would . . . at some point in the future. But that point was now.
Genevieve sighed and strolled across the church into the small side chapel. Narrow, stained-glass windows cast a dim glow over the chamber, lighting the recumbent effigies on the tombs of a long-dead lord and his lady. Against one side wall stood a cracked and battered wooden statue of a saint next to a rack of votive candles and a prie-dieu. This had to be Thea’s saint. She walked over to the roughly carved statue. It was even more humble than the rest of this country church. Here and there were faded traces of the paint that had once adorned it. A crack started at one shoulder and ran several inches down the figure’s chest. It hardly seemed the sort of thing to inspire a legend. She wondered if, as Thea believed, true love came to those who yearned for it. Not Staffords, of course. And yet . . . she could not help but think of her brother’s face as he danced with Damaris, the sharp lines softened, his eyes alight. Or the way they had looked at each other in the church today as they said their vows. Something turned in her chest, piercing and hot and cold, all at once. What must it be like to know that emotion? To lay one’s heart in another’s hands?
She swallowed against the choking sensation rising in her throat. Feeling faintly foolish, she picked up one of the tiny sticks beside the flickering votive candles and lit a candle from the flames of another. She knelt, carefully holding her skirt so it would not catch and tear, and clasped her hands in front of her on the padded leather bar.
Now what?
Genevieve glanced at the plain statue beside her. Crudely carved though it was, somehow the artist had made the face kind, even understanding. Genevieve turned back to the flames dancing in their small red-glass cups.
“Dear God,” she whispered, “pray send me a husband. The right husband,” she added hastily. But what did that mean? “A man of substance and good character.”
What else should she say? Surely the Lord would know the proper qualities her husband should have. The man must come from an old family; that went without saying. While he did not need to be a Midas, a certain amount of money was necessary. Not too old. Certainly not a rattle like Lord Farnsley’s son. But neither would one want a bookish man like Thea’s brother, say, who always prattled on about Roman ruins and such. Someone who could ride; she could not imagine spending her life with a man who did not love horses as she did. A man who was responsible and aware of his duty. Presentable in appearance. He need not be an Adonis like Gabriel Morecombe, but she would, after all, have to see him day after day. She imagined for a fleeting, wistful moment how nice it would be to have a husband who could make her laugh like Sir Myles did or who had his charm or his grace on the dance floor—but of course those were hardly necessary qualities in a husband.
She scowled into the candles. The flames were creating little gold and black spots in her vision. It occurred to her how peculiar she would look if anyone walked in. It was altogether silly—as if one could summon up a proper husband just by kneeling and asking for one.
A door slammed, and Genevieve jumped to her feet, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. She stepped out into the nave of the church.
A blond-haired man stood at the door, peering inside. Lord Dursbury. Presentable. Well-bred. Sober and responsible. And a lineage almost equal to her own.
“Ah, there you are,” he said cheerfully and smiled. “Lady Rawdon sent me to find you. Did you find what you came for?”
Genevieve smiled back at him. “ I believe I have.”
Two
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
Hallo, Myles,” a voice greeted Sir Myles as soon as he stepped into White’s.
Sir Myles glanced over at the gentlemen lounging by the fireplace and nodded politely. “Carrington. Giles. Mr. Dilworth.”
“Haven’t seen you in an age. Where have you been?”
“Business on the estate.” Myles strolled over to them. The other men belonged to a gambling-mad set Myles rarely joined, but courtesy required that he stop to chat for a few moments.
“Th
ought you’d be at the Morecombes’ ball tonight,” Carrington went on.
“Have the invitation right here,” Myles responded vaguely, patting his pocket. He saw no reason to add that he had not decided whether he would go. The social whirl had grown stale these days.
“Morecombe’s a good chap. Don’t know about this ball, though. Now that Lady Genevieve’s engaged to Lord Dursbury, he and his set are bound to be there. Dull dog, Dursbury.”
“No doubt,” Myles replied, casually picking an almost invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. “Lady Genevieve seems happy?”
“Hard to tell, with her.” Mr. Dilworth chuckled. “Though the rumors are Dursbury may cry off.”
“What?” Myles raised his head sharply. “Who says that? ’Twould be the act of a cad to break their engagement.”
“Oh, I imagine Dursbury’s too much of a gentleman to do it. But the rumors are all over. If you hadn’t been ruralizing for months, you’d have heard it.” Carrington gave a vague wave of his hand.
“Lady Looksby’s where I saw it.”
“Who?”
“You know, the column in The Onlooker. Lady Looksby, she calls herself.”
“That scandal sheet?” Myles scoffed.
Mr. Dilworth retrieved a paper from the table in the hall. “Yes, it says right here: ‘What lord is having second thoughts about his wedding? I have heard bets are being laid in Brooks’s on whether Lord D___ will make it to the altar. He may be this northern lady’s last hope, but with the wedding delayed yet again, Lady Looksby thinks the omens are not good.’ ”
Myles let out a rude snort. “Don’t be a fool—as if this scribbler knows anything about either one of them.”
“Smoke and fire and all that,” Carrington replied archly.
“Yes, it’s the devil of a thing—Lady Looksby seems to hear it all. There are some say she’s really a member of the ton.”
“Well, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your gossip rag,” Myles said, stepping away. “As you said, I have a party to attend.”