The Marrying Season

by Candace Camp

  She took a long, shaky breath. “Yes. I will.”

  Once committed, Genevieve made no effort to delay the moment, and the two of them were married by special license the next day, attended only by her family and Lord and Lady Morecombe. Genevieve noticed with some irritation that, even though her own nerves were thrumming like the strings of a violin, Myles seemed perfectly at ease.

  But she was grateful for the warmth of his hand curled around hers, as he bent to murmur in her ear, “Courage, Genny. We are almost through it.”

  When it was done, Myles turned to her, tilting her chin up, and bent to lightly kiss her. His lips were warm and soft as silk, and the scent of him teased at her nostrils. It was strange to be this close to him, to have him touch her like this in front of other people. Her stomach quivered. Dursbury had given her a peck on the cheek a time or two, and even once on the lips in parting. But it had not been the same; it had never felt like this to look into Dursbury’s eyes.

  Damaris and Thea took her upstairs to change into her carriage dress for traveling, and Genevieve could not help but remember the three of them doing the same thing only a few months ago at Damaris’s wedding. How different her own wedding was from that joyous celebration. Determinedly she fixed a smile on her face and tried to enter into the other women’s conversation; they were trying hard to make this whole peculiar situation seem normal.

  “Genevieve.” She turned to see her grandmother standing in the doorway.

  “Grandmama.” Her throat tightened. Beside her Damaris cast a significant glance at Thea, and the two women slipped out of the room, leaving her alone with the woman who had raised her.

  “How lovely you look,” the countess said, coming forward. “Exactly as you should.” She reached out to smooth a wrinkle from one of the long sleeves of the gown.

  “Thank you.” Genevieve cast a look around them. Her bedroom seemed empty without her familiar brushes and bottles of perfume and lotion on the vanity. She twisted Myles’s signet ring around her finger, thinking of the abashed glance Myles had sent her as he slipped it on her finger. “I must put some ribbon around this ring,” she said, striving for a light tone. “It will fall off if I’m not careful.”

  “No doubt Myles will get you a suitable one soon,” her grandmother said, and let out a little sigh. “It was very little like the wedding we had planned, was it?”

  “No. No cathedral . . . no harp, no bouquet. Only five guests, and three of them are related to me.” Genevieve’s smile wobbled a bit, but she managed to keep it on her face as she added, “But at least there was no Elora—or her doves.”

  A chuckle escaped the countess’s lips. “Yes, we must be grateful for that.” She grasped Genevieve’s shoulders and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek in an unaccustomedly affectionate gesture. “I wish you very happy, my dear. I was so proud of you today. You were a Stafford through and through. No one would have known that the wedding was . . . not what you would have wished.”

  “And they will not.” Genevieve set her jaw. No one, least of all Myles, could be allowed to glimpse the ache in her.

  “Do not—” The countess cleared her throat and turned away from Genevieve as she went on, “There is no need for you to be frightened.”

  “Of Myles?” Genevieve looked at her blankly.

  “Of your wedding night, dear.” Her grandmother sent her a straight, flat look.

  “Oh.” Genevieve felt her cheeks heat. “I—I had not even thought of it.” She had always done her best not to think of it when she was engaged to Dursbury. She could scarcely imagine the embarrassment of climbing into bed with a man she scarcely knew. Of course, she knew Myles, but that made it embarrassing in an entirely different way. She flushed even more deeply.

  “It is not the most pleasant thing, of course,” the countess went on. “But you have the fortitude of a Stafford, and I know you will do your duty. Myles is not a green lad; he will, I am sure, take care with you. It won’t be so painful once you become accustomed to it.”

  “Painful?” Genevieve’s stomach dropped. She had not thought past the embarrassment. Now her grandmother’s words conjured up an even worse possibility.

  “Yes, dear, but you need not worry. I am certain Myles will be a gentleman. There are other sorts of women to satisfy the lower appetites.”

  “Yes, no doubt,” Genevieve responded faintly.

  “Good. There.” Lady Rawdon nodded and turned away. “Myles is waiting downstairs. I am sure you need to get away soon.”

  Her stomach curling in on itself, Genevieve watched her grandmother walk out the door. She turned away and found herself gazing into the mirror of her vanity table. She resembled a ghost, she realized, her light blond hair and pale skin in stark contrast to the dark-rust-colored traveling dress. Behind her she heard the plaintive mew of her cat, and she whirled around, her heart lifting a little. “Xerxes!”

  The fluffy white cat sprang lightly onto the bed and let out another irritated meow. Genevieve scooped him up and hugged him to her, tears choking her throat. He stretched up, butting his head gently underneath her chin, then rubbing it against her shoulder.

  “I wish I could take you with me,” she told the cat. Her grandmother had insisted that it was not appropriate to take a cat on one’s honeymoon, and finally, reluctantly, Genevieve had agreed to leave Xerxes behind. As the countess had pointed out, the animal actually belonged to her, not Genevieve. “But it will only be for a while. I will return before you know it.” She tucked him into the crook of her arm, her heart aching, knowing that it would in fact be weeks, if not months, before she returned. With a final glance around her bedroom, she walked out.

  Myles was waiting at the foot of the stairs, chatting with her brother and Gabriel. They laughed together, a deep, warm, masculine sound. The sconce behind them glinted on Myles’s light brown hair, turning the strands a deep gold. He pivoted at the sound of Genevieve’s step, and the full force of his smile caught her. She almost missed a stair, and her hand tightened on the banister.

  Myles reached out his hand to her as she reached him, and Xerxes narrowed his eyes to slits, hissing and swiping his paw through the air. Myles looked at the cat, and his expression turned decidedly less warm. “Don’t tell me you mean to bring that blasted animal?”

  “No. I am leaving him here,” Genevieve replied coolly and set Xerxes down, running her hand one last time along his spine. Then she straightened, squaring her shoulders. “I am ready.”

  Strolling beside her toward the door, Myles leaned down and murmured, “We aren’t really walking to the gallows, you know.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Genevieve’s reply was as light and unrevealing as her face.

  It was gray and drizzling outside, and the footman held an umbrella over their heads as they hurried out to the post chaise, a chorus of well wishes following them. Myles handed Genevieve up into the vehicle, then paused and went back to Alec and Damaris to say a few words before returning. Genevieve’s heart seemed to swell inside her chest as the carriage started to roll away from her home. It was all she could do to keep her face calm and smooth, not giving away the panic that gripped her. She was leaving everything she knew. She turned her face away, fighting her tears.

  Myles tried to start up a conversation a time or two, but Genevieve could not reply for fear she might start to cry in front of him. The silence continued as they drove out of London and emerged into the countryside.

  “You must speak to me sometime, you know,” Myles said finally, amusement underlying his tone. “It would make our marriage a trifle uncomfortable, don’t you think, if we never spoke?”

  “I am happy I provide you with so much amusement,” Genevieve snapped, a little relieved to feel irritation pushing back her sorrow.

  “So am I,” he answered candidly. “Else our squabbles might come to wear on me.”

  “When was it decided that we were going to retire to your manor house?” Genevieve asked, goaded by his flippa
nt manner. Obviously the man viewed this whole miserable situation as some sort of jest. “I suppose you and Grandmother came up with the notion, as you have everything else. After all, why should I have anything to say in the matter?”

  “It seemed the best course,” Myles said mildly. “There was no time to arrange a proper honeymoon, and we need to let the gossip die down in London. Besides, I thought it proper to inform my mother in person. She will be most sorry that she was not able to attend the ceremony.”

  “Oh. I had not thought of that.” Genevieve unbent a little. “No doubt you are right.” His mother should, of course, be told before other people knew about the marriage. But Genevieve dreaded meeting the woman. She would be bound to despise Genevieve for this hasty wedding.

  “If you wish to go somewhere else afterward, you have only to let me know,” Myles went on. “Italy, perhaps? Switzerland is lovely.”

  “No. There is nowhere I want to go.” Genevieve took a steadying breath, keeping her eyes on her hands. “I apologize. I am being beastly—and after all you’ve done for me. Pray do not think that—that I am not grateful to you.”

  “Hush. I don’t ask for your gratitude,” Myles said softly. “Ah, Genevieve, things so rarely go to plan, do they?” He smiled at her and reached out to untie the ribbons of her bonnet.

  “Myles, what are you doing?”

  “I think what you and I both need is some rest. A hat is not conducive to sleeping.” He set the straw concoction on the seat and pulled her snugly up against his side, leaning back into the corner of the carriage.

  “I could not sleep,” Genevieve told him, holding herself stiffly upright.

  “Well, I could. I rose far too early this morning and have been running about all day.” He pressed her head gently down against his shoulder, where, Genevieve discovered, it seemed to fit surprisingly well. “Just relax. I promise you, we can argue all you want later.”

  It was so odd to lean against him like this, yet it was inviting as well. His body was soothingly warm against her, and he smelled pleasantly like, well, like Myles. It was almost impossible to keep her muscles tense, and she gradually let go, sinking into his side.

  Genevieve woke up in darkness. The chaise jounced over a rut, sending her body rolling forward, but Myles’s arm tightened around her, holding her in place. She blinked, pulling her hazy mind back into focus. She lay against Myles’s chest, her face buried in his coat. She pulled herself upright and found Myles watching her.

  “I have rumpled your coat. I am sorry.”

  “You have apologized to me yet again. I am beginning to fear that I have mistakenly married someone other than Genevieve Stafford.”

  She pulled a face at him. “Must you always play the fool, Myles?”

  “Ah, good, it is you, after all.” He, too, sat up and straightened his coat.

  Genevieve slid over on the seat, putting several inches between them. The coach slowed and turned, the sound of the road changing beneath its wheels. There were shouts and lights outside, and Myles flicked the window curtain aside to look out.

  “We’ve reached an inn. Hopefully it will be able to at least provide us with a meal.”

  Rain was pouring down as they stepped down from the coach, and even with her cloak thrown over her, Genevieve was soaked by the time they reached the door. Myles acquired a private room for them to dine in, though the fare proved ordinary—rough bread and overcooked roast beef. Though the maid built up the fire, the room took time to heat up, and Genevieve found herself shivering as she ate. Her wet cloak did little to keep her warm, and she wound up spreading it and Myles’s jacket on a chair in front of the fire to dry.

  The sense of comfort she had felt earlier in the chaise with Myles had vanished the moment they stepped inside the inn. Nothing was natural about being here, nothing was normal in sitting down to eat alone with Myles in his shirtsleeves. Genevieve could not think of anything to say, and she wished, as she often had, for the ease of conversation that other women possessed. Sadly, the only sort of speech that seemed to spring without difficulty from her lips was sharp. Even Myles was quiet, and his silence deepened her gloom. She wondered if he was regretting his actions.

  “The rain doesn’t appear to be letting up,” Myles said finally. It lashed the window as the wind gusted.

  “Yes.” Genevieve forced a smile. “Not good weather for traveling, I’m afraid.”

  “Shall we get a room here?”

  Genevieve’s stomach danced. “I—is that what you prefer?”

  “It is not where I hoped we would stop. There are nicer inns on the road home, but unfortunately the rain held us up. And you are cold and tired and wet.”

  “I will be fine,” she assured him quickly.

  “I know.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “You are a Stafford and forged from iron. But I fear I am not made of such stern stuff. It will doubtless prove a grave disappointment to you.”

  “Don’t be nonsensical.” She sighed. “Very well. I suppose it does not matter.” His eyebrows rose slightly, and she realized belatedly that her lack of enthusiasm was less than tactful. “I mean, well, you know.” She began to blush.

  “Yes, I know.” He saved her from continuing to flounder by rising and pulling on his jacket. “Why don’t you sit here by the fire? I shall speak to the innkeeper.”

  Genevieve was glad to leave her plate and huddle on a footstool in front of the fire, but its heat could not take away the chill inside her. Tonight was her wedding night. Her hands tightened on her knees as she thought about her grandmother’s words, and it occurred to her that she had been foolish to agree to this marriage without thinking it through.

  Myles returned, candle in hand, and led her up the stairs and down a narrow, dark hall, into a room that was equally dark and cramped. Genevieve’s heart dropped even lower as she glanced about, taking in the single rickety chair and the small washstand that were the only other objects in the room besides the bed. Someone, the innkeeper she presumed, had brought up their bags and lit an oil lamp, but the small glow did little to alleviate the gloom of the chamber.

  “I am sorry,” Myles told her, surveying the unprepossessing place. “I fear this is all they had. The rain has driven several people to stop here.”

  “I am sure it will be fine.” Genevieve managed to keep her voice even. “It looks, um, clean.” Her eyes skittered over the bed. It was hard to look anyplace else in so small a room.

  “I’ll step out for a moment. Give you a chance to, um . . .” Myles, too, glanced around vaguely, and Genevieve realized that he must feel awkward as well.

  Somehow this thought bolstered her courage, and she was able to smile at him almost normally. “Thank you.”

  As soon as he left, she dug out a nightgown from her bag and hurriedly undressed. Her fingers, clumsy with cold, fumbled at the buttons of her dress, and she dreaded the thought of being caught half-dressed when Myles returned. Once she was in her nightgown, her clothes neatly folded and stuck back into her traveling bag, she hesitated, unsure what to do. It was awkward to just stand about, and it made her blush to think of Myles seeing her in her nightgown. It was no more revealing than a number of evening dresses she had seen, but that she wore nothing beneath it—and that Myles would know that—made it seem indecent.

  Finally, she crawled into bed. It might be forward of her, she supposed, but she was chilled and quite worn-out from a combination of nerves and misery. She curled up on her side, pulling the covers up over her shoulders, and waited for Myles to come. She thought of closing her eyes and pretending to be asleep, but that was a coward’s way out.

  Her heart beat faster at the thought of Myles’s disrobing and getting into bed with her. What would he expect her to do? To say? She could not help but think she would displease him. She had never known how to attract men. Some had told her she was beautiful, but that, she suspected, had more to do with who she was and how large a dowry she possessed than with herself. Indeed, she was apt to turn
men away with her sharp tongue.

  Certainly Myles was not attracted to her. In all the years she had known him, he had never made any attempt to court her. Oh, he had flirted with her, but Myles would have flirted with a statue if that was all that was around. Genevieve had seen his mistress, a small, curvaceous brunette, completely unlike herself.

  Myles would come to regret marrying her. Perhaps he already did. The tears she had been struggling to suppress throughout this whole miserable day suddenly came flooding forth, too many, too strong, to deny. And, of course, that was the moment Myles chose to come back into the room.

  Genevieve hastily turned away, struggling to gulp back her sobs. She listened to the sounds of Myles moving about the minuscule room, pulling off his boots and removing his jacket. Genevieve buried her face in the pillow. Perversely, the harder she tried to conceal her sobs, the more they pushed out of her.

  “Genevieve?” Myles stopped in the midst of taking off his waistcoat and turned toward the bed. “Are you—” He lifted the candle. “Genny! Are you crying?”

  He set down the candle and crossed the room. Genevieve moaned and rolled away from him. “No! Don’t look at me.”

  “Dear girl.” The sympathy in his voice was almost too much for her to bear. “I can hardly spend our married life not looking at you.” Myles sat on the edge of the bed and took her by the shoulders, turning her toward him. “Don’t cry. ’Tis not so bad as it seems.”

  She tried to pull away, but he would not let her, wrapping his arms around her. His warmth and strength surrounded her, and she could not hold back any longer. Genevieve flung her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. “Oh, Myles! I am so ashamed!”

  Genevieve broke into sobs, clinging to him, and Myles lay down on the bed beside her, cradling her against him. “Ah, Genny, I know I am not the sort of man you envisioned marrying. But I’m not a bad sort, really. We’ll rub along together well enough. You’ll see.”

  His words reminded Genevieve of her grandmother’s vision of their marriage. Somehow this image, which she had once viewed with equanimity with Lord Dursbury, now, with Myles, seemed bleak and barren. Her tears came even harder. Myles kissed the top of her head, his hand stroking soothingly up and down her back. He held her while she cried out all her misery. Then, finally, she fell asleep, cradled in his arms.