The Marrying Season

by Candace Camp

  Seven

  Myles opened his eyes. His cheek rested against Genevieve’s head, her fine, blond hair tickling his nose. His arm underneath her body had gone numb. But that inconvenience was the least of what filled his consciousness. What he was acutely aware of was her lithe, long body inside the circle of his arms, snuggled up tight against him, her round, firm bottom fitting perfectly into the cup of his pelvis. Their legs were tangled together, one of his knees between hers. One of his hands might be asleep, but the other one was quite awake as it rested upon the sweet curve of her hip.

  Genevieve sighed in her sleep and wriggled back into him, and his body leaped in response. She was a warm, soft, desirable armful. And she was his.

  He slid his free hand over her hip and down onto her leg. Her innocent and unrevealing nightgown had worked its way up during the night, so that her legs were bare from the knee down. He thought of exploring farther, of inching up the gown to show more of her long legs, and once again his body pulsed in response, hard and eager.

  But that would be foolish in the extreme. It took no particular genius to know that Genevieve was an innocent when it came to the marital act. She was, after all, the daughter of a proud, aristocratic family, sheltered and chaperoned, kept not only inviolate but as unknowing as possible until the day she married. As brother to five sisters, he was aware just how well young girls were shielded from reality. Genevieve, he suspected, was more skittish than most. It would be cruel, not to mention unwise, to give free rein to the desire coursing through him. Myles was not a man to rush his fences. He must woo her.

  He stroked his fingers lazily over the point of her shoulder and down her arm, then on to the dip of her waist, the swell of her hip. A sensual smile hovered on his lips. It might take some strength of will to hold back from making love to her now, but it would be worth the wait.

  Genevieve had always drawn him. He had denied it, sometimes even to himself, pulling his mind away whenever it moved in that direction, knowing he would never have her. He could admit now how many times his thoughts had strayed to her over the years, imagining her in his bed, her long legs wrapped around his back, her voice breathy and yearning in his ear. Something in her distant, even cold, demeanor made him ache to turn that frost to heat, that reticence to hunger.

  If he could awaken her desire, if he could find that spark that leapt between them in their quarrels and turn it into passion, then perhaps he could turn their marriage into something real. And if he did not?

  Well, in that case, he had made a ruinous decision. Myles sighed and eased his arm out from beneath Genevieve. He rose to his feet and slipped silently across the room to recover his boots and jacket. It would be better to slip out and get himself under control lest he awaken Genevieve in a way he might later regret. A brisk morning walk would be just the thing to get his brain working better than certain other parts of his anatomy. When he came back, he would be more ready to begin the daunting task of winning Genevieve.

  Something tickled along Genevieve’s neck. She floated toward consciousness, aware of a vague, eager feeling, something pleasant, no, something pleasurable that teased her, pulled at her. Her eyelids floated open, taking in an entirely strange room—and the heretofore unknown sensation of a man’s lips kissing their way up the side of her neck.

  A quiver ran through her, ending in a rush of warmth deep in her belly. “Myles.”

  “Ah, you are awake.” He pressed his lips to her neck again, and his hand moved a swath of her hair aside to open up her neck to further exploration. He kissed the bony edge of her skull just beneath her ear, then his lips hovered over her ear itself, sending little shivers down her.

  “What are you doing?” Genevieve strove for a cross tone, but she feared it came out more of a quaver.

  “Why, kissing my wife awake.” He pressed his lips to her ear.

  “I am awake now.” When he didn’t respond other than to brush his lips against the tender skin of her temple, she added, “You may stop.”

  “I could.” He took her earlobe gently between his teeth, eliciting a little gasp from her. “But what would be the fun in that?”

  Genevieve dug her fingers into the mattress beside her. She didn’t know what to do. She had never felt anything like the bright sensations rippling through her at the touch of his lips and teeth and—oh, my, his tongue, as well. It seemed likely that what he was doing was not at all the thing and she ought to pull away from him. But it was too delicious, like the taste of chocolate melting on one’s tongue.

  He circled the shell-like whorls of her ear with the tip of his tongue, then dipped inside, startling her almost as much as did the way her insides softened. Her eyes drifted closed and her breath caught in her throat. His lips moved onto her cheek, sliding along her jaw. He cupped the side of her face, turning it toward him, and Genevieve found herself rolling onto her back and gazing up at him.

  Her mind was scattered, and all she could think was how handsome he was. Genevieve was aware of a strange desire to run her thumb across the lines of his eyebrows and cheeks, to test the plumpness of his bottom lip. A host of new feelings were coursing through her, tingling and warm and unsettling.

  He bent and brushed his lips over hers, and everything hovering inside her burst into frantic life. His mouth touched hers again, soft as a feather, fleeting as a breath, then returned again for a longer taste, and his tongue traced the line where her lips met.

  Genevieve was so startled that she jumped and slid away from him. She stared at him, her lips parting in surprise. “I—we should be on our way.” Her voice came out as breathless as if she had been running.

  He smiled lazily. “No doubt you are right.” He rolled onto his side, propped up on his elbow, and looked at her, his eyes sliding down her body, almost as tangible as a touch.

  Heat rose in Genevieve’s throat. She was conscious of how little she wore and how her night shift had ridden up, exposing her knees. She tensed, waiting in a curious combination of apprehension and anticipation, but Myles only stood up, extending a hand to help her.

  Vaguely disappointed, Genevieve put her hand in his and slipped out of bed. It was useless to be embarrassed now about his seeing her in her nightgown since he had already done so, but she simply could not get dressed in front of him. She cast about for some diplomatic way to get him to leave.

  “I shall wait for you downstairs; they’re laying out a breakfast for us,” Myles said, resolving her dilemma.

  Genevieve could not decide whether she should be grateful for his social acumen or irritated that he could so easily discern her thoughts. He chuckled, obviously reading that latest idea on her face as readily as he had the others. She frowned; she had long prided herself on concealing her emotions from the world.

  Myles sketched a bow and started to leave, but he turned back, pulled her to him, and kissed her. This was not one of the light kisses he had rained on her a few minutes ago, but a full, deep claiming of her mouth. Genevieve trembled, and her heart slammed in her chest as his lips explored hers, his tongue delving in to taste and touch and tantalize.

  Then, just as abruptly, his mouth left hers. His arm remained around her, holding her to him, and Genevieve leaned her head against his chest, unwilling to look up and reveal the wild tumult of feelings inside her. She felt his lips press against her hair.

  “What I wouldn’t give for an hour and a pleasant room,” he murmured, sending Genevieve’s pulse racing even harder. Then he released her and was out the door, leaving Genevieve staring after him in stunned dismay.

  It took Genevieve a moment to collect her wits. She started toward the dress she had folded on the chair last night. She was unused to being without the services of her maid, who had remained behind to pack the rest of Genevieve’s clothes and bring them to Thorwood Park. Fortunately the carriage dress was easy enough to put on, buttoning as it did up the front, and for traveling, a simple hairstyle was more proper anyway than the more elaborate style her maid had curled an
d crimped it into yesterday afternoon for the wedding.

  She glanced down at her hand, where Myles’s gold signet ring sat on her ring finger, a ribbon wound around it several times in the back to ensure it would not slide off her much slenderer finger. She was Lady Thorwood now. Myles’s wife. It seemed most peculiar, yet something about the idea was exciting, too. When her grandmother talked about the duty of marrying and producing heirs, Genevieve had not envisioned anything like the way Myles had just kissed her. She closed her eyes, remembering again the tingling of her skin, the rush of blood in her veins, the way her entire body had seemed to open up when he slipped his tongue into her mouth. Surely that wasn’t usual. Something that thrilling and outrageous was bound to be improper.

  She wondered if he would do it again. And when. Was it that sort of thing that made Damaris smile at Alec in that secret, sensual way? Did kisses like that make up for the pain the countess had warned her of? She felt so strange inside, so jangly and uncertain and wanting . . . something.

  She was like a boat tossed about upon a vast sea. However pleasant—well, more than pleasant—however stirring those sensations were, they were completely out of her control. And that was not the way she wanted to live her life. She drew in a breath. This simply would not do. She needed to regain her calm. Her control. She could not allow Myles to send her off course.

  The inn was not as terrible as it had seemed last night, she decided as she went downstairs. Though small and low-ceilinged, it appeared brighter with the sun coming in through the thick, leaded-glass window at the end of the corridor. It was almost quaint. Everything appeared much better this morning.

  The door was open to the private room, and Myles was standing by the window, sipping a cup of tea. She paused for a moment, watching him. The sun coming in the window turned his hair almost golden. His jacket hung perfectly on him, and his breeches were well fitted to his long, muscular legs. He had, she thought, exactly the form most pleasing in a man—not that such things were important.

  She must have made a noise, for he turned and smiled. “Genevieve. How lovely you look.”

  He set down his cup and crossed the room to her, bending slightly to kiss her cheek and lightly stroking his hand down her arm. A shiver ran through her, setting up the tangle of nerves in her stomach that she had so carefully smoothed away. He escorted her to the table, seating her, then began to dish up a choice piece of meat for her, urging her to try this dish or that.

  “Really, Myles, what are you doing?” Genevieve asked sharply. “Why are you fluttering around me?”

  “Genevieve! Are you criticizing my attempts to spoil my bride? I am devastated.”

  “You are ridiculous,” Genevieve corrected.

  He laughed and sat down. “My love, will you not let me play the attentive groom? I think I have a calling for it.” He tore off a piece of buttered bread and popped it into her mouth, then ran his thumb along her lip to remove a dot of butter.

  A flutter started in her stomach, and Genevieve hastily turned her attention to her plate. Normally she would have tossed back a tart response, but her mind had gone blank. Her eyes strayed to Myles’s hands, efficiently spreading the pale butter on another bite of bread. His fingers were long and agile. She thought of them sliding down her arm, bringing all the nerves beneath her skin to life.

  Genevieve cleared her throat and set about making wifely conversation as they ate. “I know very little about you, I fear. I have not met any of your family.”

  “No reason for you to,” he said with a careless smile. “My mother has never liked London overmuch, and since my father’s death, she never comes to the city. You may have met my sister Meg; she is the next one down from me. She married Lord Devonbrook and spends most of the Season in the city, though no doubt in different circles. But the eldest, Amelia, married the local squire’s son, and she rarely leaves the area, for how else could she manage the lives of everyone around her? Daphne married a clergyman with a living in Devon. Amelia and Daphne each have four children, and I shall not bother you with their names, for there are too many to remember.”

  “Oh, my. You do have a number of nieces and nephews.”

  “That is only the beginning. The next sister down, Phoebe, married a military man, and she has three little ones, whom you will meet. While her husband is with his brigade in Portugal, she has brought her brood home to the Park to live. There is another on the way, you see, and she wants to be close to our mother.” He laughed. “No, you need not look alarmed. It will not be such a crowd. Thorwood Park is no Castle Cleyre, but it is a rambling old house with plenty of room for everyone. The company is nice for my mother.”

  “I believe Grandmama said your mother was related to Lord Aylesworth?”

  “She is his sister. Their father was not well pleased when she told him she would marry the son of a lowly baronet and no other.”

  “What did he do?” Genevieve asked.

  “What could he do? He made them wait for a year before he finally gave his permission, but in the end, of course, he gave in.”

  Genevieve thought that her own father would have found a great number of things that could be done to impose his will on a recalcitrant child, but she did not say so. She glanced down at her plate, a little surprised to see that she had eaten everything on it. She took a sip of her tea. “Your parents were a love match, then?”

  “Very much so.” He nodded, setting his plate aside. “My father adored her, and she him. He had a rose arbor built for her, all white roses, so that, he said, they would form a perfect backdrop for her beauty. When they are in season, she always puts a bouquet of the roses at his grave.”

  “That’s very romantic.”

  “It is.” He gave her a bittersweet smile. “But ’tis sad, as well. She has never been the same since his death. She enjoys life; I don’t mean to imply that she does not, or that she does not love her children and grandchildren. But she has been . . . incomplete, I suppose. I think she will not be whole again until she joins him.”

  “I cannot imagine that.”

  “And here I thought you would greatly mourn my passing,” he replied lightly.

  “Don’t be nonsensical.” She frowned at him. “You know I would be quite sorry if you died. But it is hardly as if we are a love match.”

  “It’s true. Still . . . we have time.” He linked his hand with hers, bringing it up to his mouth to press a kiss upon the back.

  She wondered if he was teasing her again. Surely he did not expect them to fall in love. She shifted a little uncomfortably. “Myles, I do not think—I mean, I am not the sort of woman to—oh, you know what I am!” she finished crossly.

  “My dear girl, what do you mean?” His brows rose slightly.

  “Don’t put on that expression with me. You are quite aware what I mean.” She straightened, and her expression became one of a person taking her medicine. “Myles, I promise you I will be as good a wife as I can be. I will manage your household and visit your sick tenants and call on the vicar’s wife. I will make needlepoint pillows and plan any sort of party you wish. I will be polite to your friends, even that frivolous Alan Carmichael, and I shall not fuss about you going off with them to your club or to watch men beat each other about the head or to tramp about the moors shooting things, for I am well accustomed to that with Alec.”

  “Ah, Genny.” He chuckled. “What an interesting view you have of a wife’s duties. However, I must tell you that I have no need for needlepoint cushions, though I shall appreciate your effort to be civil to poor Alan. And, alas, the vicar does not have a wife, only a daughter of rather youthful years.”

  “Myles, be serious for once.” She leaned forward, her eyes fixed earnestly on his face. “If you expect me to be a . . . a frilly sort of wife or someone who hangs on you and never says a sharp word to you, I fear you will be doomed to disappointment. I have the heart of a Stafford, not that of a loving woman. You know what I am like, and I don’t think I can be changed into another
sort of person. I should have explained all this; I was wrong to accept your offer without your truly understanding that I am lacking in such attributes. Perhaps, if you wish it, well, perhaps we might be able to get an annulment, not having . . . you know . . .”

  “Consummated the marriage?” Genevieve nodded, not looking at him. He leaned closer to her, planting his elbows on the table and tilting up her chin so that she had to look into his face. “My dearest Genevieve, you are right. I do know you, and I knew your nature when I offered for you. I have seen ample evidence over the years of the heart you carry inside you, and while I think you wrong yourself, I would not try to make you into something you are not. I have no interest in frills nor any need for you to have only sweet words for me—though I will admit that one or two now and then would not displease me.” He smiled into her eyes and bent to press his lips gently against hers. “I have no desire for an annulment. I confess that I am looking forward to consummating our marriage.”

  Genevieve felt as if every nerve in her body had awakened and was waiting, tingling, for what he would do next. His breath was warm, its touch like a feather against her skin. His mouth was only an inch from hers, and she could think of nothing except the way it had felt upon her a few minutes ago in their bedchamber. He raised his hand and slowly drifted the tips of his fingers down her cheek and onto her throat, curving around to cup her neck.

  Then, with a sigh, he released her. “Unfortunately, ’tis hardly the time or place to continue.” He rose to his feet and extended his hand to her. “I fear that we must be on our way.”

  They set out again for Thorwood Park, traveling at a better pace than the day before. With the curtain open to the soft summer day, Genevieve watched the landscape roll by while Myles described the people and places around Thorwood Park. He painted the nearby village of Hutchins Gate in comic tones, but his affection for the place and the people who lived there was clear in his voice. And when he spoke of the lands and tenants that his estate comprised, it was just as evident that he understood and enjoyed both the people and the business.