The Marrying Season

by Candace Camp

  “I am surprised you know so much about it,” Genevieve told him.

  “About what? The people who live where I grew up?” He looked puzzled.

  “No. Well, yes. I mean, that you know so much about the details. What your tenants raise, who their families are.”

  “Does not Alec?”

  “Yes, but he is not like other young men that way. Not many gentlemen regard their tenants as ‘their people,’ as Alec does. Most see their estate as merely a well of money for gambling and drinking and clothes.”

  “Mm. I confess I am not as proprietary as Alec. My family was never their ‘liege lord’ in the way of the earls of Rawdon. But still . . . it makes little sense to ignore the details of what enables one to live as we do. That ‘well,’ as you say, can run dry. I should hate to wake up one morning and find myself destitute because I had not paid enough attention to my tenants.”

  “I am very impressed,” Genevieve told him honestly.

  “That I am not completely frivolous?” His smile took the sting from his words, but Genevieve blushed, fully aware that she had misjudged him.

  She started to protest, then stopped herself. “Yes. You are right. I am sorry.”

  Now it was his turn to look surprised. “Genevieve . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  “Oh, hush. You would think I had never apologized to anyone. Anyway,” she added rather crossly, “it isn’t as if you’ve ever talked of such things before.”

  “True. I am not inclined to mention crops and rents and such at a gala or the opera.”

  “Or to a woman.”

  “I admit, ’tis not the first thing that crosses my mind.” He smiled. “Had I but known it was the way to your heart . . .”

  “Don’t be foolish,” she told him severely, but honesty impelled her to add, “At least you were willing to tell me instead of warning me to mind my knitting.”

  “My dear, I would never tell you that. I have seen the scarf you made for Alec.”

  Her eyes widened, and a hot retort came to her lips, but instead laughter tumbled out. The time passed far more quickly than Genevieve would have imagined possible. Their conversation roamed far from the subjects she was accustomed to—and she felt sure that some of it was not in the least appropriate for him to discuss with a lady. But she could not deny that it made conversation with him far more interesting.

  Late in the afternoon their chaise rolled into the yard of a prosperous-looking inn. They were clearly in a more substantial town than any they had passed before. Genevieve could see the spire of a cathedral over the treetops and roofs, and the road had turned into a cobblestoned street.

  “Are we stopping here for the night?” Genevieve asked, and the nerves in her stomach, which had been quiet during the ride, began to set up a jangle once again.

  “Yes, it is too far to reach the Park tonight,” Myles said. “I think you will find the Three Swans much more inviting than the accommodations last night.”

  As they entered the large stone inn, the innkeeper hurried forward to greet Myles, who was obviously an honored guest. Within moments a maid had whisked Genevieve up to a large, well-appointed bedchamber. The girl completed Genevieve’s pleasure in the room by saying, “Shall I light the fire and bring up the slipper tub, ma’am?”

  “A bath?” Genevieve smiled at the thought of washing away the grime of travel. “That would be delightful.”

  Within minutes, two maids had brought in a small slipper tub and placed it in front of the fireplace. As the girls bustled in and out, filling the tub, Genevieve pulled the pins from her hair and began to brush it out.

  Myles strolled through the open doorway and stopped short. His eyes went to her hair, tumbling over her shoulders, then flickered over to the tub. His eyes darkened, his face changing subtly. He started toward her, and Genevieve jumped to her feet, setting the brush aside, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest. Of course. How could she have forgotten? Her room was no longer her own.

  “Myles! I, um, was about to . . .” She glanced toward the tub, irritated that she could not keep the blush from rising up her throat. She looked away, and her gaze fell on the bed, and the heat under her skin increased.

  “Yes, I see.” He raised his hand to trail it down her hair to her shoulders.

  Genevieve swallowed, and her eyes came back to his face. His mouth had a soft sensuality. She remembered the pressure of his lips against hers, the teasing of his tongue.

  “Perhaps I should stay to help you bathe,” he murmured.

  “Myles!” Genevieve glanced over at the tub, where the maid was pouring water from a steaming kettle. “The maid . . .” She kept her voice low.

  He grinned, following her gaze, and his eyes danced. Leaning closer, his lips inches from her ear, he whispered, “She cannot hear us.”

  His breath drifted across her skin, igniting little shivers, and Genevieve had to brace herself not to show it, taking a hasty step back. The maid turned and bobbed a curtsy toward Genevieve, her eyes going to Myles with obvious interest.

  “Just call if you need my help, ma’am,” the girl said as she left the room.

  Genevieve turned back to Myles, who was grinning in an annoying way.

  “No need for a maid,” he told her lightly. “I am quite able to unfasten the buttons of your dress.”

  “No doubt you are,” Genevieve retorted tartly. “I am sure you have had ample experience.”

  “Genevieve! What a shocking thing to say.” His eyes gleamed gold as he idly toyed with a strand of her hair.

  “Do stop being nonsensical and go away. I must get ready for dinner.” Did he actually mean what he’d said? Did he intend to undo her clothes, to watch as she stepped into the tub? Her breath hitched in her throat as embarrassment flooded her, carrying with it the oddest twist of heat deep inside her.

  No. He would not do something so . . . so indecorous. Myles had always been the soul of courtesy, despite his frequently odd sense of humor. But a look was now on his face she had never before seen there, with a fierce intensity in his eyes, a hint of something almost predatory in the set of his mouth.

  “Are you sure? I can be very helpful.” He lifted her hair and bent to lay a soft kiss upon her collarbone. “Washing your back.” His mouth drifted upward teasingly onto her throat. “And other things.”

  “Myles!” Her voice came out far shakier than she liked, and Genevieve moved back.

  “No? Some other time, perhaps.” He took her chin between his fingers and bent to place a light kiss on her forehead, then turned and left the room.

  Genevieve dropped onto the chair, air rushing out of her. She felt shaken, on uncertain ground. Myles her brother’s friend was not necessarily the same man as Myles her husband, and she was not quite sure how to deal with him. What to say. What to think.

  She did not call the maid back to help her out of her clothes. All she wanted right now was to be alone. She was relieved to find that the door had a key in the lock. It was a bit unnerving to think Myles might pop into the room again. She peeled out of her clothes and stepped into the tub, sinking down into the warm water with a contented sigh. For the moment at least, she was determined to luxuriate in the pleasure, and she refused to think any more about her hasty marriage or her husband . . . or the wedding night that loomed before her.

  Eight

  Revived by the bath, Genevieve dressed for dinner with the help of the accommodating maid. The wide neckline of the dress seemed to call for some sort of adornment, and she was contemplating the small amount of jewelry she had included in her valise when after a knock on the door Myles came into the room.

  “Ah,” he said, looking down at the two simple necklaces. “I see that I have arrived at just the right time.” He was dressed for dinner, elegant in a dark wine jacket and snowy-white shirt and neckcloth. He carried a small box in his hand.

  “Myles.” Genevieve could not help but think of the last time he was in the room with her; she hoped a blush would not
betray her. Her stomach tightened as he walked toward her. “What are you doing?”

  “Do not look at me so warily.” He laughed. “I come bearing gifts.”

  Genevieve looked at him blankly. “Gifts? What? From whom?”

  “From me to you, of course. ’Tis customary, is it not, for a groom to give his bride an engagement present? I realize it is a bit late for that, but . . . well, our engagement was a tad short.”

  “But when—how—”

  “I could not give you the wedding ring that was intended for my bride, as I keep it at the estate. Clearly a lack of foresight on my part.” He took her left hand in his, stroking his thumb across the heavy signet ring on her slender finger. “ ’Twas my grandmother’s, and she gave it to me for my bride. I apologize for this clumsy substitute.”

  “It does not matter.” Warmth bloomed in Genevieve’s chest as she realized that her lack of a wedding ring had not been from disinterest on his part, that he wanted her to have the family heirloom.

  “Indeed, I would hope my ring does matter to you,” he replied with a smile. “But I am grateful for your forbearance. I did manage to find you a small token of my esteem, however. I would have given it to you yesterday, but there never seemed to be an appropriate moment.” He extended the flat box toward her.

  Genevieve opened the lid and drew in a sharp breath. Inside, lying on a bed of velvet, glittered a necklace and earrings in icy splendor. The necklace was a simple design, a chain of diamonds and jewels so pale a blue they were almost clear, with matching earrings of the same clear blue stones, surrounded by tiny diamonds.

  “Myles! They’re beautiful!”

  “They are only aquamarines. I meant to buy you sapphires, but these were so much the color of your eyes I could not resist.”

  “Thank you.” Genevieve smiled up into his eyes, her throat closing with emotion.

  “For that look in your eyes, I would have given you twenty necklaces.” He raised her hand to press his lips gently against her fingertips.

  “I think that I might find it difficult to wear so many.” Genevieve strove to keep her manner light.

  Myles took the necklace and stepped behind her to drape it around her neck. Fastening the clasp, he bent and pressed his lips to the fragile ledge of her collarbone. A shiver ran through Genevieve at the soft touch of his lips on her skin, the warmth of his breath. He straightened, and their eyes met in the mirror.

  “It looks just as I thought it would,” he murmured.

  His eyes held hers in the mirror as he ran his forefinger lightly across her skin, just below the necklace. She trembled at the sensations his feathery touch roused in her. She could not look away from his gaze. The gold-brown glint of his eyes darkened, and he slipped his arms around her from behind, his hands gliding over her stomach. The sight of his hands spread out against her body sparked something deep inside her, a lush warmth that bloomed and throbbed in a way she had never imagined.

  Myles pressed his lips again to her soft, exposed skin, making his way across her collarbone and up the side of her neck. Genevieve let her head fall to the side, baring her neck to his exploration. She felt strangely limp, almost unable to move, and she closed her eyes, though she was not sure whether it was to hide from herself or to luxuriate in these new sensations, both exciting and vaguely frightening.

  His hands glided over her front, roaming down over her abdomen and up until they brushed the undersides of her breasts. He caught her earlobe delicately between his teeth. She was grateful for the strength of his hands, pressing her back into him, holding her up, for she was not sure but what her knees would give way. His hot breath drifted across her ear, and his tongue teased around the edges, making her gasp. Myles let out a pleased little chuckle, and she felt something move against her from behind.

  “There.” He raised his head, and his arms tightened around her for a moment. “I had best stop or else I will not be presentable for supper.” He released her, his fingertips drifting light as a feather across her breasts.

  Myles turned away, going to the window to look out as Genevieve struggled to compose herself. Her body was a stranger to her suddenly, pulsing and unaccustomedly warm. Her breasts felt fuller and faintly aching, and her nipples were puckered into tight buds. She looked at her reflection, amazed by the flush of pink in her cheeks, the lambent warmth of her eyes, the soft fullness of her mouth.

  This was not, she thought, a little panicky, the way a lady should feel. She dared not even glance at Myles, wondering in embarrassment if he had sensed how she responded inside. Was this how gentlemen treated their wives? Or was this something peculiar to Myles, some licentious, tempting ability to make a woman feel eager and hungry and breathless?

  Genevieve sneaked a glance at Myles. His back was to her, his arms crossed, as he stared out at the gardens. She wondered what he was thinking. It occurred to her that his posture was that of a man holding his temper in check. What if she had displeased him? Perhaps she had been too eager . . . or perhaps she had been too cold. It was so difficult when one did not know what was expected of one. She sighed softly and turned away.

  “I suppose we should go down to supper.”

  “Yes, of course.” Myles returned to her, and though she scanned his face, she could read nothing in his expression, as genial as ever. She was beginning to realize that a pleasant manner could be as effective a mask as the iciest of demeanors.

  Genevieve sat on the chair beside the bed, waiting for Myles. Her back was as straight as that of the chair, her hands lying still in her lap, her feet together, demurely peeping out from beneath her dressing gown. Nothing in her correct posture or smooth face betrayed that her stomach was knotted inside her or that fear iced her veins. She had been all right through supper, where she and Myles had carried on the sort of light, meaningless small talk that made life run in an even, predictable course.

  When the meal was through, however, and she had left Myles to enjoy his port, her nerves had started to fray. The moment she had been dreading for the past two days was rushing down upon her. Myles had been kind and patient last night, demanding nothing from her; he had even held her as she cried. But that would not be the case tonight. His words and actions this afternoon had made clear his intentions. It was what any groom would expect from his bride.

  With the maid’s help, it took her little time to dress for bed and comb out her hair. Then Genevieve sat down to wait. The longer she sat, the more knotted her nerves grew. She could not help but think of what her grandmother had told her. Or how embarrassing it would be when she removed her dressing gown in front of Myles and he would see her clad in only the thin lawn nightgown. She had never before thought about how the dark circles of her nipples showed through the material or how the outline of her entire body was visible if she chanced to stand in front of the lamp.

  Why was Myles waiting so long to come to bed? Perhaps he was sitting in the dining room alone, drinking, trying to work himself into coming to her. There was, after all, little to recommend her. She was as tall and thin as a stick, pale as a ghost. Myles had seemed to desire her earlier, but perhaps he had merely forced himself into a pretense so that she would not feel unwanted, the same way he could be counted on to ask a wallflower to dance.

  A nervous giggle escaped her at the thought of courtesy in this context. She told herself it was absurd to worry whether she appealed to Myles. It made no difference, for they were irrevocably bound together now. And wouldn’t it be preferable if he found her undesirable? Then he would leave her to her own devices. She would not have to go through this anxiety and worry each night.

  A soft rap at the door struck her as if it had been a shot. She jumped up and whirled toward the door, her heart slamming in her chest. Her voice came out a whisper, and she had to clear her throat and repeat, “Come in.”

  Myles entered the room and started toward her. Genevieve curled her fingers into her palms, forcing herself to leave her hands at her sides, to face Myles as if her pu
lse were not racing through her veins. She wished she could see his face better than the candlelight permitted. His face, usually so open, revealed nothing to her now.

  “Myles.” She was relieved to find that her voice did not betray the tangle of nerves inside her.

  “Genevieve.” He walked toward her. The faint smile that graced his lips was familiar to her, but the look in his eyes was not. Something dark was in them, some depth of purpose that made her feel even shakier.

  She waited breathlessly as he stopped in front of her, gazing down into her face. Reaching down, he took her hand, and surprise flitted across his face.

  “Your hands are like ice.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize.” He looked at her quizzically as he took her hands between both of his, warming them. “Is the room not warm enough?” He glanced toward the fireplace. “Shall I light the fire?”

  “No. No need.” Genevieve feared he would feel her shakiness in her hands. He was only inches from her, so warm, so close, so overwhelmingly masculine that Genevieve’s nerves fairly vibrated with tension. He reached up to touch her cheek, and she stiffened involuntarily.

  “Genevieve?” He frowned, gazing at her for a long moment. She saw his eyes fill with amazement as he said, “Are you frightened? Of me?”

  “No! Of course not.” She pulled away, turning her face from him. “Why would I be frightened of you? You are only—”

  “Only Myles,” he finished sardonically.

  Her eyes flew to him then. “I did not mean—” When he quirked an eyebrow, she finished lamely, “Well, I did not mean anything bad. You are Alec’s friend, and I have known you forever. I know you are not a . . . a rough or cruel man. It is just that I—well, I have never—I know that you expect—oh, the devil!” She glared, setting her jaw.