by Candace Camp
She wanted desperately to hide up here like a coward and claim illness. Put off facing him until the next day. But she could not allow herself to do that. However much his harsh words had hurt her, she had to hold her head up. She had to act like a lady. Like a Stafford.
So, drawing a shaky breath, she wrapped herself in her breeding like an armor and left the room.
Stomach jittering, she went down the stairs and into the dining room. Myles was standing at the window, and he turned at her entrance. Genevieve forced herself to meet his gaze, though she could not bring up a smile. His face was unusually grave, and the look in his eyes—but, no, she would not think about his eyes. Or his lean, strong hands. Or the way his smile crooked up higher on one side than the other.
“Genevieve.” He started toward her.
“Sir Myles.” She gave him a polite nod and looked over at the sideboard where the butler stood, as if her only concern were the quality of their supper. Going to her seat, she managed not to look at Myles as he pulled out her chair, grateful that the length of the table lay between them. It was easier to look at him without really seeing him this way.
“Tompkins did quite well with the house, I thought,” she began stiffly.
“Good. Then it was all to your liking?”
“Yes. Quite nice.”
They continued to talk in this manner through the first three courses, as polite and awkward as strangers. They discussed the weather and the long summer evenings, the wall covering of Moroccan leather in the study, and the beauty of the dark-wood, Jacobite paneling that had been moved into this library from the old Thorwood residence on the Thames. As they talked, Genevieve pushed her food around on her plate in the hopes of appearing to eat it, though the few mouthfuls she forced down could have been gruel for all she tasted them. After a time, they lapsed into silence, and Genevieve congratulated herself that she had gotten through over half the meal.
Myles cleared his throat, shifting a little in his chair. “Genevieve . . .”
She lifted her head and looked at him with cool inquiry, her eyes flicking away to Bouldin, standing at the sideboard. Myles followed her gaze and let out an impatient sigh.
“This evening, with Alec and the runner,” he began, then stopped.
Genevieve concentrated on her small cup of palate-refreshing sorbet.
“I do not intend to stay out long,” Myles started again. “Perhaps, when I return—”
“Oh, pray, you need not return early on my account. I am rather tired, I confess, and doubtless I shall retire early. You and Rawdon enjoy your evening with Mr. Parker.”
“It isn’t a question of enjoying it,” he said irritably.
“Indeed? Well, I would hope you will, nevertheless. It is so rare that Rawdon joins you on your gentlemanly excursions.”
“Our gentlemanly excursions?” Myles’s voice took on its familiar bantering tone, but Genevieve ignored it. She did not have Myles’s apparent ability to fall back into their old manner. She could not pretend that she did not know how he really felt, how much he resented . . . and regretted . . .
She pulled herself back sharply from her thoughts. “Yes, your clubs and such. I am sure you have missed them in the country.” She turned toward the butler. “Bouldin, please give my compliments to the chef. The food is delightful.”
Myles stabbed his fork into his meat and sawed away at it. After a moment or two of grimly eating, he laid his knife and fork down. “Bouldin, I think we can manage the rest on our own. As you can tell, my lady’s appetite is rather slight this evening.”
“Sir.” The butler bowed and started from the room.
Genevieve laid her napkin on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, Myles, I shall leave you to your port.”
Bouldin stopped and swiveled back.
“I don’t care for port,” Myles said, scowling at Bouldin, and the butler quickly turned and slipped out the door. “Genevieve, wait.”
She was already out of her seat, but she stopped and turned to him. “Yes?”
He rose, too, looking unaccustomedly awkward. “About this afternoon. I want to beg your pardon for what I said. I did not mean—”
“La, Myles . . .” Genevieve managed an unconcerned wave of her hand. “There is no need to pretend between the two of us. We have always, I think, been truthful with one another. We made a mistake, and now we simply must make the best of a bad situation.” She smiled brightly in his general direction, then whirled and hurried toward the door.
“Blast it, Genevieve—”
She did not look back, though she heard him take a few steps after her, then stop. By the time she reached the stairs, she was almost running. She made it to her room and closed the door, turning the key just in case Myles should take it into his head to come after her and argue. She knew she would never be able to hold back the tears if she had to face him again. As it was, she had to pull in great gulps of air, shoving the tears back down inside her. She would not cry. She would not.
Genevieve awakened and looked up groggily at the tester above her bed, unsure for a moment where she was or why a heavy ache was inside her. Then she remembered. She was in her new bedroom at Myles’s house. And the brief happiness of her marriage had come to a crashing halt the day before.
She rolled over on her side, hoping that she might go back to sleep and this would all go away, but, however muzzy-headed she might feel, she was obviously awake for the day. She did not want to go downstairs. Most of all, she did not want to see Myles again.
Last night she had gone to bed early, having nothing else to do, but once there, she had been unable to sleep and had lain awake for what seemed hours, listening to the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel. Finally, long after all the sounds of the servants in the house had ceased, she had heard the front door open and Myles’s footsteps coming down the hall. The steps had stopped outside her door, and Genevieve closed her eyes, feigning sleep, as she waited, every nerve alert, for Myles to open the door and come in. She thought she heard the sound of the knob turning, but the door did not open, and the steps began again, walking past her door and into Myles’s room.
For a time she heard the faint sounds of his moving about inside his room, and it occurred to her that perhaps he would come through their connecting door. Then the light disappeared from beneath the door, and there were no more sounds. It had been hours before she fell asleep.
She was glad, of course, that he had not come into the room. She had not relocked it after Penelope left, but that hadn’t been because she expected him to come to her. Not really. She did not, after all, want him to take her into his arms as if nothing had happened. Knowing how he really felt, what he thought about her, it would have been unbearable to have him kiss her and caress her.
A hot tear trickled from the corner of her eye and across her cheek into the mass of her hair. Why had she worn it down last night? It was far easier to put it into a braid so it would not tangle. She had grown accustomed to leaving it loose because Myles liked it that way. But that did not signify anymore.
In the silence of the room, she heard the small sound of the knob of the connecting door turning, and she closed her eyes, pretending sleep. She waited, keeping her breathing slow and even and wishing she knew whether he was still standing there. Finally she heard the snick of the latch catching, and she relaxed and opened her eyes, aware of a curious blend of relief and sorrow when she found herself alone.
She stayed in bed, pretending to sleep each time the door from the hall opened, though the next two times she felt rather sure it was Penelope who peeked in on her. She was hiding, she knew, and she chastised herself for it, but still she did not get up. Finally, when she heard the sound of the front door closing, she got out of bed. The next time Penelope peered in, Genevieve was up, sitting by the window.
“Oh, miss! You’re up.” Penelope smiled and hurried toward her. “Are you unwell?”
“What? Oh, no.” It occurred to her that her behavior would look
less peculiar if she were ill, so she hastily amended her words. “I mean, well, perhaps I am feeling a bit under the weather.”
“Here, best put on your dressing gown, then, or you’ll get worse.” Penelope wrapped her in her brocade dressing gown and opened the heavy draperies. “There, maybe you’d like to look out on the garden. Shall I bring you some tea and toast?”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“Just a bite, maybe,” Penelope urged. “Tea always makes you better.”
Genevieve nodded. It was easier than arguing. Perhaps she really was sick. She could not remember ever feeling like this. A tiff with one’s husband should not do this to one. She had heard Alec and Damaris go at it hammer and tongs a few times, and Damaris did not wilt like a flower left in the sun. Surely Genevieve should not be so weak.
Penelope brought her tea and toast, and Genevieve sipped at the tea and idly shredded one of the pieces of toast. But she was still sitting in her dressing gown an hour later when Damaris appeared at her door.
“Genevieve? The butler said you were unwell. Do you have a fever?” Damaris went over to her and bent down to lay her hand against Genevieve’s forehead.
“No. I’m fine.” Genevieve straightened, embarrassed. “Really. I am just a trifle lazy this morning.”
“Oh.” Damaris looked down at her, frowning slightly. “I—well—we had plans to see Thea today. To talk to her servant.”
“Oh!” Genevieve stood up. “I am so sorry. I forgot.”
“It’s perfectly all right. I am early anyway. I can wait for you to dress.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I shouldn’t.” The prospect of getting dressed and going to talk to someone seemed too taxing. “It was probably a foolish idea. What would the maid know? No doubt Langdon simply gave the note to her and handed her a shilling to deliver it to me.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” Damaris stared at her.
“I’m sorry. I am being very poor-spirited.”
“Genevieve . . . what is wrong? You scarcely seem yourself.” Suddenly Damaris’s eyes lit up and she leaned closer. “Are you—do you think you are enceinte already?”
“What!” Genevieve blushed. “No. No. I am sure not. Please, I don’t know why I am being so foolish.” She stood up, squaring her shoulders. “Just let me change, and we’ll go to Lady Morecombe’s.”
Genevieve dressed quickly and joined Damaris downstairs, doing her best to appear her usual self. But she could not quite succeed at playing the role, and she was aware of Damaris’s concerned gaze on her as the carriage took them to Thea’s house. It was too early, really, for paying a call, but clearly Thea thought nothing about the oddity of their arriving on her doorstep before noon.
“Genevieve! Damaris. Do come in. Matthew is upstairs with Nurse, having his lunch, and I finished my book, so I was casting about for something to do. I did not realize you were in town again, Genevieve.”
“I only arrived recently. I, um, Myles has come back to find Langdon.”
“What? Now?”
Between them, Damaris and Genevieve told Thea the whole story of the note, including Myles’s male stubbornness in not letting Genevieve join him in the search for the man who had tricked her.
“That is so like a man,” Thea said, shaking her head. “And the worst part of it is, they always say they’re doing it to protect you.”
“I thought if I could talk to the maid who gave me the note, she might know something more about Mr. Langdon,” Genevieve went on. “Perhaps he said something to her that might help me.”
“And you might find him before Myles!” Thea finished, apparently seeing nothing odd about this desire. “Of course. That’s a splendid idea. Let’s talk to the servants.” Thea popped up and started toward the door.
“We are going to the servants’ quarters?” Genevieve asked, surprised, as she and Damaris followed Thea. She had assumed that Thea would summon the butler and he would bring the maids in to be interviewed.
“Oh, yes,” Thea tossed back over her shoulder. “The servants are becoming quite accustomed to my oddities.”
Indeed, though everyone in the kitchen area suddenly attacked his or her task with more energy when the three women walked in, none of them seemed in the least surprised.
“My lady.” The butler hurried out of his pantry, bowing. “How may I help you?”
“We wish to see the maids who were serving the night of the ball.”
“Of course, madam.” The man betrayed no surprise at this peculiar request, and soon all the maids were lined up in the kitchen. Genevieve looked up and down the line, and she slumped a little in disappointment.
“I don’t recognize any of them.”
“Well, you only saw her briefly.” Thea turned to the maids. “Did any of you give Lady Thorwood a note that night? It is all right if you did. We just wish to know something about who gave it to you.”
The women gazed at her blankly, then at each other, and began a chorus of “No, ma’am.”
“But someone did,” Genevieve protested. “She was a maid, not one of the guests.”
“My lady, it could have been someone else,” the butler offered. “We hired several extra girls that evening to help with the serving. If you wish, I can check with the agency.”
“Of course!” Thea’s face brightened. “It was doubtless one of them. That’s an excellent idea, Reynolds.”
When the three of them returned to the drawing room, Thea said, “Reynolds is very efficient, and he will soon have their names.”
“I can send for them, I suppose, and question them,” Genevieve said.
“Oh, no, Damaris and I are not about to be left out of the mystery,” Thea protested. “We shall gather here again when I have the names.”
“If they can describe them, I think I could tell which one it was, so we would not have to bring them all here to interview.”
“Why don’t we just go where she lives?” Damaris suggested. “After all, she might not come if you send for her. Especially if she knows something about that reprobate Langdon.”
It would be entirely inappropriate, Genevieve was sure, for a lady—or three—to go tromping about looking for a servant, but she could not deny the tug of interest. Myles, of course, would disapprove. Her mouth tightened. “You are right. We should track her down and talk to her.”
They chatted for a few more minutes about the ins and outs of their plan, but Genevieve found her thoughts wandering to the more immediate prospect of what she would do tonight. There would be another meal to sit through. Myles had said he would accompany her to the theater, so she would have to sit through that, too. Worst of all, her grandmother would be there. The countess would immediately know that something was wrong; she always did. Unconsciously, Genevieve let out a little sigh.
“Genevieve?” Damaris asked, frowning. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, of course.” Then, to everyone’s surprise, including Genevieve’s, a tear escaped from the corner of her eye.
“Genevieve!” Damaris slid over from her seat at the other end of the sofa and curled her arm around Genevieve’s shoulders, leaning in solicitously. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing, really. I don’t know—” Her throat was suddenly choked with tears and she had to swallow hard. She swiped at her eyes. “I am sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”
Thea slid forward on her chair, reaching out to take her hand. “Is it Myles?”
“He regrets marrying me,” Genevieve burst out, and now the tears began to flow in earnest.
“No! Did he say that?”
“Yes. No. I’m not sure.” Genevieve drew a little hiccuping breath. “But it was obvious! He said I was—” Her stomach clutched. She could not say it, could not reveal that Myles, too, found her cold. She jumped up, feeling somehow defenseless in the face of their comfort. She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “He says I am too proud. He wishes I were—other than I am.”
“He is!” The words came out in a wail, and Genevieve stopped, struggling to control her voice. Finally she went on, low and swift, “Myles is the most easygoing of men. I tried to tell him. I tried to tell everyone. I knew it would turn out badly. But I was too . . . too much a coward. I could not keep from snatching at his offer.” She swiped at her tears again, then began to fiddle with the button of her glove. “Everything was too easy. I see that now.”
“I don’t understand. If it was too easy, why is Myles suddenly saying these things?”
“It was easy because he was hiding it!” Genevieve turned and faced Thea and Damaris, her expression bleak. “He is so accommodating; you know how he is. The one you can always count upon to ask a wallflower to dance or to talk to your great-aunt who bores everyone to tears. He is a very kind man. He said—he said he tried to turn aside his anger because he knew I was suffering. That he cajoled me and made jests. And he did, you see. I knew at the time that he was being good to me. But eventually, he could not bear it anymore, I suppose. I—well, I tried to be nicer, too. Really, I did. I was grateful to him; I tried to tell him I was. But, well . . . you know how I am,” she finished with a miserable glance at Damaris.
“Oh, Genevieve . . .” Damaris said, melting in sympathy. “I am so sorry. You were rushed into it, I know. It was not what you wanted; surely he did not expect you to be happy.”
“But I was.” Genevieve sighed. “I was such a goose. I thought everything was going well until all this came up about the note. But now I see that Myles was not happy from the beginning, no matter how hard he tried to be. One cannot will these things. He . . .” Her voice caught a little but she went on, “He said I looked down on him, that I wanted a man like Dursbury, that I preferred Dursbury’s name and title and lineage.”
“Dursbury? Ah.” Thea nodded wisely and shared a smile with Damaris. “He is jealous.”
“Of Dursbury?” Genevieve stared in such astonishment that the other two women burst out laughing. “No. That couldn’t be right. I told him I did not care for Dursbury. He knows I hold the man in contempt.”