The Marrying Season

by Candace Camp

  “Yes, but that was Thea. Genevieve’s not at all like that.”

  Gabriel arched an eyebrow. “Not stubborn? Not independent? Not capable?”

  “Well, no, of course she’s all those, but she’s different from Thea.”

  “Naturally. However, I’d guess if you thought about it, you might realize they are far more alike than you’d think. And I would also guess that Genevieve is no more biddable or self-effacing than my wife.”

  “Lord, no,” Myles agreed, struck.

  “I don’t think you would like it if someone had harmed you and then getting your satisfaction from him was taken out of your hands.”

  “Of course not. But this is Genevieve; she doesn’t step outside the boundaries.”

  “No? Then why did she go to the library when she thought you needed her?”

  Myles stared at him for a long moment. “No. It’s not like that. You make it sound as if she—no. She does not have feelings for me. She married me for the sake of her reputation. She and I are both aware of that; there is no need to sugarcoat it or pretend.”

  “Mm. No doubt that is why the two of you are so angry with each other.” Gabriel paused. “That night, after you proposed to her, when you came to see Thea and me, you said you were worried that Genevieve might truly be the cold woman people supposed her. That she might not be capable of feeling. Is that what you have learned about her? Does she have no heart?”

  “No, I am sure Genevieve has a heart. And one that is easily bruised, moreover. What I fear is that I cannot win it.”

  “You?” Gabriel looked at him skeptically. “The man who always knows what to say? And how to say it? Think, Myles. You may have made a mull of it now, but who could better find his way out of that?”

  Myles looked at Gabriel for a long moment, then smiled suddenly, his eyes lighting up. “You are right. If there is one thing I can do, it is coax a woman into something she has no intention of doing.” With a nod to Gabriel, Myles stood up and strode out of the club.

  When Genevieve walked into the dining room for breakfast, she was brought up short by the sight of Sir Myles sitting at the table. She had become accustomed to his being gone in the mornings, and she had not braced herself to see him. He looked up and smiled at her in so much the same way as he had done in the past that she was momentarily startled into smiling back.

  “My dear. How lovely you look.” He stood up and pulled out the chair on his left, and for the first time Genevieve noticed that her place setting was not at the end where it was wont to be but at right angles to Myles’s place at the head of the table. “I told Bouldin to put you here beside me. It seems most absurd for us to sit shouting down the table at one another when there is no one but us.”

  She could do or say nothing without looking most peculiar in front of the servants, so Genevieve took the chair he offered. Myles pushed her chair in, then turned away, his hand gliding softly across her shoulder. Her eyes flew to his, but he seemed not to notice, merely sitting down and taking a sip of his tea.

  “What plans do you have in mind for today?” Myles asked pleasantly. “Perhaps shopping with your grandmother?”

  “I—I’m not sure. I hadn’t really thought.” Flustered, Genevieve picked up the cup of tea the butler had poured for her. “I mean, I intended to call on Thea later.”

  “Again? The two of you are becoming quite friendly.”

  “Yes. I suppose so.”

  Her hand was resting on the table beside her teacup, and Myles reached out, lightly stroking his fingertip down the line of her fingers. “I was thinking of going to Tattersall’s.”

  “Indeed?” Genevieve struggled to concentrate, intensely aware of the feel of his skin on hers. A low, steady heat began to build deep within her. She shifted away, pulling her hand away and putting it back in her lap.

  What was the matter with Myles? He was acting as if everything were all right between them, as if their quarrel had never happened. He glanced over at her and smiled, his eyes darkening in that familiar way, and desire coiled inside her in response.

  He continued to talk, straying from the subject of a new set of grays for the town carriage to the suggestion that she have the hassock in his study replaced to a discussion of which invitation they should accept for the following evening. Genevieve picked at her food as she struggled to answer. She found it difficult to concentrate on anything, for he kept reaching out to touch her arm or brush a curl back from her face or leaning over to offer a spoonful of his blueberries and cream.

  “Do you ever think of our cottage?” he asked.

  “What?” Genevieve glanced at him, her pulse picking up.

  He smiled, his eyes a dark, rich gold, the color of honey, and a certain softness to his lips tugged at her viscerally. “I would like to go there when we return to the manor.”

  “You would?” She sounded like an idiot, she realized, but she was having difficulty pulling her thoughts back from the images his words had brought flooding back to her.

  “Yes.” He leaned forward, taking her wrist lightly in his hand, his fingertips stroking, slow and feather light, up and down the tender skin inside her arm. “I enjoyed it. The pool. The waterfall. Teaching you to swim.”

  Genevieve swallowed, unable to look away from his gaze, thinking of his hands on her skin. His lips. His firm, naked flesh against hers.

  “You enjoyed it too, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “I, ah, of course. I mean, ’twas most . . . pleasant.”

  His grin was slow and meaningful. “I remember.”

  “I . . . uh . . .” Genevieve shoved her chair back suddenly and stood up. “The time.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the clock. “I should get going. I must get dressed to go to Thea’s.”

  “I was unaware you were not dressed.” He cast a look down the length of her and back up.

  “No. Of course I am. But, um, I should change. Into something more appropriate. Pray excuse me.” Genevieve turned and rushed out of the room, pelting up the stairs to the safety of her own bedchamber.

  Once there, she paced about the room, wondering if she had gone mad or if Myles had. He had not touched her in days, had not looked at her in that scorching way. He had called her cold and selfish and—and—well, she could not at the moment remember what, but all of it had been bad. Clearly he had wanted as little to do with her as possible, avoiding her on every occasion he could, spending their brief time together in short, impersonal chatter. And now here he was acting just as he had at the cottage.

  Genevieve stopped and took a deep breath, willing herself to regain some semblance of calm. Whatever had prompted Myles to act this way, she was certain it was merely a performance. His contempt for her the other afternoon had been clear. She must rid her mind of Myles’s behavior and get on with her day, instead of jittering about up here like a madwoman. With a sigh, she sent for Penelope. After what she’d said to him, now she would have to change into a different dress.

  Her maid gave her an odd look when Genevieve told her she had decided to change into one of her other day dresses, but Penelope helped Genevieve change into another of sprig muslin with sunny yellow ribbons for decoration.

  “Just let me get a yellow ribbon for your hair,” Penelope said, and left the room. Genevieve sat down at her vanity to dab on her perfume.

  At a sound at the door, Genevieve turned. Myles stood in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame. “You are an equally enchanting picture in that dress, as well.” He strolled into the room, and Genevieve rose to face him. Grasping her gently by the shoulders, he bent and pressed his lips to the crook of her neck. “Mm. You smell delicious.”

  He straightened, his hands sliding down to her hips, and smiled down into her eyes. Genevieve’s heart slammed in her chest. He was going to kiss her. Then this whole awful quarrel would be over. He would unbutton her dress and pull her into bed. Myles leaned closer, and her eyes fluttered closed. She felt him press his lips against her forehead.r />
  “Have a pleasant day, my dear,” he said.

  Her eyes flew open as he straightened and walked away from her. Genevieve stared after him in astonishment. Then she finally realized what Myles had been playing at today. Her husband was seducing her.

  When he accused her of coldness, she had tried to save face by telling him she did not need him in her bed. Now Myles intended to make her admit that she did. He wanted to show her how much she craved his touch, how easily he could control her. Hurt and fury flooded her. She would never have believed that Myles could be so unkind, that he could want to bring her low like this, to humiliate her. Coolly, calculatingly, he had set out to use her lust for him against her, to bring her to heel like an obedient little pet, no longer Genevieve, but only Myles’s wife.

  Well, let him try. Genevieve set her jaw. She might be embarrassingly eager for his touch, but she was stronger than her desire. Myles would soon find that he could not bend her to his will.

  Damaris and Thea were waiting for Genevieve when she arrived at Thea’s home, and Thea triumphantly handed her a list of the employees sent by the agency to the Morecombe ball.

  “This one is blond, according to the housekeeper.” Thea pointed to one of the names.

  “Then it isn’t she. I am certain she was a brunette.”

  “These two no one could remember, and the butler was quite definite that the woman named Joanie was graying, because he had asked them to send only young women and he was most put out with them.”

  “The girl who gave it to me was young.” Genevieve pointed to the remaining names. “So it was one of these two.”

  “Are we going to track them down?” Damaris asked.

  “Of course.” Thea’s gray eyes were sparkling. “I am sure that our coachman would dig in his heels at driving us to such an address, but we shall go for a stroll and catch a hack a couple of streets over.”

  “I feel sure we should not go to either of these areas,” Genevieve hedged, frowning. “Alec will flay me alive if anything happens to you, Damaris.”

  “But how is he to know?” Damaris grinned. “I certainly won’t tell him. I am tired of being treated as if I’m made of glass.”

  “He is afraid of losing you.”

  “I know. And I don’t argue with him . . . much. But I should really hate to pass up an adventure.”

  “What can happen?” Thea pointed out. “There are three of us, after all, and I shall take my parasol.” She lifted her parasol from the stand and brandished it like a sword.

  “You are right.” Genevieve laughed, feeling lighter and more carefree than she had since she returned to London. “Let’s go find her.”

  The three women strolled out of the house and down the street, and as soon as they turned the corner, Damaris hailed the first hackney that approached. The first address yielded no information, as no one was home when they knocked, and, hopes somewhat dimmed, they set out for the second one. As they drove deeper into the East End, the houses became more ramshackle, and the lane they sought turned out to be little more than a walkway. The carriage rolled to a stop, and the women got out, looking dubiously down the lane.

  “ ’Ere now,” the driver said, jumping down and holding out his hand. “Yer not goin’ ’fore I get me coin.”

  “Very well, but you wait for us,” Thea told him firmly, but she dug into her reticule and handed the man the fare, with a tip above that to encourage him to do as she bid.

  As there were no house numbers, it took some time and a few inquiries to determine the right building. They climbed two flights of narrow stairs and knocked at the door. A young woman answered and stared at them in amazement.

  “You served at a party at Lord Morecombe’s house a few weeks ago.” Genevieve had recognized the girl as soon as she saw her. She checked the paper in her hand. “Your name is Hattie Withers?”

  “I did.” The girl eyed Genevieve warily.

  “You gave me a note.”

  “I didn’t.” The girl stepped back, but Genevieve followed her, bracing herself against the door so the girl could not close it on them.

  “Yes, I think you did.”

  “I don’t know nothin’,” the girl said in a surly voice.

  “We mean you no harm,” Thea told her, but the girl, her eyes on Genevieve’s face, did not seem reassured.

  “Who gave you the note? That is all I want to know. I shall be happy to pa—” Before Genevieve finished her sentence, the girl lunged forward, shoved Genevieve roughly aside, and darted out the door.

  Genevieve tore out after her, with the other two women on her heels. When Genevieve reached the street, she could see Hattie turning the corner at the far end of the lane. She ran after her, not looking back to see if her friends followed. She could hear them running behind her, though she was outstripping them. Turning onto the street the girl had taken, she slowed down, looking around her. She saw a flash of blue skirt as the girl ducked into another lane, and Genevieve took off again. She cast a look back toward her friends before she turned up the narrow street after the maid. Thea and Damaris were doggedly following her.

  It occurred to her that this was not perhaps the best thing for Damaris. Genevieve should stop. With a sigh, she came to a halt as Hattie swung left onto the street ahead, and Genevieve walked back to meet her friends.

  “Did she get away?” Thea asked.

  “Yes.” Genevieve looked at her sister-in-law. “Are you all right? I think maybe you shouldn’t be running.”

  “I’m fine.” Damaris grimaced. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I fear we have lost her, anyway.” The three of them started back the way they had come.

  “Clearly she must know something that would get her in trouble,” Genevieve mused. “Or else she wouldn’t have run.”

  “She could have just been frightened by us appearing at her door. She probably thought she would get blamed for something,” Damaris pointed out. “Any girl in her position would be anxious, I think.”

  “I suppose so,” Thea agreed.

  “But I told her I would pay her,” Genevieve protested. “It seems to me that she must have been very frightened to have run from that offer.”

  “She might not have believed you,” Damaris said. “Oh, blast!” She stared down the street ahead of them.

  “What?” The others followed her gaze.

  “The hackney!” Thea exclaimed. “He’s gone.”

  They hurried to the end of the narrow lane. The hackney was nowhere in sight. Looking around her, Genevieve knew a touch of anxiety. The houses loomed on either side of the narrow street, dark and unkempt. It was not a good place for three women in their finery to be walking. Still, there was nothing for it but to go forward.

  “This is the direction we came from,” Genevieve said. “If we go back, we’re bound to come upon a larger street where we can find another hackney.”

  They started out, ignoring the looks that were sent their way, though Genevieve noticed that Thea took a firm grip on the handle of her furled parasol. Genevieve wished she had something more substantial than a reticule in her own hand. Behind them, she heard a call and a laugh, but she did not look around. A larger street lay ahead, and there would be stores and people there, and, hopefully, a vehicle they could hire.

  But as they turned onto the street, the first thing Genevieve saw was Hattie Withers walking quickly toward them, glancing back over her shoulder. Genevieve started forward, and at that moment the other woman glanced up and saw her. An almost comical expression of dismay came over her features, and she whirled around, taking off in the opposite direction. Genevieve gave chase.

  Ahead of them the street ran at an angle into another one, spreading out into a market. Stalls full of flowers and fruits and vegetables lined the street on either side. A girl with a pushcart of apples stood gaping at the women running toward her. Hattie grabbed her cart and yanked it around, tilting it over and sending the apples rolling into Genevieve’s path. Genevieve dodged
around them, felt something catch at her skirt, and heard it rip. She paid no attention, but ran forward.

  Hattie had vanished, but Genevieve caught a flash of something out of the corner of her eye and turned to see the woman disappearing down a narrow alleyway. She changed her course sharply and caught the edge of one of the stalls. Flailing for balance, she grabbed one post of the stall, and it broke in her hand. The shade above the stall fell, and the woman beside it shrieked and grabbed at Genevieve.

  “ ’Ere! Wot do you think you’re doin’?” Genevieve’s sleeve tore off in her hand.

  As Genevieve lurched away, Thea tried to make the turn as well and skidded, falling into Genevieve and sending her sprawling forward. She crashed into the stall-keeper, and the woman reeled backward, knocking the stand—nothing but a small table stacked with fruits—into the stand beside it. All of them went down, women, stands, baskets, fruits, and awning, ending up in a tangled heap.

  Eighteen

  By the time Genevieve and Thea picked themselves up from the ground, with the help of Damaris, who, luckily, had not fallen, they were surrounded by the vendors of the produce stalls. The women had offered the angry group all the coins in their reticules, but the sellers had declared it not enough. One stocky man in particular, regarding them with angry suspicion, declared that they were nothing but light-skirts out on a lark.

  “No lady would be actin’ this way, chasin’ about, knockin’ over decent folks’ stands,” he told Genevieve darkly.

  Genevieve had a strong desire to slap him, but she held herself in check, saying, “I am Lady Thorwood, and I will pay you the rest of it as soon as I return home.”

  The man laughed. “And I’m the Prince of Wales, I am.”

  “You have my word,” Genevieve said in her frostiest tones and lifted her chin, gazing contemptuously down her nose at him.

  Her manner seemed to convince the man to some extent, for he scowled and said, “Aye, well, we’ll see about that. “ He clamped his hand around Genevieve’s arm. “Let’s go there right now.”