The Marrying Season

by Candace Camp

  Though only three stalls had been wrecked, all of the sellers apparently found it necessary to accompany them. They closed down their stands and carts and marched along behind the women as they walked back home. Genevieve thought it entirely humiliating, especially given her thoroughly disheveled appearance, and she regretted ever setting out on this mad chase. Still, she could not deny that it had been exhilarating while it lasted.

  The Morecombe house lay farther from them, and bringing Damaris to her own door like this was out of the question, so Genevieve took the ragtag band to Myles’s home. When she stopped in front of the house, the cart-keeper looked over at Genevieve suspiciously. “This is your ’ouse?”

  “Of course it is,” Genevieve snapped, pushing back a strand of hair that had come loose and kept falling into her face. Her hat had come off and wound up under a melon, beyond repair. “I did not walk here with you for the amusement of it.”

  At the man’s heavy knock on the front door, the footman opened it and goggled at the sight of them.

  “This swell mort says she lives ’ere,” the man beside Genevieve growled. The servant seemed to be able to do no more than stare at them, mouth open.

  “Oh, botheration!” Genevieve exclaimed. “Where is my husband?”

  “I—ah—in the study, ma’am,” the footman managed to stammer out and scurried down the hallway in front of them.

  Genevieve started after him, trying to pull her arm from her captor’s grasp, but he would have none of it. They straggled down the corridor behind the footman, the vendors gazing all around them with awe.

  “Lady Thorwood, sir, and, uh, her companions,” the footman announced in the door of the study, and quickly stepped back to allow Genevieve into the room.

  Myles was sitting at his desk, reading a letter, and he looked up in puzzlement at the servant’s announcement. His eyebrows shot up as Genevieve stepped into the room, all the others crowding in behind her.

  “My dear, what an unexpected surprise.” Myles rose from his seat. His eyes went to the man’s hand wrapped around Genevieve’s arm, and his expression turned to ice. “If you wish to retain use of your hand, I would suggest you release my wife’s arm.”

  The man’s hand dropped. “Sorry, sir. I had no way of knowin’. I wouldn’t ’ave thought she was any gentleman’s missus.”

  “Mm.” Myles’s gaze, brimming with laughter, ran down Genevieve. “One would not, I suppose.”

  Genevieve was acutely aware of her appearance. She was carrying her crushed hat. Her skirt had a tear, as well as a rather large red stain where she had fallen on a tomato. One of the cap sleeves of the dimity frock had been torn entirely off. Her hair was straggling down around her face, and she was fairly certain that her cheek was smudged with dirt. She looked, in short, disreputable, and she could hardly blame the street vendor for taking her for some sort of low person.

  The cart-keeper began to explain what had happened and wrongs done him, and Genevieve and her friends hotly protested. Myles, struggling not to laugh, quieted them all with a wave of his hand.

  “No, no,” he said, biting his lip, “there is no need to explain. I am sure we can all agree that some sort of peculiar misunderstanding has occurred here.” Myles opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a small leather bag of coins. “I assume there was some damage done to, um, your property?”

  It took only a few minutes of Myles’s charm, as well as a goodly portion of the coins, to send all the stall-keepers on their way. He turned to Thea and Damaris with great courtesy. “Ladies? Would you care to stay for tea?”

  Thea chuckled. “No, I should get home; Gabriel and I always try to have tea with Matthew.” She took off her spectacles, which had become smeared with dust, and began to clean them with her handkerchief.

  “I am terribly sorry,” Genevieve told her friends, her body rigid with humiliation. “I should not have pulled the two of you into my misadventure.”

  “Nonsense. Life has been rather dull lately,” Thea said brightly. “Though Gabriel will doubtless be sorry he missed out on the excitement.”

  “I know Alec will not take it that well.” Genevieve turned to Damaris. “I am sure he will want my head for this.”

  “He will be fine.” Damaris waved the matter away. Her lips curved up into a smile. “He’s very sweet when he fusses. It may make him come down in favor of our returning to Cleyre instead of staying here for a London doctor, which will suit me just fine. I rather miss the country.”

  Myles sent a footman to fetch a hackney for the ladies and handed them up into it with care and courtesy. Genevieve gave a last wave to her friends and walked back to the study, her stomach knotting. She turned as Myles stepped inside and closed the door behind them, bracing herself for his anger. Instead, he burst into laughter.

  “You’re laughing?” Genevieve asked. “Your wife has been running through the streets and knocking over vegetable carts and all you do is laugh?”

  “I’m sorry.” He did his best to rein in his amusement. “It was just—I had to keep it all inside when that chap was telling me how you’d—you’d leapt over the curbing and—and—” He dissolved into laughter again.

  “I might have known. I should not be surprised that you find your wife being dragged home like a common thief amusing.”

  “I beg your pardon.” He managed to still his laughter and pull his face into a more serious expression. “I am sure I am utterly frivolous. Would it be better if I scowled?” He demonstrated. “Should I play the stern husband?” He strolled toward her, his eyes suddenly bright and intent. He did not stop until he was only a few inches from her. “I should scold you, no doubt.” He laid his forefinger on her shoulder and traced it down over her shoulder and onto her bare arm.

  The touch of his skin upon hers made her shiver. Genevieve knew she should toss back a retort, but she found herself suddenly wordless. His eyes—so bright with promise, so knowing—held her still, made her nerves start to jangle.

  “I should probably tell you how naughty you have been.” His eyes followed the path of his finger as it came back to her shoulder and drifted down, skimming over her breast. “What sort of punishment do you think would be appropriate?” He bent and brushed his lips against her ear. “What would change you into an obedient wife?” He caught her earlobe between his teeth, worrying it gently. “What, I wonder, would turn you soft and willing?”

  He nuzzled her neck, his hand coming up to cup her breast. Genevieve felt the rush of heat in him as his lips moved over her skin, velvet and slow. The now-familiar ache blossomed between her legs, swelling and throbbing. It galled her that she should want him this much, that the merest touch of his hand or mouth could send lust flooding through her. He knew how she would react; he enjoyed seeing her respond to him, while he was obviously immune to her.

  Genevieve stiffened and stepped back from him. “I must change into something more appropriate. Pray excuse me.”

  His eyes flared with heat. “I could help you with that. As you know, I make an excellent ladies’ maid.”

  His words brought back to her their time in the cottage by the waterfall, when Myles would button up the back of her dress—and half the time let the frock tumble to the floor as his hands strayed to her body instead. The memory choked her, and Genevieve could not answer. She could only turn and flee the room.

  “Genevieve!” Startled, Genevieve glanced up to see her grandmother striding into the drawing room, her blue eyes blazing, Bouldin trailing along ineffectually after her. Waiting only until the butler had left the room, the countess shook the rolled-up paper in her hand at Genevieve. “Whatever in the world possessed you?”

  “Grandmother?” Genevieve looked at her blankly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play the innocent with me, my girl. I’ve known you since you first drew breath. You think I didn’t notice that little row between my grandson and his wife two days ago? I knew they were hiding something from me. And now it’s al
l over the scandal sheets.” The countess slapped the newspaper down on the table beside Genevieve’s chair.

  “Oh, dear.” Wrapped in her own private misery the past few days, Genevieve had almost forgotten the chase after the maid. She looked down at the newssheet, carefully folded back to show the Lady Looksby column.

  “Yes, I should say, ‘Oh, dear.’ ” Her grandmother began to recite Lady Looksby’s gossip, “ ‘What bride was seen dashing through the streets of the East End on Monday? It seems Sir M. cannot control his new wife’s headstrong behavior.’ Whom do you suppose she is talking about?” Lady Rawdon finished acidly.

  “I can’t imagine how she could know!” Genevieve shot back.

  “How do these people know anything?” The countess threw up her hands. “They pay for information. Servants, cartmen, those hawking their wares on the streets. They’re all happy to make a few pennies for a juicy bit of information like this. How could you, Genevieve? Have you no sense?”

  “I didn’t set out to go running through the streets,” Genevieve said defensively. “I just went to talk to her, and she ran from us.”

  “You did not have to give chase, did you? Who was she, anyway? Who could you possibly visit in the East End?”

  “It was a maid who served at Lady Morecombe’s party.”

  Her grandmother stared. “Why on earth would you want to talk to her?”

  “Because of the note from Mr. Langdon. I told you about it, Grandmama.”

  “Yes, I know, but what did you hope to achieve by talking to this girl? The scandal is old news.”

  “You say that, but The Onlooker began to snipe at me as soon as we returned—and all I did was go to the theater with my family!”

  “Yes, but without fuel, it would be short-lived. All you had to do was be circumspect. Why can you not let it die?”

  “It matters to me. I want to find out if Langdon did indeed give me the note. Perhaps she knows more about him, such as where he is.”

  “You can’t possibly mean to find him! Genevieve!”

  “Yes, I do mean that. I want to know for sure that it was he. I want to know why he did it.”

  “I think it’s quite obvious why he did it,” Lady Rawdon retorted scathingly. “Men like him have only one thing on their mind, and it is not anything a lady would care to hear. You are behaving most unlike yourself, Genevieve. A Stafford should set an example. And given the present situation, you must be especially careful.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong. It’s scarcely a crime to run down a street. Why should I have to be so careful all the time? None of those things are important; none of them change who I am.”

  “Genevieve!” Her grandmother stared at her, shocked. “You cannot be serious. Really, I am beginning to think Damaris and Lady Morecombe are not good influences on you. You should spend less time with them. In fact, it might be best if you returned to the Thorwood estate for a while. You should rest; I can see that you are not feeling yourself.”

  “I am feeling very much myself!” Genevieve’s eyes flashed. “In fact, I am feeling more myself than I ever have.”

  “Dear, that’s absurd.”

  “I don’t care. I can be absurd if I want to.”

  Her grandmother looked at her for a long moment. “Well. I am not sure how I am to answer that.” She stood up. “I shall take my leave of you.”

  “Oh, Grandmama, I am sorry.” Genevieve rose, too, and went to the older woman, taking her hand. “I should not be short with you. I am on edge. Sometimes it all seems so . . . so constricting.”

  “All what, Genevieve?”

  “I don’t know. The parties and calls, the way everyone stares and whispers.” She could hardly tell her grandmother the real reason her nerves were so frazzled these days was because her husband seemed intent on teasing and tempting her until she was driven mad by lust. “Lady Hemphurst’s ball is tonight, and we are bound to see Lady Dursbury there. I wish I had not agreed to go.”

  “She is dreadful.” Lady Rawdon was happy to seize on a mutual dislike. “But one must learn to ignore her sort.”

  “She spent the entire intermission the other night flirting with Myles.”

  “Pffft!” The countess waved away this trifling concern. “Myles has far better taste than to take up with Lady Dursbury.”

  “Yes, I know.” Genevieve did not point out that the countess’s statement was not exactly reassuring, leaving open the possibility that Myles could be lured by someone else.

  “Perhaps you should stay home this evening.”

  Genevieve considered spending the whole evening alone with Myles, engaged in their contest of wills, and she sighed. “No, I must go. Otherwise I will seem to be hiding because of that tidbit in that scandal sheet.” She shook her head and forced herself to smile brightly. “But enough of such nonsense. Sit down and take tea with me. It seems an age since you and I have had a chance to talk.”

  Genevieve was seated in front of her dressing table, Penelope putting the finishing touches to her hair, when she heard Myles’s steps upon the stairs. She turned toward the door, unconsciously tightening the sash of her dressing gown. But, no, that would look as if she were waiting for him, she realized, so she turned back to her mirror. Myles stopped in the doorway, and Genevieve turned to him with a practiced casualness. She hoped her expression hid her dancing nerves. Once she had known exactly how to act in every situation; nowadays it seemed to her that she was always uncertain, especially with Myles.

  He smiled and came into the room. Penelope bobbed a curtsy and left—though not, Genevieve noticed, without a curious glance back. Her maid knew, of course, of the cold chasm between Genevieve and her husband. One could not keep such things from one’s servants.

  Penelope was well aware that when she came into Genevieve’s bedroom each morning, Genevieve lay in her bed alone. Penelope would have heard the gossip in the servants’ dining room of the awkward conversations between the Thorwoods each night at supper or the way Myles had for a time rushed out of the house each morning to avoid breakfasting with his wife. Did they talk, too, of the more recent days, when Myles had taken up flirting and teasing her? Had they seen the shockingly intimate manner in which he sometimes stroked her arm or shoulder or the way he would look at her while they talked, his gaze a heated caress?

  “You look lovely tonight, my dear,” Myles said now, strolling over to stand behind her. Putting his hand on her shoulder, he met her eyes in the mirror. His mouth softened and his eyes darkened as he moved his hand across her shoulder and slid it ever so slowly down, edging under the lapel of her dressing gown. His skin was hot against hers, awakening each nerve as he glided over her. He held her gaze in the mirror as his fingertips curved over the soft top of her breast, and he smiled faintly, as if he knew how she was suddenly damp and throbbing, swelling in a fevered hunger for his touch.

  Genevieve popped to her feet, turning away from him. “I can hardly look anything. I haven’t even dressed yet.”

  His chuckle was low and breathy. “I noticed.”

  Genevieve’s cheeks colored. “Oh, Myles, do go away. I have to get ready for the party.”

  “Whatever you say, my dear.” His eyes danced as he bent to plant a soft kiss on her forehead. “I must get ready as well.”

  He brushed another kiss on her lips. Suddenly his mouth returned, seeking and hot, his hands digging into her shoulders. Genevieve melted into him, letting the sweet taste of his lips overtake her, pulling her into that honeyed, shadowy world where nothing existed but him and the thrum of desire. He kissed her until she was trembling, desire pulsing deep inside her.

  Myles lifted his head, gazing down into her face, his eyes dark and hungry. For an instant, they hung there, poised on the razor’s edge of desire. Then he tore his gaze away and stepped back and said hoarsely, “I had best go change or we shall be late.”

  He strode out of the room, and Genevieve sank back onto her chair, her knees too weak for her to stand.

  T
he Hemphursts’ home was ablaze with lights as Genevieve and Myles stepped down from their carriage. Genevieve’s breath hitched a little as they started forward. It had never been easy for her to walk into a room full of people, but it had lately become an ordeal. Her marriage might not be smooth, but she was grateful to have Myles by her side, as he had been each time they went out. It was easier to brave the curious stares with his arm firm beneath her hand.

  She was not surprised to find the whispers and stares more plentiful tonight. No doubt most of them had read about her scandalous run through the streets of the city the other day, and even if they had not, someone who had read it would have spread the word to them. It was too delicious a bit of gossip to pass up.

  Genevieve kept her head high as they greeted their hostess, then made their way across the room, pausing now and then to chat so they would not appear to be doing exactly what they were: escaping to the dance floor. They moved out onto the floor as the strains of a waltz started, and Genevieve relaxed in the familiar circle of Myles’s arms. She smiled, recalling exactly why she had always loved to dance with him. The strain between them vanished as they swept around the room, and when the dance ended, Genevieve scarcely noticed the whispers that followed them as they made their way through the crowd to where Genevieve’s grandmother and Damaris sat, Alec standing like a watchdog beside his wife.

  Damaris popped up to greet them warmly, though Alec frowned pointedly at Genevieve.

  “Damaris. Alec.” Genevieve nodded hello and launched into her rehearsed speech. “I apologize for my thoughtless behavior the other day. I should have thought before I pulled Damaris into such a venture.”

  Damaris immediately began to protest, and even Alec relaxed into a smile. “No doubt, but if I know my wife, it was more likely she who pulled you into the venture, not the other way around.”

  “Actually, I think we should put all the blame on Thea, as she is not here to contradict us,” Damaris said, grinning.

  “You are all three very naughty young women,” their grandmother said, settling the matter. “But there is no irreparable harm. Now sit down, Genevieve, I am tired of craning my neck to speak to you.”