The Marrying Season

by Candace Camp

  Genevieve obediently sat beside her grandmother as Alec took his wife out onto the dance floor. “Oh, drat!” Lady Rawdon muttered. “Here she is again. I vow, she must have been watching for you.”

  Genevieve looked up and saw Lady Dursbury bearing down upon them, smiling, towing an obviously reluctant Miss Halford with her.

  “I cannot understand that woman’s obsession with you. I never saw any evidence of her peculiar affection for you when you were engaged to her stepson.”

  “Her obsession is on another, I suspect,” Genevieve said caustically as Elora smiled dazzlingly at Myles.

  “That neckline is perilously low,” the countess went on. “Though I have to admit the gold is lovely with her hair.”

  “Yes,” Genevieve agreed. Elora’s full breasts swelled above her gown, quivering with every step she took, drawing the eye of every man she passed. “She has excellent taste.”

  In both clothes and men.

  Elora swooped up, bending down to greet the seated countess. Genevieve noted cynically that she stayed in that position far longer than necessary, allowing Myles an excellent view down the front of her dress. Genevieve could not bring herself to look over to see whether he was taking advantage of the pose.

  “Dear Countess,” Elora was effusing. “You remember my ward and friend, Miss Halford, don’t you? Say hello to the countess, Iona.”

  The young woman made a creditable curtsy to Genevieve’s grandmother. With her mouse-brown hair and gray eyes, she was not the sort to ever draw the eye, but next to Elora’s colorful good looks, she faded almost into invisibility. Genevieve felt a pang of pity for the girl until Iona sent Genevieve a distinctly hostile glance.

  “And Lady Genevieve.” Elora sat down on the other side of Genevieve, edging herself into the space between Genevieve and Myles so that he had to move over to allow her to sit. “Everyone is making such a to-do over that article in The Onlooker. As if that scandal sheet were of any importance. When Lady Hoddington told me it said you had been running through the streets, I told her straight out that it was utter nonsense. Didn’t I, Iona?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Iona responded coolly.

  “I could not persuade her, of course.” Elora waved her hand as if casting that memory aside. “People will believe what they want to. So many seem to love to gloat over one’s mistakes. But it will pass, you needn’t worry, Genevieve.”

  “I am not worried,” Genevieve replied calmly.

  “I hope you were not bothered by the article, Sir Myles.” Elora looked up coquettishly at him.

  “I pay no attention to such things,” Myles said. “I have complete confidence in my wife’s character.”

  “How charming!” Elora clasped her hands together at her bosom, a movement that shoved her breasts together and up so that they seemed in imminent danger of spilling out. “That is so like you, sir. I vow, Genevieve, you are the envy of every lady in London.”

  “No doubt,” Genevieve responded drily.

  Elora went on, “I was so pleased when I saw you. I had been afraid you would let the rumors keep you away.”

  “Why would I? Like my husband, I pay no attention to the scandal sheets.”

  “You are so advanced in your thinking,” Elora marveled. “I fear most ladies do not possess your . . . courage.”

  “Is it cowardice to have a care for one’s good name?” Iona asked.

  “Iona, dear, be a love and fetch my wrap, would you?” Elora watched her companion leave, then turned back to Genevieve with a smile. “You must not mind Iona, dear. I fear the poor thing always had a bit of a tendre for Lord Dursbury, and of course her hopes were dashed when he proposed to you. Oh, dear.” Elora made a little shocked face, pressing her hand to her lips. “I should not speak of such things in front of Sir Myles.” She cast a sly glance up at Myles.

  When she got no response from that quarter, Lady Dursbury went on without missing a beat. She launched into how excellent the orchestra played and how much she loved to dance, sighing over Sir Myles’s skill as a dance partner and giving other such broad hints until at last Myles succumbed to the pressure and asked Elora to dance.

  “She is even worse than I remember,” Genevieve’s grandmother said. “I would have thought that was impossible.”

  “I suppose she felt she had to be more polite because I was engaged to her stepson,” Genevieve said, watching as Myles guided the attractive woman around the floor. His face was attentive, his smile charming, and Genevieve could not help but wonder if he looked any different when he danced with her. Did every woman who danced with him feel he gave her his undivided attention? Did his eyes light with warmth and laughter, his smile quirk up at whatever amusing thing she said? Worse, did he enjoy holding Elora in his arms more than he enjoyed Genevieve?

  A cold fist clutched her heart. She tried to look at them objectively. They made a lovely couple, Genevieve had to admit. And Elora would be a soft, desirable armful—all curves and admiring smiles. Myles had never seemed particularly interested in the woman, but Genevieve knew she was no expert in such matters. She had, after all, believed that Myles had desired her as much as she desired him, that he, too, had been swept away when they made love.

  But then it turned out that he found her cold, selfish, and proud.

  Genevieve turned to talk to her grandmother, ignoring the dancers. But when the music stopped, she could not keep from sneaking a glance back at the floor. Bright pain shot through her as she watched Myles walking with Lady Dursbury in the opposite direction.

  “Thank goodness,” her grandmother said in heartfelt relief. “Sir Myles has the good sense to escort that woman to some other spot than here. I think I would have had to leave if he brought her back to us.”

  Perhaps that really was what he was doing—making sure that Elora would not again intrude on Genevieve and her grandmother. Still, Genevieve could not help but wonder if his real reason had simply been that he preferred the other woman’s company to his wife’s. And though she did her best not to acknowledge it, relief rippled through her a few moments later when she saw Myles strolling back toward her.

  At the beginning of the next waltz, he took her out on the floor again. Genevieve protested, “Really, Myles, this isn’t necessary. We have already waltzed.”

  “It may surprise you to learn that I don’t dance with you out of necessity,” he retorted, taking her into his arms. “And I can waltz with you as often as I like now that I am your husband.” He looked down at her quizzically. “Do you not enjoy it?”

  “I always enjoy dancing.”

  “Ah, but do you enjoy dancing with me?”

  “Are you fishing for compliments? You know you are an excellent dancer.”

  “The question was not how well I danced, but whether you liked to dance with me.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Of course I do.”

  “Good.” His hand tightened on her waist, pulling her a little closer. “Because I like to dance with you.” He gazed down into her eyes warmly and intently. “I like holding you in my arms, warm and soft and yielding. Looking at you, so elegant and beautiful, knowing every man in the room envies me.”

  “Really, Myles . . .” She glanced around, as if someone in the whirling crowd might overhear his words.

  “I remember how it feels to remove your dress,” he went on, ignoring her protest. “Revealing you inch by inch. How sweet it is to untie your ribbons and peel off your stockings, anticipating the moment when you are finally naked before me.”

  “Myles!” Treacherous longing stirred in her. She was suddenly breathless and far warmer than she should be, and she suspected that her face was flaming. “This is hardly appropriate conversation for the dance floor.”

  “I know.” He grinned. “I like that, as well. And I love knowing exactly how you look beneath that dress. The white perfection of your skin, the dark rose of your nipples. Those long, luscious legs and the treasure that waits for me between them.” The heat in his eyes made her t
remble. “I think about the way you close your eyes in pleasure when I thrust into you, the little moan that you cannot quite hold back. The pink flush that blooms on your chest when you reach your peak.”

  If her face had not been red before, she was certain it was now, though she was not entirely sure whether it was from embarrassment or arousal. A sweet ache was deep within her, a hunger brought to pulsing life by his words.

  He leaned closer, murmuring, “And I also enjoying watching the blush that comes to your cheeks when I talk of making love to you.”

  No adequate response came to Genevieve’s mind. The only thought she had, it seemed, was a lustful desire to pull him into some secluded room and wrap herself around him. How could he talk this way? Look at her as if he hungered for her, when just the other afternoon he had stormed at her for her cold nature? She knew she could not trust his words. He was toying with her, using her desire to bring her to heel. The awful thing was, she was afraid he might succeed.

  They did not stay long after that, and as they rode home, Genevieve struggled to bring her wayward nerves back under control, a difficult task with Myles’s eyes on her the whole trip. She could not read his expression in the dim light of the hackney, but it wasn’t difficult to guess that he was thinking the same sort of thoughts he had expressed during the dance. She had an ache within her that could be eased only by him. Lowering as it was to admit, she felt an almost desperate yearning for his touch. His kiss. His powerful body surging within her.

  He took her hand to help her down from the carriage, and he kept it, lacing his fingers through hers as they walked up the steps into the house. When the footman opened the door, he let go of her hand, but only to slide his arm about her waist. It was inappropriate in front of the servants, but Genevieve made no protest. His hand was light against her side, drifting slowly upward as they climbed the stairs, until his fingers were almost touching the underside of her breast.

  Myles was talking about something, but she had no idea what. All she could think of was his hand hovering near her breast and whether he would move that last bit of space to touch her. When they reached her room, he walked in after her, and Genevieve’s heart hammered harder in her chest. It took her a moment to realize that her maid was not there waiting for her. She started toward the bellpull, but Myles took her wrist.

  “Never mind. I told Penelope not to wait up. I shall be your maid tonight.”

  She should have scolded him for his high-handedness, but she did not. She clasped her hands in front of her to hide their trembling as his hands went to her hair, carefully picking out her hairpins one by one until her hair fell around her shoulders. He wound his fingers through her hair, separating the strands and combing through it, massaging her scalp. Genevieve sighed in pleasure, relaxing beneath his ministrations.

  Next he went to the buttons down the back of her dress, undoing them slowly, and her dress sagged open, sliding downward. Myles grasped the sides and pulled it slowly down, letting it drop at her feet. He put his hand on her shoulders, gliding down her arms, and he bent to kiss the line of her collarbone. She could feel him, hard and urgent, behind her, and she moved a fraction backward, pressing against him. His hands flamed suddenly hotter on her skin, and his breath turned ragged.

  Genevieve smiled to herself. He did want her. The fire he stoked in her raged in him as well. He was going to make love to her again, and then these last few horrid days would be over. They could return to the way it had been. She relaxed against his hard body, anticipating his arms going around her, his mouth roaming over her shoulders and neck.

  His hands dropped away and he stepped back, and though his voice was a bit uneven, he said, “I believe you can manage from here.”

  Genevieve turned to him, too stunned to hide her response. “What?” She stared. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”

  He took her chin in his hand. “I want you to come to me. That is what I want. You. In my bed.”

  For an instant Genevieve could only stare, and then a saving anger rushed up through her. “Then go!” She drew herself up, flinging her arm out toward the door, her eyes blazing a blue fury and her voice drenched in scorn. “You think you can reduce me to begging? I will never be your slave. Your obedient, adoring wife. You were a fool to marry me, and I was an even greater one to agree to it. Get out of my room!”

  Heat flared in his face. “Gladly!”

  He whirled and strode out of the room, and Genevieve rushed over to the door behind him and slammed it shut with a resounding crash.

  Nineteen

  Genevieve saw Myles stop at her door, but she ignored him, as she had done her best to do the past few days. She had remained polite but cool ever since the night of Lady Hemphurst’s ball, answering his questions and responding to his conversational gambits, but she refused to rise to his remarks, no matter what the provocation, and she kept herself away from him as much as possible. She took breakfast in her room, not coming out until after he left, and in the evenings, she did not come down to supper until the last moment.

  The future, she knew, was impossible if they continued in this manner. But she refused to give in to him. She would not give up her very self. For the moment, in the midst of her anger and pain and loneliness, this was the best she could manage. It was not a marriage. Not even a life. But she could get through the day without bursting into tears.

  “I am going to meet Rawdon now,” Myles said, and she turned to look at him. He was wearing the expression she was growing accustomed to: his jaw set, his eyes murky, the carefree Myles grin missing.

  She had ruined his life, she thought, just as surely as she had ruined her own. Emotion clogged her voice, and she had to swallow hard before she could reply in a neutral voice, “Say hello to my brother. And to Lord Morecombe, too, of course.”

  “I will.” He paused. “I do not have to go, you know. I could accompany you to Mrs. Parminter’s gala, if you wish.” He frowned faintly. “Without your grandmother or Damaris there . . .”

  “No, I am fine by myself.” She turned away, casually lifting a bottle of lotion from her dresser and pouring a dab in her palm. Keeping her gaze on her hands as she rubbed in the lotion, she went on, “You have been planning to attend this fight for days. There is no reason for you to give it up to take me to a gala. I have been doing it for years. After all,” she added lightly, “it has been three days or more since Lady Looksby has put my name in a column.”

  “Very well.” He continued to stand there. “Genevieve . . .”

  She gave him a bright, remote smile. “Go on and enjoy yourself. I will do the same.”

  His mouth tightened. “No doubt.”

  And he was gone. Genevieve sank down on the stool in front of her vanity, resting her head on her hands. She would not cry. She would not. Penelope came into the room, and Genevieve quickly raised her head. “Ah, Penelope. I believe I shall wear the blue gown with the silver tissue wrap tonight.”

  Even with Penelope’s help, it seemed to take a long time to get dressed. But Genevieve had little desire to reach the party early. Whatever she had said to Myles, she dreaded entering the party alone. But, of course, she must become accustomed to that.

  As soon as Genevieve walked through the door of the Parminter house, she realized that something was wrong. The hall did not precisely fall into a hush when she entered, but there was a definite lessening of the hum of conversation, and she noticed that several heads turned her way. Mrs. Parminter’s smile as she greeted Genevieve was tight, though her husband, the colonel, cast a decidedly roguish glance in Genevieve’s direction.

  Whatever was the matter?

  Genevieve strolled across the wide entry hall into the assembly room beyond. Was it her imagination, or was the crowd actually parting before her, edging away as she approached? Her stomach suddenly felt as if she had swallowed a block of ice. With all the nonchalance she could muster, she glanced around, hoping to see someone she knew. Indeed, at this moment, she would have
welcomed the appearance of her grandmother’s friend Lady Hornbaugh.

  Heads swiveled toward her; she felt the avid heat of their eyes, but when she turned, the gazes slid hastily away. Heads were put together in hushed whispering, punctuated by curious glances in Genevieve’s direction. Genevieve caught the eye of Lady Carstairs, and Genevieve nodded to her. After a second of hesitation, the woman nodded back, though she immediately pivoted and began to talk to her neighbor.

  Something was dreadfully wrong. Genevieve had no idea what was being said, but it was obvious that many of the people here knew something she did not—and they were busily informing everyone else of their knowledge. She could feel a blush rising up her throat, and she cursed her fair skin for being so revealing. Genevieve strolled to the side door of the large room and stepped out into the broad hall.

  A number of people were scattered around the hall, and they behaved in the same peculiar fashion. Genevieve looked across the corridor into the room beyond. She would have liked to turn and run for the front door, but she could not play the coward. A Stafford never ran, she reminded herself as she strolled across the hallway and into the music room. She glanced around. The room seemed full of people, all staring and whispering, and she stopped, panic clutching at her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an empty chair. It was awkwardly placed, one of a pair from which the mate had been removed to another cluster of seats. Somewhat behind the piano, it was both isolated and too noisy for conversation, and that made it perfect for Genevieve.

  It was hard not to run to it, but she managed to keep her pace even. Sitting down, she placed her hands on her knees, her back straight, and her legs demurely crossed at the ankle. She would not hang her head, she thought, and lifted her chin. But she could not bring herself to look at anyone, so she fixed her gaze on a small statue sitting on a shelf straight across the room from her. Her mouth was like cotton, and her ears burned with shame. Why was everyone acting this way? Surely it could not be just because she did not have Myles or her family as a buffer tonight.