by Candace Camp
“N-not if you didn’t want me to,” the other man replied uncertainly.
“Oh, bloody hell!” Myles shoved him back down onto the bed. “Parker, release him. Langdon, get out of this city and don’t show your face here again. If I ever hear of you speaking a word about my wife, I swear I will hunt you down, and when I’m through with you, your own mother won’t recognize you. Do you understand?”
Langdon nodded mutely.
Myles swung back around and cast Genevieve a fulminating glance. “You and I are going to talk.” He wrapped his hand around her wrist and started from the room.
Genevieve went with him without protest. Myles handed her up into the carriage outside and settled down across from her, his face set in stone. Genevieve gazed back at him coolly.
“Are you planning to sulk all evening?” she asked after a few moments.
“I am not sulking. I am contemplating whether I dare leave you at home alone again. Blast it, Genevieve, haven’t you any sense?”
“No, I suppose I must not.” Genevieve’s tone was glacial. “If by having sense you mean never acting upon anything unless I have your consent.”
“Don’t. Don’t try to blame me for your willful disregard for your own safety. You went charging off without a word to anyone, going God knows where, by yourself, and then you act as if I am an ogre for wanting to protect you.”
“Charging off! I was hardly by myself. Mr. Parker, whom you hired, accompanied me. Mr. Langdon was manacled to the bed. It is still daylight, and we are in a respectable part of the city. Not to mention the fact that I sent you a message about where I was going.” Genevieve’s tone turned more acidic by the word. The carriage pulled up in front of their home, and she raised a sardonic eyebrow at Myles. “You may have noticed that we are scarcely any distance from our house. Am I supposed to wait for you to escort me everywhere?”
She opened the door and climbed down without waiting for his assistance. As they went up the stairs, she said coolly, as if anger were not churning around her insides, looking for a release, “You will remember that we have the Dumbarton soiree this evening.”
“Damn the soiree! Genevieve, we are not through with this discussion.”
“I am.” She sailed into her room, Myles on her heels. “Ah, Penelope, you have drawn a bath for me, I see. Excellent.”
Her maid bobbed her a curtsy. “Yes’m. Shall I add the hot water now?”
“Yes, do. I must hurry. I am a bit behind, I fear.”
Penelope left the room. Genevieve, ignoring Myles’s looming presence, crossed to her dresser and began to take out her earbobs. She glanced in the mirror at Myles. He was standing beside her bed, gazing down at the clothes her maid had laid out on the bed for Genevieve to wear tonight. Beside the pale pink dress lay her new undergarments. As she watched, Myles reached out and took the delicate, lace-edged chemise between his fingers, his face bemused.
Genevieve suppressed a smile. She could not begin to identify what she was feeling at the moment—irritation, amusement, excitement, anticipation, all welling up in her, clamoring for release. She began to remove the pins from her hair.
“What are you about, Genevieve?” Myles frowned at her. “These clothes . . .”
“Yes?” Genevieve put the hairpins in their box and turned inquiringly toward him, combing her fingers through her hair as she spoke. “What about my clothes?”
“They, um . . .” He pulled his gaze away from her, finishing lamely, “They’re different.”
“Yes. They are. I frequently buy new underclothes and nightgowns, Myles. Do you object to your wife’s expenditures?”
“What? No. You bought nightgowns as well?”
“Yes.” Genevieve opened a drawer and help up a delicate nightgown. Sleeveless and high-waisted in the style of current dresses, its bodice was made entirely of lace, gathered beneath her breasts with a satin sash, and falling into a skirt of sheer voile. “It is a mite extravagant, I admit, but I thought it a pretty confection.” Feigning not to notice Myles’s stunned expression, she folded up the garment and replaced it in the drawer.
“Is that all?” Myles’s words came out in a croak.
“No. I have others ordered. Ought I to have presented a list of my intended purchases so you could approve it?”
“No!” He cleared his throat, turning away. “Don’t be nonsensical.” His fingers strayed again to the gossamer-light chemise on the bed. “I am not a demanding husband.”
“I would not have thought so,” Genevieve retorted lightly. “I am no longer sure what to believe. Apparently you do not approve of my leaving the house on my own or purchasing new garments without telling you or”—her eyes flickered toward the bed—“how I perform my wifely duties.”
“Wifely duties! Good gad, Genny, you know I—” He broke off as Genevieve’s maid bustled into the room, carrying a kettle, followed by one of the other upstairs girls, similarly burdened.
He waited impatiently while Penelope poured the steaming water into the tub, then swirled her hand in it, testing the temperature.
“I know what, Myles?” Genevieve asked, lifting her hair and turning so that Penelope could unfasten her dress.
“Genevieve, stop.”
“Stop what?” Genevieve looked at him with clear, limpid eyes. “I must hurry or we shall be late for the party.”
He started to retort, then cast a frustrated glance at Penelope. “Oh, to hell with it!” He stalked out the door and down the hall to his room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Genevieve let out a giggle as she stepped out of her dress. She knew she should not have allowed this scene to play out in front of her maid. She and Myles had already given their servants a wealth of things to gossip about tonight. Oddly, she could not bring herself to care.
“That is all, Penelope. I’ll finish the rest.”
As the door closed behind the servant, Genevieve sat down to remove her stockings. She could hear Myles stomping about in his room, opening and closing drawers with excessive force, as well as one sound that she suspected was a boot being hurled across the room. She grinned as she peeled off one stocking and started on the other.
The connecting door into Myles’s room opened. “Genevieve, I—” Myles stopped, frozen in the doorway, his eyes going to Genevieve’s hands poised on her leg.
“Yes?” Genevieve looked at him with bland inquiry.
He was undressing, too, boots, jacket, waistcoat, and cravat gone, his shirt hanging outside his breeches. Genevieve continued with her task, hooking her thumbs under the top of her stocking and slowly traveling down her leg. She tossed the stocking aside and stood up, her eyes on Myles’s face as she grasped the bow tying the front of her chemise and slowly drew it open. Myles curled his hand around the edge of the door, his fingers digging into the wood.
With careful deliberation, she undressed, grasping the bottom of the chemise and pulling it off over her head. She continued to watch him, her eyes challenging, as she untied her petticoats and let them fall. She felt no embarrassment at her nakedness, only a fierce sensual pleasure as she watched desire settle on his features, softening his mouth and sharpening the hot hunger in his eyes. She stepped out of the last of her undergarments and sauntered over to the tub. Casually picking up the washrag on its edge, she stepped into the tub and sank down in it, leaning her head back against its rim as the warm water lapped around her body.
For a moment she thought he would not move, but then he shot across the floor, reaching down and pulling her up in one smooth motion. “I will not have it!”
His arms went around her, tight and hard as iron, and he buried his lips in hers. Genevieve melted into him, clinging, as his mouth plundered hers, turning her dizzy. Finally he broke their kiss and swooped her up in his arms to carry her into his room. Little gentleness was in his face as he laid Genevieve down and stretched out on the bed beside her. Bracing on his elbows, he took her face between his hands, and stared deeply into her eyes, his face fierce
.
“You will sleep in my bed. Do you hear me? You can keep that bloody room for your clothes or to bathe or to sulk in or to just shut everyone out; I don’t give a damn what you do with it. But at night you will be here, where you belong. In my bed.”
Genevieve’s lips curved up. “Yes, Myles.” She put her hands up to his face, in mirror image of him, and pulled him down to kiss her.
The breath left him in a low groan as their lips met. His mouth was hard and desperate, driven by weeks of frustration. Genevieve answered him with equal fervor. Passion, teased and repressed for too long, flamed in her, and she could not touch him or taste him enough. Her hands slid under his shirt, eager to caress his flesh. Myles’s skin was hot and smooth against her fingers, and she explored him eagerly, fingertips digging into his back as if she could meld their flesh together.
Delving downward, her hands were stymied by the waistband of his breeches, and she fumbled at the buttons. He reared up, straddling her, and ripped his shirt up and off over his head, throwing it away. Her hands went to his taut stomach, sliding over his skin. Now, looking at him, touching him, she was stunned by how much she had missed him, more than she had even realized. She came up to press her lips against his skin, softly rubbing her cheek against him.
“Myles,” she whispered as her arms slid around him, and she clung to him, trembling, as tears welled in her eyes and slid down her cheeks, dampening his chest as well as her face.
“Genevieve?” Concern touched his voice even as she felt him tighten and swell against her. He moved off her, peering into her face. “Are you crying? Did I hurt you? I did not mean—”
“No, no.” She smiled at him, blinking away her tears. “It’s nothing. It’s only—I feel so—oh, Myles! I don’t know what I feel. I just want you to hold me and hold me and don’t let go.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed him to her. “I want you,” she whispered, her hand going down to slide beneath his breeches. “I want to have you inside me.”
He made a low noise and shucked off his breeches. He pulled her beneath him, sliding between her legs, and she felt him probing at her flesh. Genevieve sucked in a ragged breath, moaning his name again, and moved her hips, seeking him. With infinite slowness, he sank into her, stretching and filling her, banishing the emptiness. She wrapped her legs around him as he began to move within her, stoking her passion with each long, hard thrust. Her fingers dug into his back as his movements quickened, turning faster and harder until she was panting with eagerness, yearning toward the satisfaction she knew waited just beyond.
He jerked against her, his muscles tightening, as he poured his seed into her. Genevieve cried out, pleasure exploding within her.
They lay locked together. He started to shift his weight from her, but Genevieve tightened her grip around him, and he remained. She wanted to feel the weight of him on her, bearing her down into the soft mattress. She wanted to feel his skin pressed against hers all the way up and down, to hear the ragged rasp of his breath in her ear, to feel the gallop of his heart against her chest. She thought of his words: In his bed. Where she belonged.
Genevieve let out a breathy laugh and pressed her lips to his neck. She was gratified to feel the leap of his movement inside her. “Already?” she murmured, and stroked her nails lightly over the muscled curve of his buttocks.
“Mm.” He kissed the point of her shoulder. “It seems I cannot get enough of you.” He kissed her on the lips, his kiss slow and tender, tasting and caressing where before he had seized. “It has been an age since I’ve been here.”
“A few weeks.” She chuckled again, walking her fingertips up his body, counting his ribs.
“That is an age when a man is starving.” He raised his head to smile down into her face. “Tortured. Tormented.”
Genevieve laughed. “Through your own doing. ’Twas you who began it.”
“Did I? I cannot remember why.”
“To make me bend to your will, I believe.”
His eyes widened. “No, Genny. Not that. Never that.”
“I cannot be other than I am, Myles,” Genevieve said a little desperately. “I know I am proud and”—she swallowed—“and somewhat cold.”
“Cold!” He grinned. “I never said that, surely.” He pressed his lips softly to the side of her neck.
“Yes, you did. I know you think it; everyone does. Do you think I don’t wish I were different? That I could please you and be as you like?” She put her hands on either side of his face, looking up earnestly at him. “But I am too much a Stafford. Look at my grandmother; in fifty years that is how I shall be. I will never be sweet and biddable; I cannot be just your wife. I shall always be Genevieve Stafford. And I fear that we will often be at war like this.”
“If all our battles turn out like this, I shall not mind a little war.” He smiled and gently kissed her lips. “Genevieve . . . I said a number of things that afternoon that I shouldn’t. I was angry. I did not mean them; I was . . . hurt. All I can do is ask your forgiveness. I don’t ask that you excise Genevieve Stafford from you; I merely want you to be Genevieve Stafford Thorwood.” He began to rain light kisses over her face. “I don’t want you to be a different person; I like you as you are. I like your will stiff and straight, exactly as it is.” He grinned, his hand gliding up between them to caress her breast. “Exactly as you make me.”
“Don’t be crude,” she said with mock severity.
“How can I not be? With you lying there so lovely.” He kissed her neck. “So luscious.” He kissed her collarbone. “So utterly, utterly naked.” He kissed the hollow of her throat. “Ah, sweet girl, can you not feel the effect you have on me?”
“Yes.” She grinned and reached up to comb her fingers through his hair, wriggling her hips to emphasize her words. “It’s a very intriguing sensation.”
His lips lingered on her throat, then moved downward. He took his time, loving her with long, soft kisses, arousing and tempting and pleasing her. It seemed to Genevieve that he explored every inch of her body, until she was almost writhing in anticipation, and only then did he begin to move within her. He was achingly, blissfully slow in this as well, building the heat in her with long, fluid strokes, until finally they came together in a powerful cataclysm of passion.
Later, as Genevieve lay snuggled against Myles’s side, both of them sated and drowsy, Myles said in a contemplative voice, “I fear we shall miss the Dumbarton soiree tonight.”
Genevieve laughed, stretching lazily. “That will be no loss, I suspect. But I do regret that my bath has gone quite cold.”
“I shall have the maid bring a kettle of hot water to warm it.”
“No! Myles! She will know!”
“You think she does not already?” He chuckled.
Genevieve groaned, burying her blushing face in his chest. “Oh, Myles . . . the servants will think us both lust-driven animals.”
“They will think us newlyweds, I imagine.” He kissed her hair. “And since they have been witness to our bad tempers till now, I suspect that they will be well pleased that we have come to an agreement.”
“I can’t imagine why it’s so important to you that I sleep in here,” Genevieve said, sitting up and stretching.
“Can’t you?” He ran a lazy finger down her spine. “ ’Twill be far warmer, come winter. And the company is pleasant on long, dark nights.”
She looked sardonically over her shoulder at him. “And that is your reason?”
“No.” He wound a strand of her hair around his forefinger. “Do you dislike it that much? The idea of being with me?”
A smile softened her face. “No.” She leaned down and kissed him gently on the lips. “I don’t dislike it at all.”
Twenty-three
Did you believe Langdon?” Myles asked as they sat in front of the fire two hours later. Genevieve’s bath had, unsurprisingly, turned out to take a good deal more time than it normally would since Myles decided to join her, and after that they had shared
their supper in his room, too hungry to care that the long delay had rendered it dry and somewhat tasteless.
“Yes.” Genevieve sat on his lap, her head resting on his shoulder. “He is a poor excuse for a man, but I think he was genuinely confused and surprised when I accused him of luring me into the library with a note.”
“I did not hear all his story since someone was too eager to wait for me to join her. But Langdon seemed willing to tell whatever story would deliver him from us.”
“True.” Genevieve sat up straighter to look into Myles’s face. “But if you think about it, could Langdon have had the intelligence to come up with such a scheme? He scarcely seems a bright sort.”
“True. And he was right in saying he was badly foxed that night. I have to admit I am inclined to believe him. Else I would not have let him go.” Myles paused, then added candidly, “Though, of course, my desire to get you alone and ring a peal over your head may have had something to do with it.”
“No doubt,” Genevieve agreed drily. She leaned forward and kissed his ear, nipping gently at his earlobe.
“Now, don’t distract me.” Myles snaked his hand beneath her dressing gown.
“Me distract you! I like that,” Genevieve exclaimed indignantly, her attitude undercut by laughter.
“Do you?” He nuzzled her neck, his hand wandering farther afield.
“Stop!” She swatted at his arm. “We are having a serious talk.”
“You began it,” he reminded her, but his hand stilled. “The very bizarre question this raises is, if it was not Langdon, who sent you that note?”
“Someone who dislikes me, that is clear enough.” Genevieve settled her head back on his shoulder.
“Or someone who wanted the result which occurred.”
“For you and me to marry?” Genevieve asked, puzzled.
Myles laughed. “No, my dear, though I must say, it is balm to my wounded pride that you consider that the important thing. I meant the result of you not marrying Dursbury.”
“Oh. Oh!” She sat up straight. “You are right. It was overly fortuitous that Dursbury and his friends walked into the library at that precise moment. Two notes to assure that Langdon and I would be in the library together at that time—and anyone who knows Langdon would guess the way he would act in that situation. Then all one would have to do is to maneuver Dursbury to the library.”