by Candace Camp
Elora made a strangled noise. “Sir Myles.”
“Good afternoon,” Myles replied, strolling over to stand by Genevieve. “Genevieve, love, I was afraid for a moment that we had lost the rest of you. It is a terrible crush, isn’t it?” He looked toward Lady Dursbury and her party. “I see a great number of people had the same idea as we did today.”
“Yes, quite right,” one of the other men said. “Devilish crowded.” He glanced around him. “Have to be sure to leave before dark, of course, not the thing for the ladies then.”
“Well, if you will excuse us,” Sir Myles began, looping an arm around Nell and starting to move away.
“No, not just yet,” Genevieve said. “I have something to say to Lady Dursbury.”
“You do?” Myles cast a wary glance at his wife.
“Yes. I do.” She stepped forward, her pale blue eyes intent on the other woman’s face. “I know what mischief you have been up to, Elora. I know what you thought to do today to me, not caring what might happen to an innocent young girl. And I know you arranged for that scene in the library so you could keep Dursbury from marrying me.”
“Genevieve! Whatever are you saying?” Lady Dursbury’s lower lip trembled artfully.
“I am saying that you are a conniving, wicked wretch of a woman. I don’t care that you managed to break my engagement; it was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I thank God every day that I am married to the best man in this city and not your hidebound prig of a stepson!”
Genevieve heard a stifled laugh from Elora’s group, and behind her a little grunt of surprise from Myles, but she ignored them both. She was in full sail now, and she was not about to stop until she was done with Lady Dursbury.
“But you tried to cast a taint on my reputation, which touches on my husband’s name as well, by spreading vicious lies about me to The Onlooker. And I will not stand for that. Nor am I the only one you have harmed. You have had Miss Halford spied on for years. And you have fed that scandal sheet on-dits about the members of the ton for months.”
Iona gasped, and one of the men exclaimed, “I say!”
“I am also aware why you tried to ruin my reputation. You wanted me out of the way so you could have a clear path to Sir Myles. You wanted to have an affair with him. Admittedly, one can hardly blame you for that desire. However, I can and I do blame you for all the despicable things you have done in pursuit of him.”
“As if I would need tricks to take him from you!” Elora spat back, her face contorted with fury. “He may be under your spell now. But you won’t have him for long. He will soon tire of a cold fish like you. He’ll want someone warm, someone who knows how to treat a man.”
“He won’t want you,” Genevieve said bluntly. “You could never give him what I can: I love Myles. And that is something you are incapable of. Let me make it clear to you, Elora.” Genevieve stalked forward, her finger stabbing the air in front of her. “You will never have my husband. No matter what you do or how much you scheme or how hard you try to blacken my name. I will not go running off to the country to lick my wounds and leave you in possession of the field. Myles is mine!” She stopped inches away from Lady Dursbury, looming over her, her eyes shooting pale fire. “And you know what they say about Staffords, don’t you? We never give up what is ours.”
For a long moment, the two women stared at each other, silence reverberating in the air.
Then Gabriel said, “Good gad, Thea will be furious she missed this.”
Myles began to laugh, and Nell and his mother joined in, and even Amelia’s eyes were dancing with amusement. Elora let out a strangled cry and leapt at Genevieve, her fingers raking out like claws at Genevieve’s face. Genevieve flung up her left arm, deflecting the attack, and her right fist lashed out, hitting the other woman squarely on the cheek.
Elora stumbled back with a shriek, clutching at her face, and one of the men in her party caught her, and the others formed a circle around her, hustling her away. For a moment, Iona stood gazing after Lady Dursbury and the others. She looked at Genevieve, then gave her a slight nod and hurried after her group.
“A flush hit,” Myles remarked, grinning, as he came up and curled his arm around Genevieve. “Now you have defeated all the Dursburys.”
Genevieve grimaced at him. “You needn’t look so pleased with yourself.”
“How can I not?” He laughed and turned toward the others. “As we are already here, shall we look around a bit?”
The others readily agreed, and Lord Morecombe offered his arm to Lady Julia. They set off, with Genevieve and Myles lagging behind the rest.
“Well, my dear, that was interesting entertainment you provided,” he said, taking her hand and raising it to his lips, then tucking it into his arm.
“I may have gotten a bit carried away,” Genevieve admitted somewhat shamefacedly. “Did I embarrass you?”
He laughed. “How could I be embarrassed by that defense? I shall not have to worry about fending off unwanted advances now.” He was silent for a moment, then said, his voice lower and suddenly serious, “Did you mean it?”
“Of course.” Genevieve glanced at him.
“I mean, the part where you said you loved me.”
Genevieve was surprised to see the faint look of trepidation in his eyes. “Yes,” she said quietly, and glanced away, her stomach fluttering. “You needn’t worry; I shan’t make a cake of myself. I know you married me because of your sense of honor and duty. Because of your loyalty to my brother.”
“Genevieve.” Myles stopped and turned her to face him. “I did not marry you because of Alec. And I certainly did not do it because I’m a gentleman. I did it because . . . when I looked at you, I knew I would do anything to take that sad look from your face. A man doesn’t do that out of pity or loyalty or anything else. I love you, Genevieve. I think I have deep down for years. Why else would I have kept hanging about? Why else would I have put up with that damn cat?”
Laughter gurgled up out of her throat. “Myles . . . be serious.”
“I have never been more serious.” He took her hands in his. “I hated it every time you talked about us not being tied to each other. I couldn’t bear it that you didn’t want me in your bed every night. Why do you think I waged that damned silly war with you? I wanted—so badly—to have you choose me. To believe that it wasn’t merely desperation that brought you to marry me. I wanted you to tell me that you didn’t want some cold, loveless marriage of convenience any more than I did. I wanted to know . . . that you loved me.”
“I do. Oh, Myles, I do love you. And I have never been more grateful for anything than I am for that awful debacle at the Morecombes’ party. Because without it, I wouldn’t have you.” She wound her arms around his neck, gazing up at him.
“You’d best have a care,” he warned her, smiling. “Everyone is looking at us.”
“Then let’s give them something to see.” Genevieve stretched up on tiptoe and kissed him.
Loved THE MARRYING SEASON?
Read on for a sneak peek at the first two books in the enchanting Legend of St. Dwynwen series
A WINTER SCANDAL
and
A SUMMER SEDUCTION
by New York Times bestselling author Candace Camp
Now available from Pocket Books
A Winter Scandal
Well?” Mrs. Cliffe demanded. “What’s happened? Did Lord Morecombe come? Don’t just sit there, girl. Stand up and see what’s going on.”
Thea was happy to oblige. She popped to her feet, but too many people were between her and the door to see anything. All of the guests were shifting toward the front of the room, their faces turned toward the door.
“I think he must be here,” Thea told her companion. “But I cannot see.”
The elder Mrs. Cliffe grimaced and brought her cane down with an irritated thump. “Never mind. She’ll bring him over to introduce him to me—Maribel won’t be able to resist tweaking my nose with it. Sit down, a
nd we’ll pretend we didn’t even notice. Always better to look like you don’t care, I say.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Thea retook her seat. She wondered what it said about her that she found herself in sympathy with this crotchety old woman.
“Tell me about this silly live Nativity that Maribel says you’re planning for Christmas Eve.”
“I think it will be quite affecting, ma’am. St. Thomas Church in Holstead-on-Leach did it last year, and I believe it was very successful.”
“Quite chilly, I’d say,” Mrs. Cliffe snorted. “Hope you know what you’re in for, letting my granddaughter play Mary. Course, you had no choice there. Maribel would have hounded you to your deathbed if her eldest weren’t chosen.”
Thea decided it was probably better not to comment on that. Instead, she launched into a description of their efforts to mount the production, knowing that the mishaps that occurred at each rehearsal would arouse Mrs. Cliffe’s prickly sense of humor. As Thea talked, she kept an eye on the room in front of her. The guests, after the initial movement forward, began to part down the middle like water before the prow of a ship, and before long Thea could see the younger Mrs. Cliffe moving slowly through the room beside a tall, dark-haired man. Two other men were with him, but Thea noticed only the one to whom Mrs. Cliffe clung.
His hair was thick and black, swept back from a sculpted face. His brows were as black as his hair, sharp slashes over large, intense dark eyes. He was, as gossip had rumored him, sinfully handsome, and his black jacket and breeches were elegantly tailored to fit his muscular frame. His pristine white neckcloth was tied simply and held in place by a sapphire stickpin; he wore no other adornment save a gold signet ring on his right hand. Tall and broad-shouldered, he walked with the confident stride of one who was accustomed to being the center of attention.
Gabriel Morecombe. Thea’s heart thudded so hard she feared it might leap right out of her chest. The blood seemed to rush from her extremities to her center, leaving her face pale. She tried frantically to pull her thoughts together, to have a smooth, polite greeting ready. The group moved slowly, Mrs. Cliffe stopping to introduce her prize to each guest. Beside Thea, Mrs. Cliffe’s mother-in-law rumbled with a low laugh.
“Wants him to get a long look at all four of the girls—and Meg’s just sixteen. Poor little sparrows; she’s got their heads stuffed full of nonsense about catching a peacock.”
Lord Morecombe looked, Thea thought, rather glassy-eyed. No doubt he was stunned by the succession of simpering Cliffe daughters—not to mention every other halfway marriageable female in the room. The thought made Thea chuckle, and it eased her nerves a bit. But then Mrs. Cliffe pivoted and led him toward where Thea sat, the other two men trailing along behind.
“Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Robert Cliffe, my husband’s mother. Mother Cliffe, this is my honored guest, Lord Morecombe. And his friends, Sir Myles Thorwood and Mr. Alan Carmichael.” Thea noticed that her cousin Ian had apparently not joined the group.
Gabriel stepped forward and executed a formal bow to the old lady. “My pleasure, madam, though surely you must have married very young indeed to be the Squire’s mother.”
Mrs. Cliffe let out a short crack of laughter. “Ah, you’re a smooth-talking devil as well as a handsome one.”
“Mother!” The young Mrs. Cliffe’s face flooded with color. She rushed on, “And this is another of our lovely young ladies, Miss Bainbridge.”
Thea rose on somewhat shaky legs. “My lord.”
Lord Morecombe turned to her, his eyes moving over her without interest. “Miss Dandridge.” He sketched a polite bow before moving on with Mrs. Cliffe.
Morecombe’s two companions bowed to her in turn, greeting her by the same name. Thea nodded to them instinctively, not really hearing them, aware of nothing but the hard, cold knot forming in her chest.
Gabriel Morecombe had not remembered her.
A Summer Seduction
Mrs. Howard!”
Damaris whirled and looked back, her heart sinking. It was Lord Rawdon. She could not ignore him, but talking to him was the last thing she wanted right now. She tried to summon up a smile.
“Lord Rawdon.”
“Are you leaving? Is aught amiss?” He frowned as he came toward her. He wore no hat, having obviously left in a hurry. “I saw you go out the door, and I . . . was concerned. I hope no one upset you.”
She wondered if he had witnessed the scene between her and Lady Sedbury. Damaris brightened her smile. “No, indeed. It is a lovely party, and I appreciate so much your inviting me. It was most rude of me not to bid you good-bye. But I have a headache, you see, and I—”
He shook his head. “There is no need to explain. I am sorry that you are not feeling well. I shall give your good-byes to Genevieve and Lady Rawdon. You must not worry about that.” He came another step closer and looked down into her face. “I can see that you are . . . not feeling yourself.” He reached up to trace the line that had formed between her eyes.
Damaris felt the muscles in her forehead relax. She had not even realized that she was frowning. His gentle gesture made her feel foolishly like bursting into tears. She looked down, swallowing the impulse. “Thank you. You are very kind.”
“Let me see you home.” He took her arm, turning her back around and moving down the walkway alongside her.
“It really isn’t necessary . . .”
“Nonsense. I brought you here; I will escort you back.”
Damaris gave in and tucked her hand into his arm. The truth was, it was easier not to think of the scene with Lady Sedbury now that Rawdon was with her. He tended to crowd out all thoughts of anything besides himself.
“I spoke the truth, did I not?” he asked, and when she looked at him quizzically, he added, “About the men lining up to sign your dance card.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “Yes. I would almost think that you urged them to it.”
“Hardly. I am not known for my generosity.”
“Come, now. I believe you are the same man who went out into a snowstorm last Christmas to hunt for Matthew.”
He made a half shrug. “It was a matter of a child. Somewhat different from giving up my advantage where you are concerned.”
“Your advantage?” Damaris could not resist a saucy smile up at him.
“I already know you. That is an advantage, is it not?”
“And now so do they.”
He grinned. “Ah, but I know in which village you live.”
She laughed. “True. Yet somehow I doubt that you—or any of them—will trek out to Chesley to call on me.”
“ ’Tis most unfair of you to say so. I was just there.”
“To see your godson,” she reminded him. “On your way to London.”
“One trip can have multiple delights.”
Damaris chuckled. “Very well, sir, you have bested me.”
Rawdon raised his hand as they reached the cross street, and a hackney pulled over beside them. Rawdon helped Damaris step up into it, but when she turned to take her leave of him, she saw that he was climbing into the vehicle after her.
“But what are you—”
“I told you I could not let you leave unescorted. I shall see you to your house.”
“No, that is too much trouble,” Damaris protested, but the driver had already set the carriage in motion.
“Nonsense. ’Twill be only a short walk home, I’m sure.”
“Yes, but you are neglecting your other guests.” When he shrugged, she said, “Your sister and grandmother surely will not be happy about that.”
“I have already stayed at the thing longer than I normally do,” he told her lightly. “I am sure they will be well pleased with that.”
He seemed to realize that his words had revealed perhaps more than he would have liked, for he glanced away, looking out the window. Damaris was content to sit in silence and study Rawdon’s profile. She remembered that her friend Thea had expressed surprise when Damaris had once descr
ibed Lord Rawdon as a handsome man. He was not, of course, the very pattern card of male attractiveness that Gabriel Morecombe was. Lord Rawdon was unusual, with his soaring cheekbones and pale, shaggy hair and those striking blue eyes. Damaris was sure that there were women who found Rawdon more fierce than good-looking, cold rather than ardent.
But Damaris was all too familiar with smooth, handsome men who spoke easily of passion and devotion. Weak men like her father. Scoundrels like Barrett Howard. Those who promised love one day and slipped away the next, leaving one with only sorrow to hold. Damaris was drawn to the strength in Alec’s face, the steady resolve beneath his cool exterior. He was the sort of man you could not forget once you’d met him.
Apparently feeling her gaze, Rawdon turned to look at her, and he smiled. And when that rare event happened, Damaris thought, his face was more compelling than that of any man she had ever known.
He escorted her to her front door, as he had promised, and surprised her by following her inside.
“There is no footman here to open the door?”
Damaris turned an amused gaze up at him. “Not all of us are earls, my lord. I took the servants with the house when I let it. There are not many, and I saw no sense in anyone staying up to answer the door. My maid is doubtless waiting for me in my chamber.” She stopped, a blush creeping into her cheeks. Somehow, with Rawdon’s gaze upon her, it was embarrassing even to allude to the nightly ritual of changing into her bedclothes.
His eyes darkened, his mouth subtly softening, and Damaris knew he was thinking of the same thing. His reaction stirred a new sensation inside her, something entirely different from embarrassment. She could not help but think now of what it would be like to have his hands, not her maid’s, on the fastenings down her back, of his fingers slipping beneath the opened sides of the gown and pushing them apart, gliding over her bare skin, brushing the lace of her chemise. Just imagining the touch of his fingers, her skin was suddenly alive with anticipation. Heat curled deep in her abdomen. She could not help but wonder what the reality of his touch would be like.