Geoffrey sat back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest and wondering how in blazes this once-pleasant breakfast had deteriorated into a fraternal lecture on honor and duty. He’d grudgingly accept that part of his brother’s meddling was founded in genuine concern; a too-public love affair with Serena Carew would not exactly bring honor and glory to the family name, or to his own. It was, however, his decision alone to make—or, rather, his and Serena’s together.
“I don’t wish to discuss the matter further, Harry,” he said. “Speak to me of something else.”
But his brother wasn’t about to give up yet. “As far as I can see, you only have two choices before you,” he said. “Either you must quit Miss Carew’s company entirely, or make her an offer of marriage.”
“Enough, Harry,” Geoffrey said, his temper beginning to fray. “I told you. I do not wish to discuss the lady any further.”
“You’ve never done that before,” Gus said, marveling. “You’re defending her. How very gallant of you, Geoffrey.”
Harry snorted with disgust. “It’s not gallantry, Gus. Ruining a lady’s prospects never is.”
“I am following the lady’s wishes in the matter, with discretion and attention,” Geoffrey said sharply. He sensed that he and Harry were dangerously close to scuffling, the way they had years ago as boys, flailing away and rolling across the floor like mongrel dogs. “As I always do.”
Now Harry shoved his chair back from the table, his expression determined and ready for whatever Geoffrey might offer. “The only desire of a virtuous lady should be marriage.”
At once Geoffrey rose to his feet, his hands in fists at his sides.
“I pray I am misunderstanding you in regard to Miss Carew’s virtue, for I assure you there are no stains upon either her character or her honor,” he said. “As for marriage, the lady has made it clear that she has no interest in that article. If I were to ask for her hand, she would unequivocally refuse.”
“Hush, hush, you two!” Gus scolded sharply, clapping her hands twice to break the tension between the brothers. “Both of you should be ashamed, carrying on like this before the breakfast dishes are even cleared. Now sit down directly, and drink your coffee like gentlemen instead of snarling away like wild beasts.”
With great reluctance, Geoffrey slowly retook his chair, still staring warily at his brother. No one countered Gus in her house, not dogs, servants, children, or men, and when she expected peace beneath her roof, she received it. With the large silver coffeepot in her hand, she refilled first Harry’s cup and then Geoffrey’s, without spilling a drop. She dropped one precise spoonful of sugar and another of cream into her husband’s coffee, knowing exactly how he liked it, and added a small, coaxing smile as she handed him the steaming cup. To Geoffrey’s surprise, Harry smiled warmly in return, his animosity melting as swiftly as it had risen. Truly Gus had amazing powers.
But before Geoffrey could marvel too much, she turned toward him, and lightly rested her small hand on his arm.
“I beg you, Geoffrey, listen more to how Miss Carew speaks than her words alone,” she said, her round, freckled face solemn, even troubled. “Because she is young, she may say she has no interest in marriage, but in her heart she might believe quite the opposite. She could even be saying what she thinks you wish to hear to please you.”
Geoffrey smiled wryly. Gus being Gus, he’d expected her to say something sweetly sentimental like that. But Serena was a different kind of lady entirely, and she had indeed vowed that she’d never wed. He remembered that quite distinctly; it was the important linchpin to whatever happened next between them, and a salve to his own conscience as well. Still, he’d only to remember how she’d kissed him last night to know that she was that rare lady who put passion before propriety, and that it was clear enough they wanted the same things—or, in the case of marriage, didn’t want them.
“I believe Miss Carew knows her own heart, Gus,” he said with care, not wanting to hurt his sister-in-law’s feelings, “especially in such an important matter.”
“But that’s exactly what I’m saying, Geoffrey,” Gus said earnestly. “She may not know what she truly wants until it is offered to her. Love, devotion, friendship, the joy of children, and the pleasure to be found in a loving husband: what lady would ever reject such gifts?”
“Ah, here’s my little darling now!” Harry exclaimed eagerly, turning in his chair toward the opening door.
A nursemaid entered, carrying Lady Emily Fitzroy, the daughter of Gus and Harry. The baby was not a usual feature of their breakfasts, and uneasily Geoffrey hoped she wouldn’t be thrust into his arms. Parents were always doing that with babies, expecting him to share their besottedness over their damp and sticky progeny.
He guessed Lady Emily must be about a year old now—as a bachelor, he was a little hazy about infant ages—and to him she seemed like a small doll in her nurse’s arms, a wriggling confection of wispy blond hair, round cheeks, and a great deal of white linen ruffles and ribbons. The main thing he recalled about her birth was disappointment, felt from his father through every other member of their considerable family. Only a son, destined to take Geoffrey’s own place as heir to the dukedom and all its fortunes, would have truly been welcomed.
But there certainly wasn’t any disappointment in his brother’s eyes now.
“How’s my girl this morning?” Harry asked in the kind of foolish, crooning voice that most men reserved for addressing their dogs and horses. “How’s my little queen?”
The baby made a chortling gurgle and flailed her arms in Harry’s direction.
Harry beamed like a simpleton. “Did you hear that, Geoff? She said ‘Father,’ clear as day! Who’s my clever girl? Who’s my little Em?”
“How did she do with the porridge this morning, Betty?” Gus asked the nurse, more practical as usual.
“Oh, Lady Emily did wonderful fine, my lady,” Betty said, struggling to contain her squirming charge. “Ate every bit of it, neat as could be. But what she likes best is moving about, my lady. I vow she’ll be dancing before long.”
“Then put her down, Betty, so she might walk for my brother,” Harry said proudly, bending down with his arms outstretched in encouragement. “Watch this now, Geoff. She’s already walking like a little lady through Hyde Park. Here, Em, come to me.”
Carefully the nurse set the little girl down, holding her firmly by the leading-strings on the back of her gown to keep her upright. Lady Emily scowled with determination as she put one small red shoe unsteadily down after the other.
“Come along, Emily, come along,” Gus said, slipping from her chair to stand beside Harry. “Come to Mama and Father, sweetheart.”
Resolutely the little girl lurched and staggered stiff-legged across the floor, her plump hands held out for balance. It was the most ungainly process that Geoffrey had ever seen, yet he realized he was holding his breath along with Gus and Harry, willing the unsteady Lady Emily across those last few feet of patterned carpet. Finally she toppled into her father’s waiting hands with a squeal of delight. Harry swept her up in his arms, raising her high to make her laugh, then bringing her back down to cradle her in the crook of his arm. Gus leaned forward to kiss her daughter’s forehead, not minding at all that the little girl deposited a very wet kiss in return on her cheek.
“Did you see that, Geoffrey?” Harry asked, his grin wide and full of fatherly pride. “Wasn’t that something rare?”
What Geoffrey saw was rare indeed, and something he’d never expected to see: Harry standing before him in the morning sunshine with his daughter in his arms and his pregnant wife’s head against his shoulder, the three of them together a perfect picture of love and contentment. Clearly his brother didn’t regret for a moment his lost bachelorhood, and just as clearly he wasn’t living vicariously through Geoffrey, either. Instead Harry had found utter happiness beyond Geoffrey’s imagining.
Geoffrey didn’t exactly envy Harry, not with all the responsibilities o
f a wife and child, but he did catch himself wishing he’d a measure of this love and happiness that appeared to come with a family.
Fortunately, his brother had no idea what Geoffrey was thinking.
“Have you ever seen such spirit in a mite, Geoff?” he said, giving his daughter’s arm a fond little pat. “My sweet Emily won’t be denied in anything, once she sets her mind to it.”
“She’s a marvel, no doubt,” Geoffrey agreed. “Why, if your next child’s a boy, consider all he’ll be able to accomplish with that kind of determination.”
He’d intended it as a compliment, a joyful prediction for the future, but he couldn’t miss how Gus’s smile faded and her cheeks flushed, and how she placed her hand over her belly as if to protect her unborn child.
“It won’t matter if this one’s a girl or a boy,” she said, fiercely defensive. “We’ll love her or him the same as we love Emily.”
“Forgive me, Gus,” Geoffrey said, contrite. “I never meant to imply you wouldn’t.”
“Gus knows that,” Harry said, a bit too heartily. “Just as you know, sweetheart, that we might have a half-dozen daughters more, and I would not love any of them one whit less for not being boys.”
“Of course Geoffrey would approve of that,” Gus said, her voice strained. “If I bear nothing but daughters to you, then he’ll be the one who’ll claim the dukedom.”
“I’ve never wanted that,” Geoffrey said, aghast that she’d say such a thing. “Not ever.”
“Oh, what does it matter?” Gus said, her cheeks flushed and her eyes perilously red-rimmed. “You’ll make my poor daughter suffer anyway, burdened as she’ll be with a notorious, selfish uncle known for—for debauching young ladies like Miss Carew without the shred of a conscience!”
Lady Emily sensed the tension around her and began to whimper fretfully, wriggling against her father. That was enough for Gus, who didn’t wait for either Harry or Geoffrey to reply before she plucked the little girl from his arms and into hers, holding her closely to reassure her as she backed away from the two brothers.
“Excuse me, but I must take Lady Emily back to the nursery.” She studiously concentrated on her daughter to avoid meeting the gaze of either Harry or Geoffrey and hurried from the room, the nurse following close behind her.
The silence she left was painfully empty.
“Should I go after her, Harry?” Geoffrey asked after a moment, contrite and knowing he’d somehow erred badly, but mystified as to the details. “I can apologize again if that will help, or—”
“No, no, let her go.” Harry sighed, and dropped back into his chair. “It’s best to give her a short time alone to gather herself, and then I’ll find her and make things right. She didn’t believe any of that, you know. Not a word.”
“Are you certain?” Geoffrey asked uneasily. He’d no experience with pregnant ladies. He genuinely liked Gus, and he’d hate to have brought any harm to her or her unborn child, even if it was unintentional. “She seems quite, ah, distressed.”
“Most likely,” Harry said. “But you know how Gus usually is, Geoffrey. There’s not a speck of meanness to her. She’s very fond of you as well. That tirade isn’t like her, not at all, but this second child has made her so blasted sensitive. Every little thing upsets her now, and in the most irrational ways, too.”
“Then tell her I won’t upset her, either,” Geoffrey said, motioning for the footman to bring him his hat. There’d been a time when he and Harry had been thick as the proverbial thieves, with never a secret between them. Geoffrey had spent his entire life bucking against Father’s wishes, but Harry was different. Geoffrey would do anything for Harry. It was the reason he’d come rushing back from India when Harry had been hurt. His brother had meant that much to him.
But then Harry had married Gus, and everything changed. Harry’s first loyalty was now to his wife, not to his brother, and while Geoffrey knew that this was for the best, he was forever left behind, on the outside. Yet his loyalty to his brother remained, unable to be ignored, or forgotten, or rationalized away.
“Gus’s concerns are all easily remedied, of course,” Geoffrey continued. “Assure her that I will not be bringing any further shame or worry to her or the rest of the family on account of Miss Carew.”
“You will break with Miss Carew?” Harry asked, surprised.
“What did I just say?” Geoffrey was unable to keep a note of bitterness from creeping into his voice as he thought of Serena and remembered the wonder that had shone in her eyes after they’d kissed: pure magic. That was what his family wished him to abandon, what he was supposed to give up for their sake. The day as he’d planned it was already going to be complicated, and now this miserable breakfast had made it infinitely more so. “I would never wish to disgrace Gus, or you, or young Lady Emily, or even Miss Carew, by my notoriously selfish behavior.”
Harry winced. “I told you, Geoff, Gus didn’t mean that.”
“She must have meant it to a certain degree, or else she wouldn’t have bothered to say it.” Geoffrey took his hat from the footman, and settled it on his head with what he hoped was offhanded nonchalance. “I’ll cause no shame, no disgrace, to this family. I trust that will please everyone. Now go to your wife, Harry, and good day to you both.”
Widdicomb’s Circulating Library stood at Otway’s Head in King Street, Covent Garden, and like every other London establishment dependent on the taste and custom of ladies, it was tidy, commodious, and so easy to locate that even the wife of the most backwater country squire, up to town for the first time, would have no difficulty finding it. The Library was like honey to a certain kind of lady-bee, one for whom the latest gothic novel was the very nectar of life, and the two floors of tightly packed bookshelves were always abuzz with the gentle hum of these ladies indulging their pleasure and discussing it with their fellows.
Or so Geoffrey had heard. Like most gentlemen, he’d never ventured into the place himself, let alone pursued a lady into those hallowed, bookish halls of ten thousand volumes waiting to be borrowed. Today would be his first time, and as he strolled absently among the market stalls across the street, he flipped open his watch to check the time. Nearly three o’clock. The carriage with Serena and Lady Morley inside could appear before Widdicomb’s at any moment, and he meant to be ready.
It had been easy enough to determine their arrival. Geoffrey knew from his own aunts that older ladies tended to set their days to a precise schedule, and from what Serena had told him, he’d guessed Lady Morley would be much the same. He’d sent one of his maidservants to Widdicomb’s earlier in the day to make an inquiry, and she’d learned that yes, indeed, Lady Morley was in the habit of visiting every Thursday afternoon at three, when she would meet with several other bookish ladies of her acquaintance. The trick for Geoffrey would be to catch Serena alone among the bookshelves without her aunt.
Not quite: the real trick would be determining what he’d say to Serena when he found her. After the scene this morning at his brother’s house, he’d resolved not to see her again. He considered writing to tell her so, but after the disastrous business with the flowers, he was certain her grandfather would intercept any letter he might send. He could have called on her at home, and risked more of the wrath of her grandfather in person. He could have waited until their paths crossed once again at some other ball or musicale. Or he could have done what most men would, nothing, and let her figure out for herself why he’d chosen to vanish from her life.
Geoffrey, however, had more of a conscience than most men. He couldn’t bring himself to treat Serena like that; after all, none of this was her fault, and it didn’t seem fair to kiss her and then disappear. No, the honorable thing was to explain how it was impossible for them to continue to see each other, and how family trumped kismet.
The conversation would not be enjoyable. He expected she’d cry, though he rather hoped she wouldn’t.
He saw the carriage with the Carew arms on the door draw up before the Lib
rary. The footman hurried to unfold the carriage-step and help Lady Morley down, and after her came Serena, gliding effortlessly from the carriage to the pavement. She wore a white embroidered pelisse over a dark plum gown and white shoes with curving red heels, and as she moved, the ruffled edges of the pelisse floated around her like butterfly wings.
He frowned a little, unable to look away. Damnation, but she moved like a goddess with her head held high, lithe and effortless and full of seductive grace. Breaking off with her this afternoon might make him cry, too.
He waited until they entered the Library, then waited ten minutes more, hoping that would be sufficient for Lady Morley to find her friends and be distracted by them. Finally he crossed the street, striving to be as nonchalant as possible, and entered the Library.
“Good day, sir, good day,” said an older man standing behind the front counter, a speckled quill pen tucked behind his ear. “How may we serve you, sir?”
“I am on the hunt for a book,” Geoffrey said, the most obvious—and the most vague—answer possible. Not wanting to create a fuss, he had purposefully dressed plainly, as a gentleman but not a duke’s son, and he’d come by hansom cab rather than his own carriage.
The man smiled warmly. “Of course, sir, of course,” he said. “We have titles for every interest. History, plays, voyages and travels, chronicles of ancient wars, philosophy, and sermons.”
Geoffrey glanced around the Library as if considering this wealth of variety. While there were many ladies and a few gentlemen browsing the shelves, Serena and her aunt were not among them. That was good. He’d rather find Serena alone among the shelves than risk causing a scene before the front counter, and the sooner he could begin hunting for her, the better.
“I, ah, wasn’t looking for myself,” he said. He wouldn’t, of course; he didn’t borrow books at a circulating library, but bought and had them bound, the way any gentleman would. “I’m looking for something for my, ah, my aunt.”
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