by Regina Scott
The marquis offered her a bow. “Then I think perhaps I should take my leave for now. Your servant, Miss Allison.”
She nodded absently, chewing her lower lip. She had called the kiss instructive, and now she knew the words had been well chosen. It had given her much to think about. She simply wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do for answers.
Chapter Seventeen
Geoffrey strained to see over Enoch’s dark head as another carriage pulled up before the Manor.
“It isn’t them,” Enoch grumbled, taking a swig of the Scrumpy Henry Jarvis had contributed to the Guy Fawkes Day celebration. He grimaced as the hard Somerset cider must have burned a familiar path down his insides. “If you ask me, we’ve done all this work for nothing.”
“They’ll be here,” Geoffrey maintained. “Sister Genevieve promised.” He glanced across the bonfire, already sending flames over five feet high, to the terrace of the Manor, where his sister-in-law sat draped in furs to ward off the night chill. He knew the pile of furs in the high-backed chair next to hers was his mother. Beside them, Alan wrapped his great coat and muffler a little tighter about his throat. They’d have been warmer closer to the fire, but Alan was afraid of Gen getting too warm, and Gen wanted nothing to do with Enoch.
“You sure you want to do this?” Enoch probed, stomping his booted feet as if to work the blood down to them. “Might make yourself a powerful enemy.”
Geoffrey shook his head. “I don’t care what the marquis thinks of me. Allison is all that matters.”
“And you think this will win her?” Enoch’s voice was sarcastic, and Geoffrey glanced his way. The man’s blue eyes were sharp and bright over his open tweed greatcoat, and the light had nothing to do with the Scrumpy he been drinking.
“Sister Genevieve said Allison turned DeGuis down,” he told his mentor firmly. “But she has yet to announce it publicly. I haven’t seen him posting off for London in the last three days. And the one time I was allowed to call with Sister Genevieve, Allison barely spoke to me. It’s clear he still has some hold on her. I mean to break it.”
Enoch snorted. “And break your own neck in the process. Just tell the girl you love her and have done with it.”
“It isn’t enough that I tell her,” Geoffrey replied heatedly, shrugging out of his own great coat. “I have to show her.”
“By showing up the marquis?” Enoch took another swig of the cider. “I’ll say this again, boy, you’d do better to simply ride up on Samson and kidnap the girl for Gretna.”
Geoffrey made a face. “That’s what I’ve been wanting to do since this all started. This time, I do things my way.” He brightened. “Besides, my magnanimous sister-in-law suggested I act like a Pentercast.”
“I think she was thinking of your brother,” Enoch warned, “not your father. Too many people still remember the time he set fire to the fields before the hay was in.”
“I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” Geoffrey countered, fire still too warm for his tweed coat and trousers. “I learned my lesson last Christmas. My head is clear. There will be no fields burned, but I won’t make the same promise about other things.”
Enoch shook his head and muttered into his tankard of cider.
By the time the Munroes arrived, nearly the entire village of Wenwood had gathered around the bonfire at the back of the Manor. The multipaned windows of the three-story block of a house leapt with reflections of the glowing flames. A long trestle table had been set up on the terrace, and neighbors were helping themselves of the bounty each had brought to share. Scrumpy, whiskey, ale, and cider passed from hand to hand. Someone began singing the carol of Guy Fawkes and others took up the chorus:
“Please to remember
The fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot
I see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.”
Geoffrey looked up from the last words to find Allison eyeing him around the curve of the fire. She was wearing a dove grey fur-trimmed cloak, the hood thrown back to show flaxen curls framing her face as they escaped the bun behind her. In the light of the fire, her eyes shone a deep blue. Geoffrey raised his tankard to her in salute.
She leaned over to her mother and pointed to where her sister sat on the terrace. Her mother moved in that direction. The Marquis DeGuis stepped into the space Mrs. Munroe had vacated. Geoffrey’s smile faded as he hurried around the fire toward them.
Allison turned to the marquis and smiled. “I don’t remember celebrating Guy Fawkes Day in London when I lived there while Gen was going to finishing school. Do Londoners have bonfires such as this?”
“Not so near the houses,” he replied, taking a cautious sip of the tankard he had been handed. One swallow, and his eyes widened.
“Was I supposed to drink that, or fill the lamp with it?” he managed.
“Our cider has its own teeth,” Geoffrey replied joining them. Allison must not have seen him coming out of the darkness beside her, for she jumped. Geoffrey offered her a cup of the softer cider.
Allison took it gladly. “What a lovely fire, Geoffrey. You and the village lads must have been begging for coals all day.”
“I remember doing that when I was a lad,” the marquis mused. The insult was subtle, not unlike the man who had made it, but Geoffrey caught the innuendo. Allison did not.
“Then you did celebrate Guy Fawkes Day,” she said encouragingly. “What kinds of parties did you have?”
“Nothing of much interest that I can recall,” he replied. “On one of my estates in the north, however, they have a custom the eve of Guy Fawkes called mischief night. They play all kinds of pranks on their neighbors. I’m sure Mr. Pentercast would feel right at home.”
Another insult. Geoffrey turned away to hide his smile. If the man only knew how easy he was making Geoffrey feel about his plans.
Allison grinned, nudging him. “I wager you would like that, Geoffrey. Who are we burning tonight?”
Geoffrey started, frowning at her. But her smile was bright, and she gave no indication she had any idea what he was planning. “Napoleon, of course, moonling. Who else has been vile enough to warrant such treatment?”
He met the marquis’ gaze and smiled. The marquis’ eyes narrowed.
–
“Excellent choice,” Allison concurred, saluting him with her cup of cider. She took a sip, then lowered it, watching him. She must have been getting awfully good at these social games, for she was certain Geoffrey hadn’t noticed anything unusual about her. Once again, her heart was hammering against her rib cage, and she could barely hold the cup of cider without spilling it in her trembling. She had decided that tonight, she was going to ask Geoffrey to kiss her.
It was much easier than she thought to get him away from the bonfire. “Mother brought some of Annie’s pies for the feast,” she told Geoffrey. “Be a dear, Geoffrey, and go fetch them from the carriage.”
Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed, and she thought for a moment he would remind her that there were servants to take care of that sort of thing. Then he shrugged and went to do as she bid. She smiled pleasantly at the marquis, telling her rampaging heart to slow down, all the while watching to see when Geoffrey returned. When she made him out on the lantern-light terrace, she sighed and handed her cider to the surprised marquis.
“That man never can get anything right. He put them in with the hams of all things. No one will find them there. Excuse me, Thomas. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She met Geoffrey at the foot of the stairs and drew him into the pool of darkness at the back of the house. Even eight feet away the night closed in, bringing a feeling of privacy with it.
“Now what?” he growled.
She had rehearsed her speech this time. “Geoffrey, you have been asking me for some time to consider your suit. I am ready to do so.”
Geoffrey peered at her in the darkness. “Perhaps I’ve taken one too many sips of the
Scrumpy after all. I don’t understand.”
Allison took a deep breath. “I’ve heard that the only way to be certain one loves a gentleman is to kiss him. I tried it with the marquis.”
“What!” Geoffrey shouted.
“Hush!” Allison cried, grabbing his arm and dragging him farther away from the fire and the crowd. “Listen to me, if you please. I’m trying to tell you something important.”
“If you mean to tell me you’ve decided to marry him after all, you may save your breath,” he declared. “Truly, Allison, how could you? Was one kiss so powerful that you are ready to give yourself to the man?”
“No!” she declared. “His kiss was mediocre at best.”
Even in the darkness she could hear the change in his voice, and she wagered he was wearing an absurd grin. “Mediocre?”
“Don’t be smug,” she replied, wrinkling her nose. “It made me think, Geoffrey. Everyone says kisses are so important, yet his kiss made me feel nothing. I thought perhaps it simply meant I didn’t love him, but then I began to wonder.” She swallowed and lowered her voice, almost afraid to say the words aloud. “What if I’m like Mother, Geoffrey? What if I’ll never feel passionate about any man?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Geoffrey scoffed. “You’re one of the most spirited people I know, Allison. As I told you before, sometimes love comes quickly and other times it comes like a thief in the night. When you love someone, you’ll know it, in the kiss and in other ways as well.”
“How can you be so sure?” she countered, afraid to hope. “What if I react the same way to every kiss I ever have?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Geoffrey replied. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
Allison went rigid. She had been prepared to ask to be kissed, but not to have a kiss taken from her. But her frozen state quickly thawed as the warmth of his kiss invaded her senses. Like the man himself, Geoffrey’s kiss was brash, demanding, fiery. It called an answering heat from the center of her being throughout her entire body. She threw her arms around him and threw herself into the kiss, pressing herself against him, wrapping her arms about his powerful frame. Geoffrey crushed her to him, enveloped her in his arms, prolonging the kiss until she was breathless. Her knees weakened, and she heard the sound of a mighty explosion. The night brightened around her in gold and silver. She let go of him, stunned and opened her eyes.
There was another explosion as the second mortar went off. With a shower of sparks, the fireworks lit the night sky.
Geoffrey grinned at her in its light. “Well?”
“Oh, Geoffrey,” was all she could seem to get out.
His grin deepened, and he pulled her to him again.
When at last he released her, he kept her close and gazed down at her. She could see he was as shaken as she was. “Marry me, Allison,” he demanded, although his voice trembled.
“Oh, Geoffrey,” she said again, then unaccountably, she felt a giggle building. “It appears you’ve kissed me insensible.”
“At least you know you can enjoy a kiss,” he countered. “Now, answer the question. Will you marry me?”
Another firework went off, brightening the night with crimson and emerald. Around the fire someone began chanting. With cries of “Guy Fawkes,” and “Bring on the villain,” two chairs began wending their way through the crowd on the shoulders of the brawniest of the Wenwood men. From the safety of Geoffrey’s arms, Allison watched the procession. With the tri-corn hat and frogged coat, she was sure the first was Napoleon. The second could only be Guy Fawkes. But there was something familiar about the navy coat and fawn trousers, the shock of black hair someone had painted on the turnip head, the haughty expression, and the perfectly tied, pristine cravat.
Allison turned wide eyes to Geoffrey who had the audacity to grin. “Geoffrey Pentercast, you didn’t!”
“What?” he asked innocently.
Allison withdrew from his embrace, disappointment keen. “Geoffrey, you told everyone you’d changed. You promised! How could you be so cruel?”
“Cruel!” he yelped. “Who’s talking about cruel, Miss Keep-Every-Suitor-Dangling-As-Long-As-Possible? Do you think it’s kind to keep the marquis and me in suspense while you kiss us and push us away?”
“Oh!” Allison cried, stung. “You make it sound as if I were some kind of tease!”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“No!” She could feel tears coming to her eyes and turned away, furious at him for not understanding her dilemma. Unfortunately, turning her back on Geoffrey only gave her a better view of the mock-marquis, now burning merrily in effigy while the villagers sung odes to it. “Geoffrey Pentercast, you are impossible. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man alive!”
Chapter Eighteen
Geoffrey tried to apologize the next day. It was a half-hearted job, done mostly because Sister Genevieve threatened to send him back to Enoch’s to live permanently if he didn’t try. Allison refused to see him, Mrs. Munroe didn’t even bother sending a reply to his card, Chimes was nowhere to be found, and Perkins informed him haughtily that the Marquis DeGuis was making preparations to leave that day and could not be disturbed. It was just as well, Geoffrey thought as he turned toward home. He really had rather enjoyed the way the old fellow had gone up in flames. He couldn’t truthfully say he was sorry about that.
He didn’t even make it out of the Abbey clearing when he was pulled up short by a hail. Turning, he saw the Marquis DeGuis striding toward him. His first inclination was to put his hands on either side of his head and stick out his tongue at the fellow. However, as that would hardly endear him to his brother’s wife should she ever hear of it, he ignored the urge and waited for the man to meet him.
“Were you looking for me?” DeGuis asked when they were face to face.
Geoffrey nodded. “Yes. I came to apologize. It appears some felt my jest last night was in poor taste.” There, he had said it without actually debasing himself.
“Some people do not appreciate a sense of humor,” the marquis replied calmly. “No harm done.”
Geoffrey eyed him, noting the cool exterior, the reflective blue of his eyes. “You are too kind, my lord,” he managed truthfully.
“Are you by any chance walking back to the Manor?” DeGuis asked, surprising him.
Geoffrey nodded. “Yes, I’m returning home.”
“Might I walk with you? I’d like to take my leave from your brother and his wife. I’m returning to London today.”
What harm could it do? “Very well.”
They fell into step beside each other, moving along the footpath that cut through the woods and would allow them to reach the Manor in much less time than the long winding road.
“You knew I was leaving, I take it?” the marquis asked.
“Yes, Perkins mentioned it.”
“And I believe you know why.” He sighed. “Miss Munroe will not have me. An impressive young lady, that one. But then, I suppose I needn’t tell you that.”
“No,” Geoffrey replied, belligerence building despite himself. “You needn’t.”
As if he sensed Geoffrey’s mood, DeGuis was silent for a time. The dry fall leaves crackled beneath their boots. A bird called away in the wood. Closer at hand, something rustled in the undergrowth.
“You haven’t won, you know,” the marquis murmured.
Geoffrey swung on him, halting. “You needn’t tell me that either. In fact, you needn’t tell me anything at all. You tried to marry the only girl I’ve ever wanted, despite the fact that you knew I wanted her and that she didn’t want you. Don’t try to be friendly now.”
DeGuis sighed. “I’m sorry, Pentercast. This isn’t easy for me either. Do you think I relish losing? Do you think I offer for every lovely young lady who happens on the marriage mart? I loved her too, you know.”
“No.” Geoffrey frowned at him. “I didn’t know.”
He sighed again. “I haven’t your flair for exposing my feelings. Miss
Munroe embodies everything I desire in a wife.” He stopped himself, then laughed sarcastically. “Miss Munroe. After all this time, you’d think I’d have gotten to the point where I could call her Allison. You beat me there as well.”
“I’ve known Allison all her life,” Geoffrey replied, hating himself for pitying the fellow. “We grew up together. It would be a little odd for me to start calling her Miss Munroe now, although I did try when I was working to show you up.”
“Didn’t have to work very hard, did you?” the marquis scoffed self-derisively. “I’m a poor excuse for a lover. Do you know, the only time I kissed her she had to ask me to do it?”
“Good God, man,” Geoffrey exclaimed, “don’t you have any blood in those veins?”
“’if you prick us, do we not bleed?’” he quoted from the Bard. “Perhaps my blood isn’t quite as fiery as yours. My one consolation is that you’ll make her a horrid husband.”
“Watch it,” Geoffrey growled, “or peer or no peer, you’ll meet my fists.”
DeGuis shook his head. “That would serve little purpose now, don’t you think?”
“It might make me feel a great deal better,” Geoffrey replied, tempted beyond anything.
The marquis stopped again eyeing him. “You want to fight? I warn you, I was taught by Gentleman Jackson himself.”
“And I learned from three of Wenwood’s finest bullies.” Geoffrey peeled off his tweed coat and began rolling up the sleeves of his lawn shirt. “What do you say, my lord? A bare knuckles brawl, out here, where no one can see us.”
The marquis removed his own fine woolen coat and rolled up the sleeves of his silk shirt. “No one to witness your crushing defeat.”
“No one to impress,” Geoffrey countered, raising his fists.
“No one to stop us,” DeGuis agreed, raising his own.
They faced off on either side of the footpath, trees at their backs and leaves underfoot. The wood had gone silent. The marquis circled to the right. Geoffrey swung in, and his opponent deftly blocked it. Geoffrey pulled back, surprised by the strength of the move. DeGuis kept circling.