by Lara Temple
Howich opened the door and Lady Westford entered, surveying the room.
‘Where is Genevieve?’ she demanded of Mary, not even bothering to acknowledge Kit’s presence.
‘Gone with Emily to Hatchards, Mama.’
‘Huh...’ Her gaze weighed Mary like a wolf eyeing a doe. ‘Wasting my money again, eh?’
‘Mine, Grandmother,’ Kit corrected, drawing her fire, but she merely shrugged.
‘Should have gone yourself, Mary. I need a word with Genevieve.’
‘Perhaps I could help?’ Mary asked.
Lady Westford gave a snort. ‘Not likely. None of you have an ounce of her sense. Charlie should have married her instead of that golden sheep with no hips, then everything would have been a sight better all around. It’s not looks we need; it’s brains.’
They both watched as she limped out, and then Kit went to close the door behind her, resisting the urge to slam it.
‘It’s amazing none of you has shoved her down the stairs yet. She’s the three witches all rolled into one and dipped in vinegar. And don’t offer more excuses for her, Mary, or I might lose my temper.’
Mary kept her eyes on her embroidery, but her fingers shook. He took a deep breath and went to sit beside her.
‘I’m sorry, Mary... I don’t know why I’m being such an ass. Coming back here always brings out the worst in me. It’s like being shoved back into the skin of a twelve-year-old. But that’s no reason to make you miserable.’
‘You aren’t,’ she said, not very convincingly. ‘And I do understand it is hard for you. They truly were always horribly beastly to you. But I wish you could make your peace with her...with us. Keeping away is no solution. You need to come home—now more than ever.’
‘It isn’t my home, Mary.’
‘It could be if you wished it.’
‘Therein lies your answer. I wonder what the devil she’s up to.’
‘Who? Your grandmama?’
‘She and the little field marshal.’
‘Field mar...? Oh, you mean Genny? She probably wants her for something to do with the housekeeping. She’s very hard on housekeepers, and both she and Mrs Pritchard find it easier to use Genny as intermediary. Mr Fletcher, the steward at the Hall, does so as well. It is easier that way.’
‘I have no doubt. Clever how Miss Maitland has made herself indispensable...’ His temper was beginning to climb, so he changed tack. ‘Why hasn’t Serena married again? She is still a handsome woman; she must have admirers.’
Mary’s mouth twisted a little. ‘You forget—we had not yet come out of mourning for Charlie when Lord Westford died. Besides, admirers aren’t suitors. A widow burdened with debt, who has shown she cannot carry a child to term, is not in high demand, no matter how pretty.’
Nor was a woman of thirty-seven who had had but one daughter in a dozen years of marriage.
Those words remained unsaid, but they sounded loud and clear.
‘Well, it doesn’t help that you have both been immured at the Hall for the past year and a half. Now you are in London for the next few weeks it might be different. Men are not all cut from the same cloth.’
Mary frowned. ‘That was what Genny was hoping.’
‘She was hoping to find a husband?’
‘Not for her. For Serena. And for me. She doesn’t wish for either of us to remain with your grandmother alone.’
‘Why not for herself? Because of Julian?’
‘Julian?’
‘Is she holding a candle for him? There is definitely something between them.’
‘It is true they have been good friends from the start, but I do not think it is any more than that. I certainly don’t think Julian wishes to wed her—or anyone, for that matter. He only offered for her because he hoped his maternal aunt would grant him a legacy if he were betrothed, but in the end Marcus inherited it all. Poor Julian was quite put out. Your grandfather always said he was shockingly expensive, and I happen to know he has borrowed funds from Marcus. If he did marry it would most likely be for a dowry, but Genny hasn’t a penny, you see...’
No, he didn’t see. Since the moment he’d become entangled in the workings of this strange female-driven household he’d felt as if he was sailing through a fog and far too close to the reefs.
He hated that feeling.
Mary turned her head, listening, and he heard the murmur of voices in the hall.
‘Speak of the devil...’ he muttered.
Mary cast him an imploring look. ‘Please don’t cross swords with her again in front of Emily.’
‘Again?’
‘The two of you were so viciously polite to each other at the theatre after the intermission it was evident to all that you had had words. Emily spoke of it when she prepared for bed last night. She was very upset that two people she loves were at loggerheads.’
‘We merely disagreed about the merits of the play.’
‘Huh.’ Mary gave an uncharacteristically indelicate snort.
He stood, moving restlessly towards the fireplace. ‘You may enjoy being herded. I don’t.’
‘She isn’t trying to herd you, Kit.’
‘Well, I don’t like her herding you, either.’
‘I see. Only you are permitted to do that, then?’
‘I don’t... That is different,’ he bit out, annoyed at the truth behind her words.
Before he could continue, the door opened and Emily hurried in, followed by Genny.
‘Kit! We’ve had the most marvellous morning. I think we have cleared all the shelves at Hatchards and I have bought you the loveliest illustrated edition of Swift’s Travels. Would you believe the clerk tried to dissuade me? He said it was not at all the thing for a young woman to read, but Genny soon routed him—didn’t you, Genny? And in the sweetest possible way, so that the poor fellow was quite smitten and spent the next half-hour carrying around our purchases like a little lamb.’
Kit raised an eyebrow, throwing Mary a wry look over Emily’s head. At least she had the grace to blush a little.
Unfortunately, Genny herself looked up from drawing off her gloves and intercepted their exchange.
He was damned if he would ascribe the same omniscience to her that Mary and Julian seemed to, but when those chasm-deep grey eyes were fixed on one, it was damned easy to believe in it oneself.
He took the book from Emily and opened it to the illustration of Gulliver tied down by the Lilliputians. Right now he felt a double dose of sympathy for the helpless fellow.
‘It’s beautiful, Emmy. Thank you.’
She touched the dark brown spine of the book. ‘Some of my very first memories are of you reading to me whenever you came down from school. I would keep myself awake, watching for the light of your candle under the door as you came with one of your books. Mama would read to me too, but she couldn’t do the voices like you.’ She smiled at Mary. ‘Sorry, Mama.’
Mary smiled back. ‘Don’t apologise, love. It is quite true. I admit I would listen at the door when you read, Kit. George said you had Kathleen’s gift.’
Had his father said that? It wasn’t true, of course, but it felt like a rare gift. His memories of his father before and after his mother’s death were of two different men: one strong and often laughing; the other silent and bowed.
Mary had received an ill bargain with only Emily as compensation. It was time to repay her. And that meant removing her from under his grandmother’s dark cloud.
He looked past Emily and Mary to where Genny was sorting through a stack of correspondence by the desk. The sun filtered through her hair, creating a gold and amber halo. She seemed utterly absorbed in her task, and yet he could feel her awareness of everything that was happening in the room.
Now she gathered the correspondence and excused herself. Emily and Mary barely noticed—Emily was chatti
ng to Mary about her new books, while Mary watched her daughter with a combination of love and wistfulness.
Kit excused himself as well, and went in pursuit of the Generalissima.
Chapter Nine
‘Miss Maitland.’
‘Yes, Lord Westford?’
Damn, he hated that tone. If there was anything less deferential than Genny in this mood, he had yet to encounter it.
He went to lean against the writing desk which dominated the study, watching as she sorted and stacked letters.
‘How long have you been my grandmother’s secretary?’
‘I help when I can, Lord Westford. Serena and I are living on her charity, after all. Or rather, on yours. It soothes my conscience to make myself useful.’
‘More straight dealing?’
‘It is merely the truth.’
She laid out the correspondence in neat piles. Most, as far as he could see, was addressed to his grandmother. There were a couple of letters for Mary, and one Genny had placed face down. He reached for it but she placed her hand on it.
‘That is mine.’
Her voice was without inflection, but a slight burn of colour feathered across her cheekbones. The temptation to slip it out from under her hand was sharp, but instead he focused on the others.
‘I didn’t know my grandmother was such an avid correspondent.’
‘These are mostly invitations.’
‘And these?’ He tapped another stack.
‘Responses from tradesmen regarding enquiries I have made about a Venetian breakfast.’
‘Venetians don’t eat breakfast. I’ve yet to meet a Venetian who wakes before noon.’
Her mouth quirked and a near-dimple hovered into being. ‘A Venetian breakfast takes place in the afternoon and has nothing at all to do with Venice, unfortunately.’
‘Have you been there?’ he asked
She shook her head and the same wistful light sparked for a moment and was extinguished.
He picked up a bill, raising a brow. ‘Three dozen lanterns?’
‘Lady Westford wants to hold it in the garden. There are few houses in London with grounds like Carrington House.’
‘But why lanterns? I thought you said it is held in the afternoon.’
‘It might last well into the evening. One must be prepared.’
‘You plan to entertain guests for a whole day in the garden? In April? In England? What if it rains? Or have you put in an order for sunshine as well?’
‘It shan’t rain.’
Her response was so bland he felt a momentary loss of balance. Not even a dimple quivered in her cheek now, but he knew, absolutely, that she was laughing at him. His resentment against her, which had been riding so high the past few days and had peaked sharply last night, faded like a fog lifting.
As if she sensed his lowering of some internal barrier she finally smiled. Not the vivid, almost blissful smile of last night, but a mix of relief and laughter still carefully held in.
‘I would hate to play cards against you, Genevieve Maitland,’ he admitted.
‘I thought that was precisely what we were doing, Lord Westford. You did not follow me here to discuss your grandmother’s social plans. You want something from me, correct?’
You want something from me.
It was the truth, but an unfortunate choice of words.
At the moment, with that playful challenging smile tilting up her eyes and softening her mouth so that is showed its full, lush promise, he could think of one thing in particular he wanted from her.
It was as disconcerting as hell that she could spark in him this mixture of confusion and attraction. In Spain he had thought of her only as his commanding officer’s granddaughter. Yet his memory of her was quite a bit sharper than he would have thought reasonable. She’d had freckles then, coaxed to the surface by the Spanish sun that had lightened her wavy hair. She’d looked like a waif but acted like one of the Prussian mercenaries who served under Wellington—cool, focused, and as prickly as a hedgehog.
Except when she’d been with animals. With them she’d always been as soft and cooing as she’d been with the little kitten in the stables.
He had no idea which of those warring personas was at her core and he doubted she’d allow him to find out.
Not that it mattered.
She hadn’t moved during his silence, but the light of laughter faded from her eyes and left them guarded. He had the strangest sensation of looking through the deep grey to something else entirely. But whatever it was, it was as elusive as ever.
On impulse, he touched her chin lightly. She didn’t pull away but stood there, impassive and waiting.
‘You used to have more freckles,’ he said, simply for something to say.
His fingers were barely touching her skin but he felt it humming. Her throat worked, as if she was trying not to swallow, a sign of nervousness that gave him far too much satisfaction—he didn’t want to be the only one unsettled.
He moved away to the other side of the desk. ‘You are right, Miss Maitland. I followed you here for a purpose. First, I wish to apologise for my behaviour last night. I realise you think me the lowest of slackers...’
Her eyes widened and her hands flew up, stopping him. ‘No, that is not... I had no right to say that.’
‘As I recall, you didn’t actually say anything aloud.’
‘I made my sentiments clear, which is even worse than saying them aloud.’
‘That is debatable,’ he replied, a little mollified. ‘But it brings me to the second reason I wish to speak with you. The truth is, I need your help.’
Once again the shield fell away. Her lips parted and he had the pleasure of watching Miss Genevieve Maitland surprised. Unsettled, even. Her eyes darkened as her pupils dilated, crowding the grey into a dusky violet at the rim. It reminded him of the deep waters of the ocean in the slow hours before dawn—when sailors felt most at the mercy of the endless emptiness.
‘I don’t understand.’ She lowered her chin, her long lashes curling upwards in a wary question.
He glanced at the door. The last thing he wanted was either Mary or Emily bursting in on this conversation. After a quick glance into the empty corridor he locked the door. Her eyes had widened further during this manoeuvre and the faint flush that had warmed her skin had darkened. Unsettling her hadn’t been part of his agenda, but seeing her less than cool and collected was a pleasant change.
‘I want Mary out of this house.’
Surprise was transformed into outrage. ‘Kit Carrington! That is...beastly!’
‘Hush! Damn—I keep forgetting this is my house. I mean I want her out of my grandmother’s clutches. I want to find her a husband.’
Genny’s flush turned livid and she pressed her hands to her cheeks. ‘Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. I thought...’
‘Yes, that I am a beast and an ogre and I toss widows out on the street in the cold dark hours of the night.’
She dropped her hands, her dimples flashing. ‘No, that is not what I thought, but...’
She hesitated and he forged forward. ‘I know you will say I am interfering, but she is still young, and now Emily is leaving she will be lonely. I don’t want to return in five years and find her still crushed under my grandmother’s thumb. She deserves better.’
‘True, but...’
‘And I know you wish to find someone for Serena as well.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I saw you herding her towards Lord Ponsonby and Gresham—apparently two eligible widowers with independent means and a measure of charm. But though your methods are impressive, your information is flawed. Gresham is deeply in debt. I wouldn’t encourage that connection.’
‘I have heard no such talk.’
‘Because you move in polite circles and Gresham is
clever enough to secure his loans from sources that are anything but polite. It won’t last, though. I would give him perhaps three months before he is forced to rusticate.’
‘A pity. He is very knowledgeable about rhododendrons.’
‘A man can like rhododendrons and yet be a villain,’ Kit misquoted, and won a quick smile.
‘So, Lord Westford, what do you want in exchange for saving my sister from an impecunious rhododendron-lover?’
‘I told you—your assistance in finding Mary a husband. I am no hand at matchmaking. What do you say?’
‘I don’t know...’ she replied a little helplessly.
‘Don’t know if you want the trade or don’t know if you can use your considerable skills to find a match for Mary?’
He was beginning to enjoy the peculiar revelation of Genevieve Maitland utterly unmoored. Her colour was coming and going like a drunken sailor in a storm.
‘That is not the point, Lord Westford.’
‘Then what is? Is she beyond all hope? Too hideous? Old cattish?’
Her eyes flashed with silvered laughter. ‘You know full well she is lovely and any sensible man should be delighted with someone like Mary. But men aren’t sensible. They are too often either practical or romantic. Neither works in Mary’s or Serena’s favour. All men see when they look at them are two portionless widows of mature years. However...’
Her eyes turned murky and faraway again. Strange that he’d thought her cool and controlled—one had only to watch her eyes to see a whole panoply of tales being played out.
He watched her toil along some inward path for a while. Finally, she gave a sigh, not of despair but of resolution, and he allowed himself to prompt her. ‘However...?’
Her gaze focused once more—determined, decided, and direct. His nerves, already clanging like fog bells, snapped to attention.
‘I will do it.’
For a moment he felt a wave of relief, which was quickly followed by annoyance at himself. It was a bad sign if he was beginning to regard this pint-sized woman with the same blind faith as Mary did.
‘What, precisely, will you do?’
She leaned against the desk and crossed her arms. ‘I have some ideas, Lord Westford. But you may not care for them.’