by Regina Scott
During the game, Genevieve laughed at Sir Reginald’s jokes until her sides burned and her cheeks ached. Mr. Ashton continued to send her admiring glances, and Sir Reginald grinned conspiringly at her like an old friend.
When she found herself standing next to Sir Reginald, he winked. “I believe you have conquered Ashton.”
Genevieve certainly had no desire to conquer anyone, least of all a man who had failed to engage her in conversation. “Nonsense.”
“He can’t keep his eyes off you.”
“Perhaps he likes my hat,” she quipped.
“Have you looked in the mirror?”
The blindfolded person staggered toward them, and they ducked to avoid the outstretched hands.
A footman announced tea, which dissolved the game. Guests moved in small groups and couples toward the abbey. With a meaningful glance at Mr. Ashton, Sir Reginald winked at Genevieve and strolled off, whistling. Shaking her head, Genevieve smiled. And people thought women were incorrigible matchmakers.
While Genevieve headed for the abbey, footsteps rustled the grass beside her. “Good afternoon.” Mr. Ashton bent his elbow and offered it to her. “May I escort you back?”
“Thank you.” She took his arm.
They walked in silence as Genevieve admired the rugged terrain and the way the hills cast long shadows over the land. Wildflowers danced in the breezes, and songbirds trilled as if all the world were a concert hall.
“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” he said.
She looked up at him in surprise. Really? The weather? “Er, yes.” Perhaps he was merely nervous, having never conversed with her since their brief introduction. “I confess, I have not played Blindman’s Bluff in years. I can see I missed out on a lark.”
“Yes, unexpectedly fun.” He spoke evenly, but without any emotion.
“I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in a long time.”
“A welcome diversion, to be sure.”
They walked on in silence as she tried to remember if she’d seen him smile or laugh during the game. Genevieve tried to come up with something to say to the solemn gentleman next to her. “Have you been here before? To the abbey, I mean.”
“Yes, I live nearby. My father is the vicar here.”
“I believe I did hear that.”
“He is grooming me to take his place.”
“That must be a rewarding line of work.”
“It will be sufficient.” He spoke in monotone, suggesting he didn’t find the thought very appealing.
She almost asked him what vocation he would prefer but didn’t voice the personal question.
They reached the abbey and continued to the sectioned off part of the drawing room where the guests enjoyed tea. A summer breeze blew through the open terrace doors, bringing in the scent of wildflowers and sunshine. Several of the older set conversed together, creating a low cacophony of conversation.
As they reached the others, Genevieve curtsied to Mr. Ashton. “Thank you for escorting me.”
“My pleasure,” came the monotone reply.
Matilda sat at the piano, somehow chatting with an animated expression without moving her head. Christian Amesbury drew Genevieve’s gaze. In the midst of admiring his fine form and handsome face as he painted Matilda, unaware of Genevieve, a new awareness spread through her, a desire to ease his burdens, to ask him about his hopes and dreams, to ride pell-mell at his side through the woods, even to sit with him and read or sew as he created a work of art. Or simply admire him.
If he and Matilda made a match, those privileges would belong to Matilda. The thought sent a dart of pain into her heart. But that was silly. Really, she hardly knew him. Surely her interest stemmed from a passing fancy.
Chapter Eight
Christian tuned out Matilda Widtsoe’s chatter and focused on the animated expressions of her face, trying to capture the best one for her pose. Though lovely and pleasant, she had a tiring effect on him. Still, on the rare occasion she fell silent, he asked her another question to keep her talking for the sake of the portrait. By the end of the afternoon, he’d created an expression that combined a subdued form of her usual enthusiasm while capturing the liveliness of her eyes. He’d also done rough likenesses of her, the piano, and enough decorations to suggest Egyptian flavor without overwhelming the main subject of the portrait.
Other houseguests streamed in, probably in anticipation of tea. Christian sat back, satisfied with the proportions, and rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension before removing his smock and rolling it up.
When Miss Widtsoe took a breath in her steady stream of chatter, he said, “That will do it for today.”
Her mouth remained open as if she had stopped mid-sentence. Recovering, she closed her mouth and smiled. “This bench is getting hard anyway.” She stood, visibly keeping her weight on one foot. “Will you help me to a settee, please?”
“Your wheeled chair is here.” Reluctant to initiate more physical contact than necessary and give her another reason to mistake his intentions, he brought it to her and held it steady while she turned and settled herself in it, then he pushed her chair to a stop beside the settee.
While he gathered up his painting supplies, she called, “May I see it?”
“It’s not finished.”
“I know, but—please?”
He stowed all his supplies, tucked the easel under his arm, and brought the canvas to her. “I’ll add color tomorrow.”
Her expression of expectation fell as she looked at the canvas, but she nodded and said with forced cheer, “I’m sure it will be lovely when you’re finished.”
She turned the full brightness of her smile on him, but her praise was rather demoralizing, much like when as a child he showed a work of art to adults who patted him on the head and told him his art was nice when really they meant it was the silly scribblings of a beginner.
Genevieve Marshall sank down in an armchair next to Miss Widtsoe and leaned in to see the portrait. “Oh my, the proportions are amazing, and you captured her lively spirit beautifully.”
It was all he could do not to puff out his chest in pride. Before replying, he searched for a note of humility. “I’m gratified to receive your approval. I’ll finish it before I leave.”
“I’m sure it will have no equal.” Her admiration seemed genuine, without the coquettishness of so many ladies of the ton.
Though tempted to sit and bask in her soothing presence, he bowed. “If you will both excuse me, I need to go put this away.”
“A footman can do that for you,” Miss Widtsoe said with a flutter of lashes.
“I prefer to do it myself. I have a rather particular way of storing it.” He returned to his room to put everything away. After cleaning the paint off his hands and brushes, and checking to be sure he hadn’t splattered paint on his face or clothing, he checked on his father.
He found the earl sitting next to the fire, staring into the flames. Dressed in his breeches and shirtsleeves, with a banyan draped over his shoulders and tied loosely at the waist, he made no sign of awareness of Christian’s presence. Next to him sat creased letters.
Softly, so as not to startle him, Christian said, “Sir, do you wish to join us downstairs for tea?”
The earl let out a sigh and looked up at Christian, his eyes unfocused. He blinked and seemed to return to himself. “I’ll have a tray here.”
Christian stepped inside. “Don’t you think spending a few moments in the company of others would be better than staying here alone?”
His father’s mouth tugged off to the side in a loose smile. “I suppose you are right.” As he stood, he summoned his valet, scooped up the letters, and handed Christian his signet ring. “Take care of these, will you, son? I’ll finish dressing.”
Sitting at the desk in his father’s room, Christian read over the contents of the letters, estate business that he easily handled. It was a shame his father took so little interest in his properties or even Parliament, which he used
to serve so diligently. Mother’s death drained Father of all his joie de vivre. But this trip seemed to have done him some good. Surely he would make a full recovery in time. Christian wrote out two replies the way his father would have wanted and sealed the wax with his father’s signet ring.
Finished, he stood as the earl returned, groomed and dressed. Christian flanked his father as they entered the drawing room. While his father sauntered to Mr. Widtsoe and Lord Wickburgh, Christian meandered toward a group of young men closer to his own age.
As Christian neared, Mr. Ashton, the vicar’s son droned, “. . . a good match. Her dowry and behavior are respectable enough.”
Sir Reginald shook his head, making his curls bob. “She’s lovely and witty and charming, that’s what, and if you don’t appreciate her many fine qualities, you don’t deserve her.”
“Set your sights on her, have you?” Mr. Ashton asked.
Sir Reginald shook his head. “I like her, but my heart belongs to Miss Widtsoe.” He placed a hand over his heart.
Ah. So Matilda Widtsoe did indeed have the attention of the young Sir Reginald. Could Christian help facilitate a change of loyalty on the girl’s part?
Casting off his curiosity over who they had been discussing earlier, Christian sidled up to the curly top. “Miss Widtsoe is lovely.”
Sir Reginald gave a start and a decided straightening of his shoulders. “She is. I’ve known her for years—watched her grow up, as it were.”
Christian almost grinned at the challenge in the young man’s eyes and voice. “Childhood friends, were you?”
“Something like that.”
Christian nodded. “My parents were, as well. They enjoyed a very happy marriage.”
Sir Reginald eyed him as if he didn’t quite trust Christian’s meaning. “Always a desirable arrangement.”
His gaze strayed to the girl under discussion, and Christian followed his line of sight, but didn’t get past Genevieve Marshall. She drew him like a moth to flame. If he got closer, would he get burned or find a long-absent warmth?
Before he knew it, he’d approached her and found himself standing in front of her in the center of a group of young ladies. Fortunately, Sir Reginald had accompanied him.
“Good afternoon,” Christian said. As all the young ladies nearby responded, he scrambled for something to say, since he had not intended to approach. You’re beautiful and restful, and I want to know you better. Will you go for a long walk with me? That hardly seemed appropriate. Or worse, If I kiss you, will you kiss me back or slap me? He was tempted to try it and risk the consequences.
As his panicked thoughts swirled chaotically, Sir Reginald came to the rescue. “Mr. Amesbury and I were discussing the waltz and that many of the young ladies here might not know how. So, in preparation for tonight’s ball, in which waltzing will be encouraged, we have decided to offer our services as practice partners.”
Christian glanced at him, brows raised at the wild tale. That was brilliant, actually. He held out his arms, half turning to encompass all the young ladies who held their teacups frozen in front of them, their mouths slightly agape. Using his most charming smile, Christian added, “We realize it’s a bit unconventional, but this is a house party, after all—not Almack’s Assembly Rooms.” He extended a hand to Genevieve Marshall. “Care to have a practice waltz, Miss Marshall? I’m not dance master, but perhaps I can help.”
Smiling, she rose and placed her hand in his. At her touch, an unraveled place inside him sighed and wound itself into the tapestry of his soul. It might be mad, but all his reasons for avoiding the idea of love or marriage no longer mattered. Having this woman—this incredible lady—in his life became a taunting desire.
“May I?” Sir Reginald bowed before another young lady.
As if a challenge had been issued, half the unmarried gentlemen in the room approached young ladies of their choice, bowed, and drew them into dance position. A murmur of one-two-three’s filled the room. The older adults’ conversation died out, and a few sputtered at the strange, impromptu dance, but no one voiced a true protest. Not that it would have mattered. At that moment, dancing with Genevieve consumed Christian’s every desire.
Well, not every desire. Taking her into a secluded room and kissing her senseless would be a preferred activity, but he must woo her with every appearance of honorable intentions.
“Shall I count?” she asked, a teasing half smile curving her delicious lips.
Christian smiled at the gentle observation that they were standing in waltz position but not actually dancing. “I will, if you have no objection.”
That delicious curve in her mouth deepened. “None at all.”
“The best way to learn is to do. Keep your arms firm and put your hand here.” He repositioned her hand to a spot higher on his arm near his shoulder. Did he imagine her quick intake of breath? “This is our frame. Keep some tension in your arms to maintain this distance. As long as we keep our frame steady, you should have no trouble following me.”
She nodded, her eyes large and her pupils dilated. That meant she felt some form of desire for him, too. Right? He’d spent enough time on the dance floor that he’d seen expressions of admiration or lust many times. He’d even grown accustomed to women gazing at him in clear desire, and had always found a way to gently refuse—except in the case of Miss Widtsoe, of course, who didn’t seem to respond to subtlety. But with Genevieve Marshall, he could not be sure of the meaning behind her expression. He might be in the uncomfortable and unprecedented position of having to work to win her affections. For the first time, he wanted a lady to desire him. He looked forward to the challenge.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“I hope I don’t step on your feet.”
He affected a mournful expression. “You do appear to weigh as much as a fallen leaf; if you step on me, I fear I might not survive the encounter.”
Her eyes danced and her smile almost blinded him. “I might surprise you.”
“You already have, in many ways.” Before he made a fool of himself right here and now, he said, “Step back with your right foot. Ready? One.” He stepped forward with his left foot, guiding her back. “Two.” He guided her to his right. “Three.” He closed his steps. “You follow beautifully.”
Again that blast of cleansing brilliance. “I love waltzing.”
“We’re not actually waltzing yet. That was just one half of the box step.”
“Silly me.” A husky tone entered her voice.
He cleared his throat. “Now we reverse. You step forward with your left as I step back. One. Two. Three. There. That was a complete box set. Let’s do it again just as before but without stopping.”
While he counted, she followed him as he took her through the box step several more times. Then he added a turning step. She followed like an expert. He taught her several more moves, leading her and counting as he showed her the hesitation, the outside turn, the spin, and the promenade. Each touch of her hand, the brush of her thigh, his hand on her back nearly sent him over the moon. Through it all, her expression remained that of pure rapture.
He smiled down at the fairy-like girl in his arms who radiated such purity and joy. “You can say it now, if you like.”
“Say it?” She angled her head off to the side, looking so adorable that he almost kissed her right there.
“That you love to waltz.”
“Oh, I do!” she said breathlessly.
“Just wait until we add music.”
“I can hardly stand the suspense.”
He agreed with the sentiment.
“Gentlemen, I think the young ladies have had enough of waltz instruction for the afternoon,” Mrs. Widtsoe’s voice cut in. “We wouldn’t want to exhaust them before tonight’s revelry begins.”
Christian raised a brow and asked softly, “Are you exhausted, Miss Marshall?”
“Not a bit. But the point is taken.”
“Or perhaps our hostess merely wishes to li
mit contact for this very scandalous dance.”
“Probably that, as well.” Her eyes shimmered in mirth.
He had to tell himself to let her go twice before his arms actually obeyed. She gave him a conspiratorial smile, curtsied when he bowed, and turned away.
As he joined the other gentlemen, Sir Reginald said, “Glad to know I don’t have to compete with you for the fair Matilda.”
“No, indeed,” Christian said. “My affections are definitely engaged elsewhere.”
Mr. Ashton’s gaze flicked in his direction, and his brow narrowed as if he were annoyed. Christian gave him little thought. Tonight, he would leap any hurdles to ensure he waltzed in truth with Genevieve Marshall.
Chapter Nine
Genevieve joined Matilda’s group of young ladies, positioning herself so she couldn’t see Christian Amesbury. It wouldn’t do to look at him too long or too frequently. His warmth and texture remained on her hands as a ghostly reminder of where she’d been, and where she desperately wished to return.
Matilda spoke to her audience of young ladies, who either had not joined the dancing lesson or had already returned, with her usual animation but clearly attempting to keep her voice down. “. . . I vow, with him studying me so closely as he painted my portrait, it was all I could do not to blush the entire time! He asked me ever so many questions about myself, my family, and my interests. I expect he will ask to speak to my father any day now!”
She spoke of Christian Amesbury, surely. Which meant either Matilda nursed a grand delusion or Genevieve had misunderstood his intentions as she danced with him.
Though Genevieve had come to the house party fully expecting to meet the man Matilda would marry, the thought no longer gave her the pleasure it once did. But that was a selfish attitude. Matilda’s happiness meant the world to Genevieve. Mr. Amesbury was in Matilda’s heart long before Genevieve saw him. Her only choice now lay in whether she would sulk like a child longing for a toy that belonged to another, conspire to betray her dearest friend, or help her friend secure the proposal she desired.