His friend took a long swallow of his drink. “Why, I merely mean no one will dare wed that one,” he said, as he set his glass down. “She doesn’t have a hope of asking for more than an ancient lord in need of an heir. Why, in wedding you, it would be the perfect marriage of convenience.” As soon as the words left Montfort, he erupted into a bellowing laugh.
Through the man’s loud mirth that attracted curious looks, Cedric sat frozen. What the earl proposed was madness. The lady certainly desired, undoubtedly deserved, more than London’s most infamous rake, who’d give her a name and nothing more. But a thought trickled in of her hidden away in the hedge maze and in the library.
“Forgive me,” the earl said wiping tears of hilarity from his cheeks. “It was not my intention to make light of your situation. A little levity was called for.”
He jolted. “Of course.” Of course it had been a jest. But as they sat sipping their brandy, the niggling seed planted by Montfort rooted around Cedric’s mind. Bloody mad thought. The height of preposterous. He downed his drink and came to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me.”
The earl looked at him with surprise. “Where are you off to, man?”
“I’ve remembered I’ve a previous engagement for the evening.” Not allowing Montfort to pose any questions, Cedric turned on his heel and stalked out of the club.
Mayhap he was more than a bit mad.
Chapter 10
Genevieve sat stiffly on the carriage bench beside Gillian; her body taut with tension over of the Countess of Erroll’s impending formal dinner party.
“This will be good,” Father boomed. “The sooner the ton sees you and the duke are civil and there is no resentment, then the sooner this can be past us.”
Us. When had it ever been us? Not when she’d been scuttled away to her grandfather’s estate, while the rest of her loyal family remained in London and in their country seat during the summers.
She tightened her mouth. “Oh, yes,” she said dryly. “This will be splendid.” What good could there come in being in the same room as her former betrothed other than putting her on display like a circus oddity? Nor were hers the sentiments of a broken-hearted woman. Her feelings for that cad had died a quick death following his treachery. On the days she did not hate herself for having foolishly believed herself in love with the Duke of Aumere, she hated him and his lying tongue that had seen her ruined.
Gillian laid her hand over Genevieve’s and gave a slight squeeze. She took comfort in that unspoken reassurance. For she was no longer alone. There was Gillian. And for two brief, but meaningful exchanges, there had been Cedric.
Bah, you foolish woman, building castles out of clouds. Her romantic whimsy had led to her ruin the first time, and yet…in just a handful of exchanges with the Marquess of St. Albans she’d shared far more meaningful discourse than anything she’d uttered with and to the Duke of Aumere, all those years ago.
“Yes, yes, Lord Ellsworth is indeed correct,” Mother said pulling her to the moment. “And of course there is the Duchess of Aumere. Why, everyone is, no doubt, anticipating that exchange, as well.”
Her sister shot her a sideways look and Genevieve gave her a reassuring smile. Given her relationship with the duke, of course most would expect there to be resentment for the woman who’d secured that gentleman’s hand. Genevieve leaned close and whispered into her sister’s ear. “I consider myself fortunate that it was her, and not me, forever bound to that man.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” Gillian returned on an equally hushed whisper. “She saved you from marrying where your heart is not engaged and now you are free to find your true love.”
At the hopeful naïveté, Genevieve’s chest tightened. How romantic Gillian was; believing in good, honorable gentleman and forever loves. And though those might, indeed, be realities for un-whispered about fey beauties like her sister, no good, honorable gentleman cared to have a wife whose name was muddied more than the London streets.
“What are you two whispering about?” their father barked.
Forever incapable of artifice, Gillian flushed, opening and closing her mouth several times.
“We are speaking about how lovely tonight will be,” Genevieve easily put in for them. “You are, indeed, correct. It will be wonderful to have this meeting concluded.”
She was saved from answering any further questions as the carriage rolled up to the Countess of Erroll’s white stucco townhouse, awash in candlelight. A driver pulled the door open and Father angled his sizeable frame through the entrance. The liveried driver handed the marchioness down and then held his gloved palm out to Gillian.
Her younger sister paused. “I would have you know that you are not alone,” she said fervently. “You have me tonight.”
Emotion wadded in her throat. “Thank you.”
Gillian looked affronted. “Why, do not thank me. We are sisters and friends.” She waggled her eyebrows. “And if you need me to quite accidentally drop my white soup on him, then I am happy to oblige.”
A laugh spilled past Genevieve’s lips and the servant stuck his head inside the carriage. With a cheerful thanks, her younger sister accepted the young man’s assistance.
Drawing in a deep breath, with a fortitude that came from her sister’s pledge of support, Genevieve followed suit. As her gray skirts settled about her ankles, she looked up at the impressive Mayfair townhouse. Focusing on the soft tread of her footsteps, she fixed her gaze forward, thinking of Kent in the summer, thinking of Turner’s sailors at sea, thinking of Cedric and their talk at Hyde Park.
Would he be here? As a powerful future duke, even with his reputation as rake, his attendance would surely be sought at any event. As she stepped inside and turned her cloak over to a waiting footman, a breathless anticipation filled her. Not for the impending meeting with her former betrothed, but another; a stranger she’d freely spoken to on intimate matters she’d not shared with anyone before.
Following after the butler, they were led through the halls of the impressive labyrinth of a home belonging to her mother’s closest friend. As they approached the parlor, the noisy chatter of assembled guests filtered through the open door.
Her ears attuned for a low, smooth baritone of one, and that blessed distraction kept her from thinking of the fact that the moment she entered the room, she would be the center of scrutiny and discussion. Her palms grew moist, as her earlier resolve faltered. Coward.
“You are no coward,” Gillian said softly.
She started. Had she spoken aloud? It really was a bothersome tendency she’d adopted alone in the country, painting and gardening most of her days.
A twinkle lit her sister’s pretty green eyes. “You said nothing. But remember, I’m your sister. I’ve always known what you were thinking.”
As they made to enter the room, their mother looked back. Pretty faces, she mouthed. When she’d returned her attention forward, Genevieve touched the tip of her tongue to her nose, earning a laugh from her sister.
And a prompt scowl from their mother.
“The Marquess and Marchioness of Ellsworth, and Ladies Farendale.”
And even as she’d been expecting it, the jarring halt to the earlier revelry sent heat up her neck and burned her face. The moment ticked on with infinite slowness and angling her shoulders slightly, she kept her gaze at the tops of the guests who filled Lady Erroll’s parlor. A person needn’t be looking at people to feel their states and, in this case, the approximately twenty or so stares.
Genevieve’s skin pricked under their focus and she concentrated on drawing steady, even breaths. Her toes twitched with the urge to flee. To run from this room and continue running away from London to a place where happiness existed for those whispered about ladies, condemned by Society for crimes they’d not committed.
Then time resumed, in the form of whisperings and the intermittent laugh.
Her sister smiled brightly. “See, that was not so awful,” she said with her patent cheer. She slid her ar
m through Genevieve’s and patted her hand.
“Hardly,” she said with a wry grin. From across the room, her gaze caught Francesca Cornworthy. Seated on the pink upholstered sofa, the young woman peered around the room with bored eyes when their stares collided. Her face lit up and she gave an eager wave.
“Gillian?”
The sisters looked as one to their mother who stood a short distance away, conversing with Lady Erroll’s dandified son. Not Gillian and Genevieve. Rather, just Gillian. The only daughter their parents had hopes of making a respectable match.
Decision warred on her sister’s face. Genevieve had no doubt of her sister’s loyalty and friendship that Gillian would, in fact, do something as outrageous as ignore their mother’s public request. She, however, could not let Gillian brave the wrath of their parents’ for her. “Go,” Genevieve urged. “I see a friend.”
Her sister started. “A friend, you say?” Then she captured Genevieve’s hands. “Oh, truly?” She spoke with the same excited awe as if she’d declared she had a formal suitor.
“Miss Francesca Cornworthy,” she said, motioning faintly to the forgotten woman in the corner.
“I must meet her,” Gillian said excitedly.
“Gillian,” their mother said, her tone more insistent.
“Go,” Genevieve said again. “Mother has a suitor.”
Her sister followed her stare to the young Earl of Erroll. The candlelight shone on the thick wax in his Byronic curls. His interested and just a slightly inappropriate gaze remained on Gillian.
Her sister sighed. “Very well.” With slow steps, that only earned a deeper frown from their parents, Gillian made her way to the earl.
And as utterly miserable as it was being cast out by Society, there was an unexpected freeness that came in being spared from their parents’ scheming machinations to see her wed. They’d quite happily and eagerly orchestrated her meeting with the Duke of Aumere all those years ago and, as such, she could do without another carefully selected gentleman. She cast a quick look back to where her innocent sister now conversed with the leering gentleman. A frown turned Genevieve’s lips. Her parents would see their youngest daughter with another heartless, dishonorable cad, all to secure a title and respectability for her. Nay, it was about more than respectability for Gillian. It was about a restored sense of honor to the marquess and marchioness.
If she ever had children, which she assuredly would not because of the whole lack of suitor and husband business, then she would put that child first. She’d never impose her will or Society’s expectations, but rather love and nurture in ways her own parents had remarkably failed.
Genevieve came to a stop before Francesca, who hopped up from her seat.
“Oh, I am so happy to see you,” the woman exclaimed before she could say anything.
“And I you.” That warm greeting was really the greatest kindness Genevieve had known since she’d entered Lady Erroll’s.
An older, reed thin gentleman with a shock of white hair, climbed more slowly up, and Genevieve went still. The hazel eyes marked him as the Viscount Dailey. “Lady Genevieve,” he greeted, his voice booming. “A pleasure, indeed. Francesca has told me so very much about you.” He patted his daughter’s hand. “I will allow you ladies to speak. No need to have a bothersome papa underfoot.”
“You are never a bother,” Francesca said adamantly and leaning up on tiptoe, kissed his cheek in an affectionate display that only earned censorious stares.
She took in the kindness sparkling in his eyes and the sincere smile on his lips. How was it possible there was this warmth between a parent and child? Envy tugged at her heart, witnessing the devotion of a gentleman who’d indulge even a scandalous friendship for his daughter, if she so wished.
A young woman seated on the chair across from Francesca promptly stood and sailed off in a huff. At that cut-direct, Genevieve’s neck went hot. “I am so happy,” and relieved, “you are here,” she confided. For as miserable as London had been these now sixteen days, there had been kindness from the lovely woman…
And Cedric. There had also been an apology and a meaningful talk of art from that unlikeliest of figures.
Francesca slipped her arm through Genevieve’s. “Come, let us walk. You must tell me about that skill you possess.” Less than discreetly, she motioned to the departing wallflower. “For five years I’ve endured so much miserable company and, yet, you have this ease of just,” she snapped her fingers once, “ridding yourself of them.”
A startled laugh escaped Genevieve, earning reproachful stares from the surrounding guests.
A companionable silence fell between them, as they walked slowly along the perimeter of the room. Unbidden, she sought a taller, golden-haired gentleman who knew of Friedrich and Turner out amidst the guests.
“He does not come to these affairs.”
She cast a startled glance at her partner in misery.
Francesca leaned close and dropped her voice to a faint whisper. “Your waltzing partner.”
Genevieve shot her gaze about to determine whether anyone had overheard. Alas, who would have attention for two wallflowers; even the scandalous Farendale one. “I don’t—”
The young woman snorted. “I saw tapping toes, Genevieve,” she reminded her.
Promptly closing her mouth, Genevieve let her false protest wither.
They looked to the front of the room as a servant came to announce dinner. “I do hope you at least have a pleasant guest who doesn’t slurp his soup and chat about his hounds,” Francesca whispered. She sighed. With the station difference between them, she’d never be graced with the young woman as a dining partner. Which begged the question—
“Lady Genevieve, I have learned I have the honor of partnering you for dinner.”
A chill ran along her spine as that smooth, polished voice sounded beyond her shoulder. No. Surely her mother’s friend would at the very least spare her this humiliation and not use her as an oddity on display. Then what was the basis of those two matrons’ friendship? She stiffened and on numb legs, turned.
He was softer around the middle, with slightly fuller cheeks, but the chestnut hair that hung to his shoulders marked him the same. The same man who’d betrayed her and ruined her, and who even now stood smiling before her. As though they were friends. As though he’d not shattered her world with the lies on his lips.
Aware of Francesca staring between them and the flash of concern that lit her eyes, Genevieve’s fingers curled into reflexive balls. For an instant, she thought to flee. This was a world she wanted no part of, so why subject herself to this public humiliation? But she would be damned if she slunk off like a coward in the night for his treachery. “Y-Your Grace,” she greeted and sank into a curtsy. God, how she despised the faint tremor to that word.
“May I present my wife, Her Grace, Duchess of Aumere?”
Was he mad?
An icy revulsion seeped from the flawless golden beauty’s blue eyes. “How do you do, Lady Genevieve?” By the loathing that coated her words, she’d gladly see Genevieve in hell.
Francesca gave her a slight nudge, startling her into movement. She dropped a curtsy. “Your Grace, the pleasure is mine,” she lied.
The duke proffered his arm and, for a sliver of a moment, Genevieve considered leaving him as he was and curtly rejecting that offering. The ton, however, would erroneously view that as testament for resentment and envy. She slid her fingertips onto his elbow and allowed him to escort her to the dining room, in absolute stoic silence.
Her sister on the arm of Lord Erroll, shot a quick, concerned look over her shoulder.
“You look as beautiful as you always did, Genevieve,” His Grace said, the words so faintly spoken, she strained to hear.
She flexed her jaw. Did the man truly speak of her beauty with all of London’s most respectable guests watching on?
“Nothing to say, sweetheart?”
“I am not your sweetheart,” she bit out tightly.
>
They filed into the dining room and as they found their respective seats, their chairs were pulled out. With thanks to the young servant, Genevieve slid into the chair and promptly ignored the duke. Society, her parents, the duke, they could all go hang. She’d not be baited and taunted by this man.
The first course of the customary white soup was set before the assembled guests. Even as her stomach churned from being thrust beside the duke, as long as she was eating, she’d be spared from speaking. Picking up her spoon, Genevieve raised a spoonful to her mouth.
“I never believed you would be so ruined, Genevieve. You must believe that.”
She choked on her bite and setting the silverware down with a noisy clatter, she grabbed her water and took a swallow. “Are you mad?” she seethed. With those words, he revealed himself to be either a demmed fool or a bloody arrogant bastard. Then, he was no doubt both. “Did you think I would just be a little ruined?” All ruin was the same. In a Society where a lady’s virtue and familial connections mattered above all else, there was no recovering from a blight upon, either.
From across the table, her sister caught her eye and gave her a look of support, and pleading which served to ground her.
“This is hardly the place to discuss such a matter, Your Grace,” she said, priding herself on the smooth, even deliverance of those words, when she wanted nothing more than to hurl the contents of her glass in his arrogant face.
“Then where can we speak?” he asked with an urgency in his question.
“In hell on a Sunday,” she said with a forced smile, grateful when the gentleman on her opposite side paid her an obligatory remark that required answering.
As she sat through the infernal affair, she counted the passing seconds, as they rolled into minutes. Each moment signaled a point closer to the end of this display and through it, resentment built inside. Not for this heartless cad beside her, but for the parents who’d subject her to this gross humiliation. All to what end? To appease the gossips?
A slight clamor at the front of the room provided a brief diversion and she looked absently as the butler appeared with an unpunctual guest, who no doubt thought the world was his…
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 41