Jo Beverly

by Winter Fire

  “Then I need to get my hands on Molly Carew.”

  “Until then?”

  He touched his nose to hers. “Enjoy Christmas. Try to understand my cousin more. Test the air. Be betrothed to you…. So, Genova Smith, what do you think of me now?”

  She cradled his head in both hands. “I think you are an honest man, Ash, and there is nothing more noble than that.”

  She kissed him, turning her head to find just the right angle, exploring and tasting as if for the first time. The passion was there, the passion that had burned from the first, but their new closeness was more powerful than showy flames and sparks. It glowed in the deeps, under control.

  Then denying that belief, her whole body clenched, a shaft of need piercing her. He murmured, “Genova,” and pressed closer, a hand claiming a breast through cloth and stays.

  She teetered, trembling, then found strength to put a hand to his chest and push. “No, Ash, don’t. Please….” He stilled, and she added, “It’s not because I don’t want it.”

  He laughed shakily. “I know that, love.”

  He straightened, restoring her shawl, breathing as deeply as she. His hands lingered near her breasts as he gathered the shawl together there.

  They had talked at length and in depth, and he had revealed himself to her as to no other woman, she was sure, but he had been honest about everything, including his belief that he could not marry her.

  Whatever she did about that, she needed to end this encounter. “I’m cold,” she lied. “Time to go inside.”

  He didn’t protest, but opened the door for her.

  The once chilly hall seemed hot in a way the glowing Yule log couldn’t explain. Brandy, spices, and oranges played games with Genova’s senses, and merry music spilled out from the magical ballroom.

  He took her hand and led her across the hall and up to the doors. “The night is young,” he said softly. “We can dance.”

  Through the doors, Genova saw illusion. Cottages with cozily lit windows nestled among trees at the base of glittering mountains. Couples danced and laughed beneath the great chandelier. If she stepped in there, she knew, she was lost.

  “I’m ready for bed.”

  Wrong words! Wrong words!

  She saw him register them and let them pass, but he raised her left hand and kissed her knuckles by the ring.

  She pulled free. “I wish you hadn’t given me this.”

  “It seemed a necessary part of the play.”

  “It’s wrong.”

  “Cast away scruples. There’s no reverence attached. That ring was my mother’s. She wore it under protest and abandoned it when she left. When you reject me, you can keep it. In fact, why not put it to the baby’s care.”

  She saw the implications of that. “No more kisses?”

  “It seems safer. Remember, Genova, I’m not a saint.” He kissed her hand. “Good night, my dear, and may Christmas bring you joy.”

  Genova looked down at the quiet hall, where the Yule log burned steadily and the presepe sat beside it, in pride of place as it was meant to be. She hadn’t made her wish on the presepe, or on the Christmas Star.

  There were many things she could wish for, but one spilled out and would not be denied. Let this man find peace and joy, and strength to be the man he’s meant to be.

  She looked at him once more, then hurried upstairs and away.

  Without Genova, the ballroom held no appeal. Ash returned to his room and found Fitz lounging at his ease, enjoying Rothgar’s brandy.

  “Ah, the answer to all puzzles arrives!”

  “Where?” Ash asked, pouring for himself. “It certainly isn’t me.”

  “So how did you end up in the devil’s lair? Your archenemy seems remarkably untouched.”

  “You can’t have expected us to fall to blows like Italian braggadocios. We are being perfectly civil while circling for the kill.”

  Ash listened to himself prating the sort of words he’d spoken all his life, trained like a parrot.

  “I’m working toward peace,” he corrected, and took a mouthful of brandy. “This is superb. Clear evidence of my cousin’s wealth.”

  “Peace,” Fitz reminded him. “I certainly approve.”

  “You probably started the rot.”

  “Then my life is worthwhile.”

  Ash studied him. “It’s true, you know. You don’t say what I want to hear like all the toadeaters. You’ve been a mirror of sorts, exposing folly. But my grandmother won’t approve.”

  “Let the bounteous Miss Smith deal with her.”

  Ash drank more brandy. “It’s nothing to do with her.”

  “Your future bride?”

  “It’s all sham. You must have realized that.”

  “It did seem rather sudden. When I received your note asking me to collect the ring from Cheynings, I assumed it would be for Miss Myddleton. When I encountered her here, I was sure of it.”

  “It probably will be, in time.”

  “You can’t give her that ring now.”

  “I never planned to. I suspect it’s cursed.”

  “A shame to put it on Miss Smith’s finger, then.”

  Ash considered that with disquiet. “It’s only for a couple of days. I’ve told her that when she rejects me she can keep it.”

  Fitz whistled.

  Ash sat wearily in the other chair. “She’s insisting that someone has to support Molly Carew’s brat. Since it can’t be me directly, it’s a way out of that mess.”

  “It’ll make him a little gentleman.”

  “His mother is superficially a lady, and as you say, Damaris Myddleton will never wear it now.”

  “You could have it recut.”

  “It’s Genova’s to do with as she wishes. It will preserve her from harm, as well as the baby.”

  Fitz pulled a thoughtful face, but said, “Miss Myddleton is not best pleased with you, you know.”

  “Of course I know.”

  “So what are you going to do there? You need to marry, and soon.”

  “Dammit, I know. It’s only been three days since this exploded, Fitz! And things have become…complicated.”

  From the way Fitz looked, Ash suspected his friend knew the complication he meant. “Look, draw off Damaris Myddleton for a few days. She’s stalking me like a lynx, and if I give in to my irritation, it won’t pave the way to a good marriage.”

  “If she has any spirit, it won’t pave the way to marriage at all. Which might be a good thing.”

  “Title for wealth is a fair trade. I mean her no harm.”

  Fitz shook his head. “Go to bed. You must have been having a trying time. It will look different in the morning.”

  Ash drained his glass. “I’m not sure that would be a blessing.”

  He was weary, however, he who sometimes danced or gamed through the night. He rose and began to undress.

  “By the way,” said Fitz, “what happened to Molly’s baby?”

  “Oh, it’s here. In the Malloren nurseries. We’re all one big happy family.”

  Fitz slid lower in his chair, laughing.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  G enova spent long hours of the night reliving kisses and trying to think of ways to sort out Ash’s problems. She tried to be objective, but monkeylike, her mind took its own ways, throwing up scenarios in which the solution was to marry him.

  She woke, poorly rested, trying to remember the folly of locking herself in a cage with a wolf. He wasn’t unwilling, though—that was the frustrating part.

  He believed he needed to marry money to carry out his duties. How true was that? She lay there, going round and round this. The reality was that poverty bred poverty, and wealth bred wealth. But hard work and talents succeeded, too.

  Did she have any talents to put against a fortune? She still winced at the memory of talking about sheep’s eyes.

  She thought at first that the noise was a dream. Then she realized there really was loud singing and bell ringing outside the
window.

  “What…?”

  Grumbling, she climbed out of bed, thankful that Thalia was a little deaf and hadn’t been disturbed. She pulled her robe around her and peered around the edge of the window curtains. Countrypeople, some in strange costumes, seemed to be marching around the house in a long procession, ringing bells and singing. As she made but the words, she realized they were wishing the household a merry Christmas—and begging for pennies.

  “Oh, wassailers,” said Thalia amid a rattling of curtain rings. “How splendid!” She poked her head out, yawning, cap lopsided.

  Genova had heard of wassailing. It was a custom more charming in the telling than in the experience, waking people up at the crack of dawn. Well—she glanced at the clock—at nine o’clock.

  Her eye was startled by a flash and she looked at the huge diamond with distaste. She couldn’t connect the showy stone with the rich, deep warmth of her emotions.

  Like lava, she thought, remembering Vesuvius—no cooler for being deep. Quite the opposite.

  She put another piece of wood on the fading fire, watched it flame in a merry, careless way. She could no longer tell what was selfish and what was noble.

  Ash must feel the same way, unsure whether his impulse toward peace was strength or weakness. Whether his intention to marry money was noble self-sacrifice or foolish greed.

  Thalia rang the little bell by the bed and Regeanne came to ask what they wished to wear for Christmas Day.

  Genova remembered Lady Elf. “The baby?”

  “He is well, Miss Smith.”

  “No, I mean Lady Walgrave.”

  “Ah, not yet. But there seems no deep concern.” Eight hours was not so long, but Genova sent up a sincere prayer.

  “What should I wear?” she asked. She longed to wear one of her new, fine dresses, but didn’t want to be out of place.

  As if in answer to another prayer, Thalia said, “Dress finely, dear. Today will be one grand entertainment!”

  Genova chose her favorite of her new gowns, a dusky pink silk figured with silver and trimmed with silk lace. It was certainly not her warmest, but she couldn’t resist.

  The gown had a sacque fall at the back in the latest style and required wide hoops. She would wear it over a silk shift, trimmed at the elbows with a deep fall of fine lace.

  As they started to dress, a maid arrived with a chocolate tray, including sweet rolls, and with the news that Sunday service would take place in the chapel at ten and that everyone would dine at one.

  “Oh, it’s both Sunday and Christmas!” Thalia exclaimed. “How lovely. Warm shawl, Genova. Perhaps two!”

  Genova chuckled. Despite ruffles and bows, Thalia was as sharp as a new needle.

  When they were dressed, Thalia took something out of her jewelry box and said, “Close your eyes and hold out your hand!”

  Genova obeyed, knowing the sweet lady was going to give her a trinket to wear. Her own jewelry was modest. She was wearing only pearl earrings and a silver cross on a ribbon around her neck.

  She felt beads and opened her eyes to see…a string of pearls. “Oh, Thalia. Thank you! I’ll take good care of them.”

  Thalia closed her hand over them. “They’re your Christmas birthday gift, dear.”

  “I can’t, Thalia. They’re far too valuable.”

  “I shall sulk if you don’t take them! It’s quite a simple string and perhaps a little girlish for me now. But they will go perfectly with that gown. I know Ashart will admire them.”

  Ash would probably think they should go to him when Thalia died, but Genova clasped them around her neck, loving the way they glowed against her skin. Surely she now looked like a candidate for marchioness.

  Unsteady with hope, she left the room with Thalia.

  The double shawls were certainly welcome as the route to the chapel took them into an old part of the house which might even date from the original abbey. It was as if the new house had grown around it like barnacles around a wrecked ship.

  Eventually they entered a stone chapel that was definitely centuries old. It was of modest size and would surely not hold all the guests if they chose to attend. Not seated, at least. The gentlemen, as colorful and bright as the ladies, were obviously going to have to stand.

  As she and Thalia waited for a line of ladies to settle into chairs, Genova looked around for Ash. He hadn’t arrived yet. Surely he would come. She couldn’t wait to see him again.

  The musicians who had played for dancing the night before began to play for worship on wind instruments and drum. It was an old, haunting tune that suggested ancient times, and the altar was backed by a medieval triptych in which gilded angels prayed around Christ in the manger.

  Genova felt as if she’d stepped back in time, as if she might look around and see men in long, furred gowns and ladies in strange headdresses. A brilliance caught her eye like a flame. She turned, and there was Ash, entering the chapel.

  She almost laughed aloud, even as her hopes crumbled.

  He shone like an angel made of ivory and gold. She blinked away that strange vision, but his pale suit was still lushly embroidered in brilliant colors and golden threads, and his buttons on coat and waistcoat flashed fire like diamonds.

  They probably were diamonds.

  His possessions had clearly arrived, revealing the truth. This must be the sort of clothing he wore at court, and she was sure he’d chosen his most splendid outfit as a statement to his cousin.

  She glanced around and found Lord Rothgar near the altar. His was a quieter magnificence, but it was of crimson and gold. Lady Arradale stood beside him in matching crimson, large rubies around her neck.

  How could she find humor in loss of hope? And yet she did. She and these people lived on different scales.

  She looked back—how could she not?—and Ash’s eyes met hers as if he had been watching her. A slight smile flickered. She couldn’t help but return it. Her love hadn’t altered.

  He began to come to her, but then they were all asked to settle for the service. She took her seat and opened her prayer book.

  Dr. Egan led the lovely, traditional Christmas prayers and readings. Genova sank into them, praying for peace. In the night she had regretted her spilled words on war, but no longer. They might have helped move Ash’s mind toward reconciliation, and that was the truly important thing.

  Mr. Stackenhull, the music master, led the hymns, but Genova was more aware of Ash’s voice. She sang quietly, as she always did, but hearing afresh the words.

  A great and mighty wonder,

  A full and blessed cure!

  The rose has come to blossom

  Which shall forever endure.

  Then later:

  Hark, how all the welkin rings!

  Glory to the King of Kings,

  Peace on earth and mercy mild,

  God and sinners reconciled.

  During the last verse of the last hymn she looked at Ash.

  Join then, all hearts that are not stone,

  And all our voices prove,

  To celebrate this holy one,

  The God of peace and love.

  She and Ash came together as everyone filed out, as inevitably, Genova felt, as the sea kissing the shore.

  “Hail, glorious morn. You look like sunrise, Genova.”

  She knew she blushed, and then blushed more because of it. “And you look like a seraphim.”

  “What?” His eyes lit with laughter. “No one’s called me an angel since I was a child.”

  She told him of her first impression, admiring the truly beautiful work in the flowers that bordered the front of his ivory velvet coat to a depth of at least eight inches.

  “You put my flowers-in-the-snow to shame.” Then she had to explain that, which led to thoughts of her embroidery and their meeting. But they shared the memories silently with looks.

  “I’m surprised anyone but an angel dares wear such an outfit.”

  He glanced down at himself. “Why?”

/>   “A mere human might spill a spot of gravy down it.”

  He laughed. “I would simply command the addition of another blossom. Lush embroidery is very practical, even economical, you see.”

  It was as if he knew that in the night, she’d thought that frugality and economy could substitute for a fortune. A laughable notion now.

  He tucked her arm in his, and gave his other to Thalia. They joined the procession back to the main part of the house, accompanied by Thalia’s inconsequential chatter.

  Genova didn’t mind that. Everything that needed to be said flowed between her and Ash without words, the delicious and the bitter. She felt it so strongly that she was surprised it wasn’t obvious to all.

  Thalia separated from them in the hall, chattering off to old friends. Genova saw Portia, in rich moss green velvet and some yellow jewels, and went over there with Ash to ask for news of Lady Elf. That was a business that all the money and the power in the world could not smooth.

  Portia pulled a face. “Is truly laboring mightily, but there don’t seem to be any problems. I wish it were over for everyone’s sake.”

  Ash let the women talk about birth and tussled with the problem of Genova Smith. He shouldn’t have smiled at her like that in the chapel, but how could he not when she looked as splendid as the dawn?

  He shouldn’t have said that, either. He should have resisted the pull to go to her, but could the tides resist the moon, or the moon the sun? And besides, they had this damnable betrothal to act out.

  He’d already learned that she was magnificent, but now she looked it—elegant, dignified, graceful, pink, silver, and pearl. The diamond was a discordant note, but she needed gold, he thought. Perhaps even topaz to reflect her hair. Yes, a rich parure of gold, pearls, and topaz…

  Lady Bryght left and Genova turned to him. “You’re very quiet.”