A Perfect Secret (Rogue Hearts)

by Hatch, Donna

  “Childhood friends...” Rachel’s eyes narrowed as if sifting through memories. “Who is it?”

  He sighed. “James Ingel.”

  “He’s here?” The dismay was clear in her voice.

  “Apparently he’s some relation to the duke up on the hill.”

  “I didn’t realize James Ingel had ties to anyone of significance.”

  “Distantly, I’m told.” He watched her reaction.

  Rachel chewed on her lower lip, no doubt debating whether or not she wished to see James Ingle and rekindle the love-hate relationship they’d once had. “Will you win?” she asked.

  Christian shrugged. “I haven’t lost a steeplechase in years.”

  “I’d like to see you beat that ... that ….” She dropped off. “And Genevieve will come, too.”

  “Oh, no. I think not,” Genevieve said.

  “You need to get out of the cottage. It would do you some good to be around people.”

  Christian ran a hand through his hair. He should have kept the race to himself. But Rachel didn’t seem very pleased at the prospect of seeing Ingel. Perhaps no harm would come of her being present. And to drag Genevieve out into public when she feared exposure seemed cruel. However, Rachel was right; Genevieve had been working very hard and could use an outing.

  Genevieve’s long, slender fingers toyed with the stem of her wineglass. Christian admired the way the candlelight played in the curves of her face and in the shine of her hair. She looked up at him. “I would like to go, but ....”

  Rachel nodded. “Then it’s settled.”

  “... but I fear that is not appropriate for a secretary.”

  Rachel opened her eyes in astonishment. “Genevieve, I’m surprised at you. We’re on a first name basis, and you dine with us at night. I hope you know that you are not merely my secretary. I only pay you because you insist on working yourself to the bone. Otherwise, I’d be pleased to have you as my guest.”

  Genevieve faltered and shot Christian an imploring look. Perhaps it was time for her to confide in Rachel so they wouldn’t have to keep up the charade. Moreover, Rachel would be hurt if she learned they were keeping a secret from her as if they didn’t trust her.

  As he opened his mouth to chide Rachel for trying to bully Genevieve into going somewhere she clearly did not wish to go, he reconsidered. Rachel hadn’t expressed an interest in any social gathering in ages. Perhaps this would be the beginning of getting her to make appearances now and again. And if Genevieve didn’t go, Rachel might not.

  “It might be good for you both,” he finally said. And surely this far from society, no one would recognize Genevieve.

  Genevieve’s brows drew together. “Perhaps you’re right. I haven’t attended any social event thing in over a year. I admit, the prospect has some appeal.”

  So Wickburgh had kept her a prisoner their entire marriage? The scoundrel. Christian would have plenty of reason to call out Wickburgh. The thought made him want to seek out Wickburgh that moment and call him out.

  He drew a breath and let it out slowly, letting go of his anger. They passed the rest of the evening quietly, Rachel strumming her lap harp, Christian drawing, and Genevieve finishing a handkerchief for Rachel.

  As the hour grew late, Genevieve arose. “If you’ll excuse me. I’m going to take a bath and retire. Goodnight.”

  After they bid her a good night, Rachel raised her brow and looked pointedly at Christian. “Exactly what are your intentions toward my secretary?”

  “I have no intentions. She was in need of some aid and I brought her to you.”

  “And why is it that you are still here?”

  “You don’t like my company?”

  “You know that’s not what I mean. But the last time you visited, you were only here two days. You seem to be settled in for a long stay.” She shifted the harp on her lap.

  “You were traipsing all over the moor every day and muttering over your notes every evening. You weren’t very good company. And I didn’t think you’d stay in this self-imposed exile for so long.”

  Rachel pressed her lips together. “It isn’t like you to be so evasive, Chris.”

  Christian stared unseeing into the flame of a nearby cluster of candles. “I’m only trying to help her. And I want you both to get on a ship for the continent with me. She needs to find a position abroad. Once she’s settled, I’m hoping you’ll join me in Italy for an extended stay.”

  She fell silent for so long plucking at the strings of her small harp that he began to hope she’d dropped the subject. He was wrong. “I have the feeling there is more to her than she’s telling me.”

  Christian hoped he didn’t look as guilty as he felt. “Everyone has secrets.”

  “She has the mannerisms of a very fine lady, and while she bears a great deal of sorrow, she’s never spoken of her husband. Not once. I’m not entirely certain she’s mourning his passing.”

  “That’s something you’ll have to ask her.”

  “And I’ve seen the way you watch her.”

  He shielded his expression, donning a casual smile. “And why wouldn’t I? She’s beautiful. As an artist, I’m drawn to beauty.”

  “And that’s all?”

  Christian let out his breath in frustration. “She is not available, Rachel. Therefore, I don’t have any desire for more.”

  She set down her harp. “I don’t understand. She’s a widow so why would she be unavailable? And I know you aren’t bent on marrying some heiress.”

  Wordlessly, he moved to the pianoforte and began a sonata.

  “You’re in love with her,” Rachel said, half accusingly, half in wonder.

  His fingers stilled, poised over the keys. Was it true? Did he still love her?

  “Who is she?”

  If he didn’t tell her something, she’d start asking questions Genevieve obviously wasn’t prepared to have answered. “She’s the girl I almost married in Bath last summer.”

  Rachel drew in her breath, then let it out in a long “Ohhhh. She married a lord, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.” He said flatly. Let her come to her own conclusions.

  “How do you feel about all this?”

  “Conflicted.” He resumed playing, pretending to be focused on his music.

  “There’s no Lord Jennings in the book of peerages, nor do I remember a lord with the surname of Jennings.”

  She narrowed her eyes but he pointedly looked away. Rachel said nothing more about Genevieve that evening and Christian relaxed as he played. His plan to get Genevieve to safety and spend time with his sister had worked well. If only he could quell his growing tenderness for the woman he could never have ….

  CHAPTER 17

  Genevieve eyed the horse in front of her and nervously fingered the strings on her bonnet. From the moment she awoke, a terrible foreboding had seized her. She’d tried to talk Christian out of the race, but he would hear none of it. She reached a trembling hand out to the horse to let him smell her.

  “How did I let myself get talked into this?”

  Rachel looked unrepentant. “Because you can’t say no to me.”

  She let out a long sigh. It was true. She’d grown to adore Rachel in the short time she’d been here, and wanted to see her happy. Genevieve rubbed her eyes, burning and bleary from staying up so late mending one of Rachel’s coats after she went to her room on the pretense of retiring. Rachel was so focused on her work that she never noticed her own needs. But Genevieve loved taking care of Rachel; for the first time in years, she felt needed. At Wickburgh’s estate, she’d been forbidden to leave the house to do her duty in taking care of the tenants and the servants. Now Rachel wanted her to go hilltopping with her. Of course Genevieve had capitulated.

  “You have ridden before, haven’t you?” Rachel asked, misunderstanding her fear.

  “It’s been a long time.”

  Christian said softly, “It’s only a tiny hamlet. Few people will be there.” A little louder, he said,
“You won’t fall off. A few minutes in the saddle and it will all come back to you. Up you go.” Christian gave her a leg up.

  After adjusting the skirts of her dark green riding habit that had once belonged to Alicia, Genevieve settled in on the side saddle. The horse moved slightly under her, and she was relieved to find the motion not entirely unfamiliar. Christian paused next to her, his hands out as if expecting to catch her as she slid off. As she found her seat, he glanced up at her with approval lighting his eyes. She tried to smile but her lips wavered.

  Ever sensitive to her mood, he sobered, searching her face. “What is it?”

  She opened her mouth, but couldn’t express the growing anxiety that knotted her stomach, nor identify its source.

  Rachel interjected. “Your mare is very gentle. She probably won’t try to join in the race with the others, unlike this one,” she patted her mount, “who will find it hard to resist.”

  Genevieve shifted slightly, relaxed into the saddle, and let out her breath in resignation. As she reacquainted herself to the sensation of sitting on horseback, she stroked her horse’s smooth neck. “What’s her name?”

  “Pisces.”

  “Are all your horses named after mythical characters?”

  “All the ones who come from Cole. He’s mad about mythology and astronomy.”

  “He’s horse-mad, too,” added Rachel, “in case you didn’t guess.”

  Christian mounted his Erebos and they set off at an easy pace. The wizened stable hand came tottering out, yelling and shaking his fists. Laughing, they spurred their mounts and rode out of shouting range.

  “Where did you dig up that old fossil?” Christian jerked a thumb behind them toward the stable.

  Rachel wrinkled her nose. “He came with the cottage. I think he must be a hundred and fifty.”

  They rode through the hills. As they rode, Genevieve’s nervousness dissipated. The sun peeped over the mountains, painting the clouds pink and gold against a cobalt sky. On such a lovely day, worries seemed irrational. She admired verdant green hills and heather growing wild on the moors. The sun burst through the clouds, lighting up the glorious landscape. Small animals scurried out of their way. She’d been under the mistaken impression that the moors were flat, but they were rugged, with rocky outcroppings. Over the last few days, she’d become intimately acquainted with the moor’s wild beauty. She’d be sad to leave when the time came. They passed several low stone fences along the way, all the while the church steeple drew nearer.

  As they approached the church where Christian and his opponent would begin their race, Genevieve’s pulse quivered. Christian was a first-rate racer, but steeplechases were dangerous. The thought of him getting hurt made her heart seize up. But she’d forfeited her rights to urge him to reconsider when she failed to become his wife.

  She glanced at him. As he eyed the layout of the land, his flushed face and sparkling eyes revealed his excitement. Everything Christian did, whether he painted, played music, rode, or loved, he did it with matchless, unapologetic passion.

  She looked away, blinking back tears and swallowing against a lump choking her. Soon they’d part ways, probably forever, and his constant presence would no longer batter with her the constant temptation to release the hold on her heart and allow herself to fall in love with him all over again.

  “Ingel!” Christian waved to another man who rounded a hill and approached them. He urged his mount forward.

  Desperate to say something to him, she called out, “Christian.”

  He paused, looked over his shoulder, his brows raised inquiringly. “Yes?”

  Thinking quickly, she held out one of the handkerchiefs she’d embroidered. “A favor for you, Sir Knight.”

  His brows rose in surprise. Grinning, he held out his arm, his pale eyes alight. “I’m honored, fair lady.”

  She tied her handkerchief around his forearm. “Good luck.” She prayed he wouldn’t be injured.

  “Let’s watch from up there.” Rachel pointed.

  “Don’t you want to speak with James Ingel?” Christian said to Rachel with a playful glint in his eye, and made a loose gesture to the distant figure approaching them.

  Rachel pinned Christian with a glare that should have felled him on the spot. He grinned in return.

  “Is he your opponent?” Genevieve asked.

  Christian nodded. “An old friend of the family.”

  He waved to the man who trotted up to them. The newcomer had dark brown hair and eye lashes that Genevieve envied. He also wore a rakish glint as his gaze fixed upon Rachel. “What a pleasure to see you again, Miss Amesbury.”

  “Mr. Ingel,” she said coolly.

  “You look even lovelier than ever.”

  “How kind of you to say.” She might have been exchanging pleasantries at the royal palace for all the stiff formality she displayed. “May I present Mrs. Jennings?”

  Mr. Ingel dragged his gaze off Rachel and glanced at Genevieve. He nodded politely and then did a double take, making a slow perusal a second time, his smile widening. “Mrs. Jennings. I am delighted to meet you.”

  Genevieve inclined her head. “Mr. Ingel.”

  His expression openly admiring, he awarded her with what he no doubt considered an irresistibly charming smile. But his appeal fell short compared to Christian’s.

  His gaze danced between them and his smile delighted. “I am honored to be in the presence of such breathtaking beauties.”

  “You waste your flattery, Ingel,” Rachel said. “Come, Genevieve, let’s find a place to view the race.” As they rode away, Rachel muttered under her breath, “Scoundrel.”

  “Good luck to you both,” Genevieve called to the racers.

  Her attention lingered on Christian who looked wholly masculine in his buckskin breeches that hugged his muscular legs, and dark, fitted riding coat. He positively vibrated with excitement. Reluctant to leave, she followed Rachel. They rode on ahead a goodly distance and found a good vantage point to watch the race. Others arrived and lined up along the course. Genevieve tugged at her bonnet to ensure it hid her face from the sun and its propensity to make her freckle, and to shield her from any curious eyes. It also concealed her distinctive hair.

  She glanced at Rachel. “Why do you dislike Mr. Ingel?”

  “He’s a libertine, a heartbreaker.”

  “A heartbreaker? Did he break yours?”

  “That was years ago before he became so dissipated. Now he breaks the hearts of everyone else.” Rachel pointed to a distant church on a hilltop. “They’ll race to that steeple. This course is unusually rough. Christian will love it. I hope he doesn’t get himself killed, the foolish, thoughtless, juvenile.”

  Genevieve smiled at Rachel’s sisterly concern, and shared the sentiment. “You love him very much, don’t you?”

  “He’s a cork-brained brat. A ninnyhammer.” Rachel smiled, clearly relenting. “I do love that pup.”

  “He’s raced many times, though, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, and I worry over him every time. I’m convinced he races far more than I know.”

  He’d raced twice outside of Bath last summer, and Genevieve had fretted over him both times. But now, the rugged course with so many stone fences, rises, rocks, and bluffs seemed downright foolhardy.

  They waited while small groups of spectators clustered together on the nearby hills. Genevieve watched in dismay as the crowds grew larger and larger. Waves of quivers rolled through her stomach at faster and faster intervals. She drew a breath, trying to compose herself. They were in a remote village, and her husband would never have come this far north for any reason. And Christian knew what he was doing. Yet a terrible foreboding returned in full force, sparking her nerves and racing along her skin.

  The competitors lined up, their horses dancing against the reins. A gunshot split the air and the horses leaped forward. Genevieve watched in awe and horror as the horses plunged through the predetermined course over hedges and stone walls, and send
ing up a spray as they charged through a stream.

  When the racers drew near Rachel and Genevieve’s position, Rachel called. “Let’s go. I want to see the finish.”

  Genevieve and Rachel rode along the hilltop and down to the next where they reined. Genevieve’s mount danced and pulled against the reins. Keeping a firm hold on the mare to prevent her from charging down the hill and joining the race, Genevieve turned the mare in a circle. The riders rushed headlong at a terrifying pace, hurtling over and around obstacles at the last possible second, neither giving any quarter.

  “This is madness,” Genevieve gasped.

  “It is,” Rachel agreed breathlessly. “You’d think he would have learned. He nearly killed himself in the fox hunt last autumn. But he’s so mad for it. I think it’s the one thing he does that always went against Mama’s wishes. Of course, my brothers approve, the idiots. They say it keeps him from being too soft.”

  “I would never call Christian soft. He’s certainly the most gentle man I’ve ever met but he’s also one of the manliest as well.”

  “Ohhh,” Rachel dragged out the word.

  Genevieve glanced at her. Speculation flowered in Rachel’s round eyes.

  Genevieve rushed to explain. “No. You misunderstand. I have no expectations whatever for him. He’s kind. And he helped me when I needed aid. But there’s nothing more.”

  Rachel tilted her head. “You never speak of your husband.”

  She cringed. “There’s no need. He’s no longer in my life.”

  “It wasn’t a happy marriage?”

  Genevieve heaved a great sigh. “No, far from it.”

  Rachel saved her from answering. “My twin sister Margaret has a terrible marriage, too. Her husband spends all hours of the day and night in the gaming halls and brothels.”

  If only Lord Wickburgh had such ordinary vices.

  “Here they come.” Rachel gestured.

  Christian and Mr. Ingel wound through the ravine, their horses running neck and neck. Genevieve and Rachel moved to the next hilltop within sight of the church. A white scarf fluttered from the branches of a tree near the front steps like a beacon to the racers, urging them to snatch the scarf and win the race.