Genevieve promptly turned to the head groom.
“Take me to Rosemont now,” she ordered him. “Harness the team and have the driver take me there now.”
“Now, Miss Genevieve . . .”
“Now.”
If she’d had a whip she would have cracked it. He took a step back as surely as if she had and put up an arm to do it, as if in defense of her lightning-bolt gaze.
Her family and Harry were astounded a short time later when the Eversea barouche hurtled down the drive.
She found him, after demanding his whereabouts from the footman who’d so kindly received them the other day, in an office, sorting through the papers that would make it possible for Harry to take Rosemont.
She paused in the doorway to watch him for a moment.
She said it quietly. “You bastard.”
Moncrieffe turned slowly. When he saw her he went motionless. If anyone could drink with eyes, he did it. He drank her in.
Not that there wasn’t a particle of trepidation in his gaze, too. Because there was.
It was a long while before he could speak. “It was ‘badger’ . . . before.”
She wouldn’t smile.
“You would have let me go. You would have allowed me to marry him.”
“I did let you go. I did allow you to marry him. Did he propose?”
He said it so coolly she nearly struck him. Her hand actually raised, she dropped it down again. She was shaking with fury. So much this man had unleashed in her. Laughter and truth and depth and passion, and oh yes, temper.
He eyed that hand warily.
“Yes. He proposed.”
“And did you accept him?”
“Yes. I accepted him.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Ah.” He stood watching her, a frown between his eyes. She could feel him beginning to retreat into himself. “That is a dilemma.”
He thought this was amusing? She was in hell.
“You love me,” she accused softly.
He didn’t admit it. He didn’t deny it.
He was breathing rather more quickly.
“Are you here for a reason, Genevieve?” His voice was growing colder. His way of imposing distance.
Her frustration howled from her. “You helped me show Harry’s heart to him. But you couldn’t show mine to me?”
“Listen to yourself, Genevieve. You sound like a child stomping her feet. How spoiled and greedy you’ve become. I can only teach you so much. You’re a grown woman. I can attest to that.” He raked a look over her that took in the wine red walking dress that yes, suited her beautifully and wouldn’t clash with her complexion should she go scarlet with a blush or anger. “And some things you have to learn entirely on your own.”
“But . . . you left. And you gave him Rosemont. You lost to him deliberately.”
“Genevieve . . . I swear to you. It wasn’t meant to hurt you. Or Harry. But tell me, how would you ever have seen it otherwise? And isn’t it better to know?”
“It” being her heart.
“It” being how she truly felt.
Damn him. He was right.
It didn’t mean she was any less furious with him.
“I couldn’t see it because you are my heart, damn you! And how can I see my own heart if it’s beating in my own chest?” She was practically raging at him.
He had no answer to that apparently. But something fierce and thrilling flashed in his eyes, and stayed there and the devil . . . he smiled slowly, as though a dim pupil had finally come around.
“And so you see now.” He was demanding clarification.
She still wasn’t ready to say it. “And now, because of you, I have to break Harry’s heart.”
“Do you?” he said softly, swiftly. He took a step toward her.
She took a step back. “I don’t want to do it.”
“Everything has a cost, Genevieve,” he said softly, stepping closer.
She took a step back. She put her hands up to her face. And yes. Of course it was hot. It always seemed to be around him.
“It’s a terrible cost. He loves me . . . so much.” Her voice cracked. She made it sound like his fault.
“You cannot get through life unscathed, Genevieve.”
“Stop lecturing me. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Then what a pity it is that you love only me,” he retorted.
Silence was absolute.
They stared at each other, astonished to hear that word for perhaps the first time between them.
And then wary.
She inhaled, and sighed out the breath, and closed her eyes.
“Bastard,” she murmured. This time it sounded very like “I love you.”
His mouth twitched at the corner. He may have released a breath.
They continued to regard each other warily from a distance beyond the reach of their fingertips.
“Have you stopped loving me?” she whispered. Astonishing what she now had the courage to ask. “Because of how stupid I’ve been?”
“Tell me first what you came here to say and then I’ll tell you whether I ever did.”
His idea of humor. And she noticed he didn’t rush to her defense when she’d called herself stupid.
It would have been silent, except that her head thudded so hard the blood rang in her ears. Nobody spoke, until:
“Bastard,” he whispered mockingly right along with her.
She was going to say it. It was welling in her. Her head felt as though it might float away from her body from a sort of joyous terror. Vertigo again—everything associated with love seemed to make a person either desperately physically uncomfortable or out of their minds with pleasure—but it was the kind of vertigo that deceived her into thinking she was flying. And all at once she could see forever, but she wasn’t entirely certain the forever she wanted would be hers. That she would ever reach it.
It was up to the man she had all but sent away.
And she had to say it anyway.
And though she could scarcely even feel them, her lips formed the words, and sound emerged, sounding frayed, and small and cracked, forged in her somehow before she was born, since before time, words meant only for him.
“I love you.”
Three of the most powerful words in the world offered to one of the most powerful men in London in such a small voice.
And at first she thought nothing at all had happened. He didn’t blink. But then she realized she’d somehow set him . . . softly ablaze. Emotion burned from him, and his eyes . . . she would never forget his eyes in this moment.
His hands remained at his sides.
Which is when she noticed they were trembling.
God help her, that’s when she felt tears begin to burn at the back of her eyes.
One got away. And she brushed her hand roughly against it.
And the man who never cleared his throat . . . cleared his throat. And his voice, in truth, wasn’t a good deal louder than hers.
“Then it’s just as well that I love you, Genevieve.”
Very, very softly he said it, as though the two of them were in church, or as if he were reciting a spell. With that way he had of making everything he said sound true and right. Then again, they’d become so used to speaking to each other softly, as so much of their conversation took place in the dark.
And she doubted he’d been anywhere near a church in a very long time.
“Well, good,” she sniffed.
“And I would be honored if you would consent to be my wife,” he added.
Finally a proper proposal!
“Once you’ve jilted Harry.”
Oh God, but he was a devil. Who in their right mind would marry this man? She’d have to be mad. It was wicked and awful. But she was laughing and crying all at once.
“Yes, please, I will marry you.”
“Yes please?” he mocked gently, and as quickly as he always moved she was enfolded in his arms.
And
this was when she could feel him at last surrender his calm, and his whole body was shaking.
Oh God. So he’d been afraid. He’d taken an enormous risk. He’d come so close to losing her. But he was a gambler, and the legend still held true: the Duke of Falconbridge always won, even when he lost.
She held him fast, and soothed him as he’d comforted her the other night, when she’d frantically searched the house for him and then erupted in a storm of love for him, though she hadn’t seen it for what it was.
He’d known.
He kissed her hair, her forehead, and then her lips, and that’s where his lips lingered.
“But I will have to tell everyone now. I have to break Harry’s heart. It will cause such distress. Or at least an uproar.”
“Blame me. Everyone thinks I’m an evil bastard anyway.”
“I will kill anyone who dares say it aloud.”
“Then you’ll be very, very busy shedding blood.”
She laughed.
“Hush,” he said. “In exchange for causing an uproar, I will dedicate myself to making you happy for the rest of your life.”
“Then you only need live for a good long time, for you are everything I need to be happy.”
He gave a short wondering laugh at this. She felt his shoulders jump beneath her hands, and suddenly this seemed fascinating and precious. She felt shy and desperately protective and it was almost more than she could bear, but then he was always a little ahead of her in terms of realizing and bearing things. She would bear it happily.
And then gently he extricated himself from her, and stood back. He lifted her up onto the desk and leaned toward her. “Genevieve . . . there is something I need to do now . . .”
“Yes?” She was breathless with anticipation.
He took her hand . . . and brought it up to his lips . . . and kissed it.
“Something for you to cherish forever,” he said.
She had no doubt that she would.
Epilogue
While the duke took care of obtaining a special license, Genevieve set out to do one of the hardest things she’d ever done. She invited Harry out for a walk along the lane to do it, because . . . well, why not? She was beginning to associate that walk with being marched before a firing squad, and perhaps it was a ceremonial part of every life change from now on. He paused to pick up a leaf, one of the few that hadn’t yet been trampled or disintegrated by rain.
Harry was silent for a long time after she told him. In as few sentences as possible, that she could not marry him and would be marrying the duke instead.
“I cannot say I’m surprised,” he finally said.
She didn’t want him to expound on that, and so she only said, “I’m sorry to hurt you.”
He sucked in a breath. And then he dropped head in a nod. And then he pressed his lips together and kept nodding. She had a terrible suspicion this was the way men fought off tears.
He took another breath. He crumbled the leaf into powder. She wondered if he considered it symbolism.
“Did you ever love me?” he finally asked.
“Of course,” she said softly, astonished. “I love you still, Harry.”
He gave a short laugh. “As a dearest friend.”
She didn’t correct him. He was quoting himself with considerable bemusement, perhaps for the first time hearing it the way she’d heard it that day he’d told her he intended to propose to Millicent. How absurd and hurtful such warm-sounding words could be.
He thrust his hands into his pockets and stared at her as though seeing her for the first time, assessing, detached, wondering, and a panoply of expressions crossed his face. Doubtless it was very similar to the way she’d looked at him that day he’d finally issued his proposal.
She didn’t take any pleasure in it.
They were quiet now. Even though she’d always wanted to spare him unhappiness, always wanted to make things better for him, she didn’t ask him what he was thinking. This was something he would need to understand and accept without her help.
“Perhaps I’ll proceed to the Continent,” he said defiantly. “Go off to fight a foreign war.”
“I hope you won’t.”
“I probably won’t,” he admitted glumly after a moment. “Though the Continent might do me some good.”
She smiled faintly. And so did he.
“Harry . . . the duke is sincere in wanting you to have Rosemont. He forfeited by his hand and followed the rules of the game. It’s yours.”
“He likely meant it to be yours, Genevieve.”
She didn’t answer that, because it’s precisely what the duke had wanted. The duke had intended to make a statement. He’d sent a message to Genevieve with it.
He’d certainly succeeded.
“It’s yours now.”
“As consolation prizes go, it could be worse.” Harry smiled crookedly. There was a hint of self-deprecating irony and a new hardness in his voice.
She thought that heartbreak might just give his character the shadows and corners and angles it needed to make it truly interesting. To deepen and shape it.
She was sorry she would be the one to help make him truly interesting.
But she’d never apologize for falling in love with a man who already was.
“Well, that’s more like it, dear,” her mother said with relief, with another hug and a kiss, when she learned that Genevieve would be marrying the duke.
Hmm. Her mother was full of surprises.
“Are you sure you want this one, and you won’t keep trying men on and taking them off like hair ribbons? You’re sure the duke is the last of the future husbands you’ll be producing?” Her father was teasing her, which meant he heartily approved. Doubtless he entertained visions of endless games of five-card loo in his future.
Both of her parents were a bit misty.
“You see,” Ian told Colin later at the Pig & Thistle, “I did do the man a favor. I found him the right wife.”
Colin snorted. “You can say that now, but I will forever cherish the look on your face when our Genevieve told us she’d be marrying the duke.” Colin promptly imitated that look.
“So I looked like someone who’d been clubbed in the head? Thank you. Fascinating.”
Ian had the sinking suspicion Colin would imitate that look frequently and mockingly for the rest of his life.
Colin acknowledged this by raising his tankard to his brother sardonically and then taking a swig of ale. “Do we think he truly intends to marry Genevieve?”
“He sent for a special license. The man is smitten. The wedding is in a few days’ time.”
“Well, isn’t that remarkable.”
Colin began to go misty-eyed at the notion of marriage again, so Ian kicked him beneath the table before he could begin rhapsodizing about the matrimonial condition.
“Ow. So have we established that the duke doesn’t intend to kill you?”
“He doesn’t. He said Genevieve would kill him if he harmed a hair on my head, and that he cherishes the things she cherishes so he’ll refrain from murdering me.” The duke had in fact pulled him aside to say this. Ian left off the part where Moncrieffe had said, “Even if the things she cherishes are feckless.”
He suspected that he and the duke might, eventually, one day, dare he think it . . . be friends.
“Who knew our Genevieve could be so surprisingly strict?” Colin mused.
“I would never have guessed it.”
They toasted to their sister’s happiness.
And as for Genevieve and Moncrieffe, they were married in the church at Pennyroyal Green by her cousin Adam Sylvaine, the vicar, and by the time the clock struck midnight on their wedding day, they were both fast asleep in each other’s arms.
They didn’t wake until the sun was high in the sky the next day.
Acknowledgments
My sincere appreciation to my splendid editor, May Chen, for her enthusiasm, support and insight; to all the gifted, hard-working people a
t Avon who helped make this book possible, especially Tom Egner for the beautiful cover design; to my fabulous agent, Steve Axelrod, for the wisdom and humor that make him such a pleasure to work with; and to Melisa, Karen, Toni, Josh, and all my friends and loved ones for inspiration, support, laughter, and sanity.
About the Author
San Francisco Bay Area native JULIE ANNE LONG originally set out to be a rock star when she grew up (and she has the guitars and fringed clothing stuffed in the back of her closet to prove it), but writing was always her first love. She began her academic career as a Journalism major, until she realized Creative Writing was a better fit for her freewheeling imagination and overdeveloped sense of whimsy. And when playing guitar in dank, sticky clubs finally lost its “charm,” Julie realized she could incorporate all the best things about being in a band—namely drama, passion, and men with unruly hair—into novels, while also indulging her love of history and research. Since then, her books have been nominated for numerous awards, including the RITA®, Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice, the Holt Medallion, Bookseller’s Best, and The Quills, and reviewers have been known to use words such as “dazzling,” “brilliant,” and “impossible to put down” when describing them. Visit Julie at www.julieannelong.com, www.julieannelong.typepad.com, or www.myspace/julieannelong.
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WHAT I DID FOR A DUKE Copyright © 2011 by Julie Anne Long. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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