The Hourglass (26 page)

“Do you want me to choose?”

She had already chosen, by coming to his bedroom. They both knew it, and the choice had nothing whatsoever to do with funeral music.

“Genie, you should go.”

“But there is so much to be done, and I had a nap before my sister arrived this afternoon. Was it just this afternoon? Goodness, it seems that days have gone by—we have accomplished so much.”

Decades had gone by, centuries, eons, since he’d felt this way. He rubbed his neck, to avoid rubbing where he ached. “You should go,” he repeated, feigning a yawn.

“Oh, you must be exhausted. Here, let me massage your neck for you.”

Before he could stop her, she pushed him toward the bed, then climbed up to wait for him there. Genie, in his bed. Genie, with her hair and her inhibitions all down. Genie.

Jupiter couldn’t save him now. He sighed and stepped toward the bed. To protect her sensibilities and preserve his modesty, he lay facedown on the mattress. Genie knelt beside him, tugged down the collar of his robe, and began to knead his neck and shoulders. Oh gods.

Then she bent forward and kissed where her hands soothed and smoothed. He could hear her breathing getting ragged, not as ragged as his, but her breath was burning on his bare skin. Her hair was like lightning, trickling against his neck. Her hand strokes were more urgent, her sighs more mews of wanting. Lud knew who was making those groans of pleasure and pain and passion, him or her.

Ardeth clutched the pillow to him like a drowning man grabs a floating log. He was going under anyway, his hold on his good intentions slipping away with the rising tide of desire. Then he did something he had never thought to do, had never known was possible, to save both of them.

Genie heard him sigh, knew he was surrendering to the heat between them, knew he would turn over and take her in his arms, take her to the stars, take her. She nibbled on his earlobe, waiting. He sighed again. She blew in his ear. He sighed.

Then she realized he was not sighing. Her hero had managed to put himself to sleep and the dastard was snoring!

Chapter Nineteen

“Who’s gettin’ hitched, one of the royals?”

“It ain’t no wedding, you clunch,” the driver of an ale cart called back to the drayman behind him on the long queue of stalled wagons. “Can’t you see the coffins?”

Now the second driver could see the wooden boxes under all the blossoms. “So who died? Some nabob and his whole harem?”

“I dunno. Maybe royalty after all.”

Sure enough, the funeral cortege was one of the finest most Londoners had ever seen, and the most festive. The only truly funereal aspect, other than the black armbands on the men and black clothes on most of the women, was a tall, black-haired rider on a black horse who led the procession. The watchers grew respectfully quiet when he passed by, giving the dead their due.

After Lord Ardeth and the hearses, a band played lively hymns, mourners chatted gaily while they
marched, children tossed coins and more flowers to the crowds lining the streets, and elegant carriages drawn by prime cattle made their prancing way toward St. Cecilia’s Chapel.

The coffins, the horses, and the children were all covered in flowers, in honor of a lavender seller called Clover by her fellow barrow pushers, just Clover. She had the grandest funeral any poor flower girl could hope for, with most of the Covent Garden market trailing behind. Why not? Their wares were all sold to the earl’s men at dawn. Besides, they were promised a ride to Richmond for the burial, and a good meal at an inn afterward.

The cobbler’s customers and neighbors marched along, their shoes highly polished. Pupils from the schoolteacher’s former academy came to show their sympathy for his loss, as did the congregation of the departed vicar. No one knew whom the veiled woman was bereaved of, but she could not have been terribly grief stricken, tossing flowers to the crowds and kisses to the best-looking young men.

In the carriages rode well-dressed nobs and not-so-well-dressed mourners, a few weeping, a few looking stunned at the sudden changes in their fortunes, and one, a stunning red-haired lady in black lace, fuming…especially when the solitary, unsmiling horseman was in view.

The chapel service was dignified, reverent, and short, with the officiating bishop referring to the list in his hand more than once, and to Lord Ardeth and the promised new roof more than that.

The burials took longer. There had not been enough gravediggers in so short a time, so some of the less-affected mourners dug in, literally, while extra hymns were sung. Clover’s interment received the same solemnities as the vicar’s, the shoemaker’s and the soldier’s sister’s, to the surprise and delight of her friends, who wept as copiously as the bereft families.

Enough bouquets and blossoms were placed at each grave site to cover the fresh earth, so the cemetery looked more like a field of flowers than a final, forlorn resting place.

Ardeth was pleased. Genie was not. Oh, she was happy the hurried plans had gone without much of a hitch—what was a foot or two of dirt?—and no one seemed to feel out of place, the swells and the street vendors reciting the same verses. And she was glad they’d been able to soften the blow of the losses for those who truly mourned.

She was also pleased that her sister and her husband had attended. Their presence meant Peter was well enough to leave behind, and that Lorraine had become less selfish, acknowledging others’ needs and her own debts. Lorraine did make certain, Genie noted, to keep Roger away from Daisy.

The supper afterward was more like a country fair than a funeral repast. Ardeth had sent riders and wagons and hampers and caterers to a small nearby inn that could not have managed the crowds on its own. Now all comers were served, inside and out, locals and Londoners, sad mourner and glad free-meal seeker.

Ardeth was host, lord of the manor, and Father Christmas all in one. He consoled; he consulted; he doled out coins. He spoke to nearly every man and woman present, avoiding Genie, it appeared to her, as much as he could. Even the children received more of his attention, as he and Olive performed tricks for their entertainment.

Miss Hadley and James Vinross did their part in seeing that everyone was content, and that the carriages and wagons and drays were emptied of foodstuffs, then filled with weary revelers. They all left well before dark. A few coaches went to the London docks; two headed straight north for Ardsley Keep rather than wait until Lord and Lady Ardeth were ready to leave town. More tears were shed at the partings, it seemed to Genie, than at the burials.

She was weeping herself, her emotions all muddled. She was glad her new friends would have new lives and that she had helped, sad that so many people had to die, and mad.

She knew it before, of course, but now she had a wider appreciation of just how wealthy her husband was, and how devious. But she was a lady. She would never cause a scene, especially amid this group. She watched Lorraine, obviously uncomfortable among the lower orders, maintain her poise and her politeness. Miss Hadley never appeared flustered, no matter how many times she was called upon to keep the vicar’s daughters away from the local farmers. Genie watched the shoemaker’s widow, how she cuddled the orphans, despite losing her own life’s companion. Even Miss Calverton, checking the cats in their crates, kept her composure in the crowd.

Genie could do no less. She would show her husband precisely what kind of female he’d married in so helter-skelter a fashion…and so permanently.

Because she was a lady she smiled at the right times. She looked serious at the appropriate moments, gave solace and support when they were needed, and handed out a few coins of her own. She was the countess; everyone looked toward her. They might go to Ardeth for bank deposits and deeds and getting things done, but people seemed to seek her approval, too. Genie stood firm despite the maelstrom in her mind, the butterflies in her stomach, and the anger in her heart. If she was up to the task of rebuilding people’s lives, surely she could manage her own. And her husband’s.

She waited until they were home.

Miss Hadley retired early, exhausted. She would have a tray in her room later. James was staying with the travelers at a wharf-side inn until their ship sailed in the morning. Genie sent Marie to her own room—or Campbell’s, over the stables—as reward for all of the maid’s labors.

She knocked on the library door. Then she went in.

She did not wait for him to find an excuse to leave, or someone else to save. If mayhem ruled or he got another hey-go-mad notion, it would have to wait until tomorrow. Now was Genie’s turn.

She had not taken her hair down. She had not put on her sheerest, lowest-cut gown. She was not here to seduce the man. Heaven knew if such a thing were possible; the devil knew she’d tried. She was simply going to set some rules of her own.

“Do not,” she began as soon as she marched across the room to where he was sitting in the leather armchair, sipping a brandy. He stood at her entry, setting the glass down on the floor. Olive started to drink from it, likely celebrating the cats’ departure, if the jug-bitten crow needed an excuse.

“Do not,” she repeated in a cold, clear voice, “ever do that again.”

Olive flew out of the room.

Ardeth pretended to misunderstand. “I doubt the
occasion will arise that we need to host a whore and a horde of flower girls.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.

“Would you like a drink?” he offered. “There must be a fresh glass somewhere.”

“I mean last night.”

For once, Ardeth was without that air of confidence, the certainty that he knew best, that he was in charge, the master. “I, ah…um…I was tired.”

“No man is that tired unless he is dead.”

Now that gave him pause.

Not Genie. She went on. “You played your tricks, one of Herr Mesmer’s discoveries or whatever it is you do.”

He held up his hands, an admission of guilt. “But I did not send you to sleep. I did not touch your mind.”

He did not touch her body, either. “No, you ran away. Like a coward.”

No one had ever called him a coward, not when he was wielding a medieval battle-ax, not when he was wielding a metaphorical scythe.

“Yes.” He had no defense.

“How do you think that made me feel?”

Judging from how he’d woken up, frustrated as hell. He kept quiet.

Genie stepped closer and poked one of her fingers into his chest. “You cheated.”

“Cheated? I did not know the rules.”

“Liar.”

“I do not lie,” he swore.

“Very well, do you like me?”

Silence.

“I know that you do. Do you want me?”

Silence.

“I take that for a yes also. You have seen we are well suited, almost partners. You would not treat a partner the way you treat me.”

“I have never had a partner.”

“And you do not now. I am your wife”—she poked his chest again—“not an audience at a performance. We were in our marriage bed, dash it, not a tent at a traveling magic show. I will not play those games, do you hear me?”

A corner of his mouth was turned up, at seeing his sweet little wife turn into a virago. “I believe the neighbors heard you.”

She lowered her voice. “If you do not want to be my husband, say so now and I will leave.”

“No.”

“No, you do not want to be my husband, or no, you will not answer?”

“No, do not leave.”

“Hmph. Well, at least you did not lie.”

“I do not lie,” he repeated.

“No? And what is that in your breeches, more winning lottery tickets?”

Now he had to smile. “I want you to stay. I want you.”

“But?”

“But I do not want to hurt you.”

She made another rude noise. “I have seen you hold a frightened cat. For heaven’s sake, I have seen you hold a baby. You would never, ever hurt me.”

He shrugged. “In the heights of passion, who is to say what might happen?”

Genie made a fist, hauled back, and slammed it into his stomach.

“Oof.” He staggered back, more in surprise than pain. “Odso, woman, what was that about?”

“That was for thinking I am some fragile flower. I have thorns. I had to learn to defend myself when there was no one else to do so. You are bigger and stronger, and have…odd talents, but I am not without weapons of my own.”

He rubbed his stomach. “I see.”

“So no more excuses,” she said, coming closer to him again. “And no nonsense about a vow. You might have taken an oath to be a better man, and you are fulfilling it a hundredfold. Just look at all those people you helped today alone. But you also made a vow to me, to be my husband. Not my friend, not my banker, not my protector, but my husband, Ardeth.”

She was right. Ardeth had wedded Imogene Hopewell Macklin to keep her safe, but her happiness was also in his hands. If the woman’s happiness depending on making love, well, he would just have to sacrifice his own concerns and be gentleman enough to oblige. For once, duty and pleasure came together; logic and lust could enjoy the same tumble; philosophy, philanthropy, and passion could all share the same bed. How nice. He would be careful and considerate and how quick could he get her to his chamber? He was not thinking of those scant four months, just the flight of stairs.