The Marrying Season (3 page)

“It’s a very romantic story,” Damaris said. “But the local legend is about what happened after that.”

“What happened?” Genevieve asked, intrigued.

“It is said that when one prays before that statue with a true and earnest heart, love will come to you,” Thea explained.

Genevieve raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And do you know anyone to whom this actually happened?”

“Yes. Me,” Thea said simply.

Genevieve had no idea how to respond. She turned toward Damaris. “And you did that as well?”

“Oh, no. I was doing my best to avoid love, not find it,” Damaris replied drily.

“Well, I am certain it wasn’t Alec who did so.” Genevieve giggled at the thought of her large, fierce-visaged brother kneeling before an ancient statue to pour out his heart.

“Mm. It seems a bit unlikely,” Thea agreed. “But perhaps one doesn’t need to ask, only to have it in one’s heart.”

Alec’s heart, Genevieve knew, was as romantic as anyone’s, however he appeared. Her heart, on the other hand, was that of a true Stafford. She smiled faintly. “Then I fear it is quite useless for me.”

It took a good deal
of time and what Genevieve’s grandmother termed a “raucous display” before the new bride and groom were on their way. Genevieve smiled and waved with the rest of the guests, but she could not deny the little clutch of loneliness in her chest. She had not lost her brother, of course; she knew she could always rely on Alec. But it would not be the same.

“Everything is changed now,” her grandmother said, echoing Genevieve’s thoughts in a manner that no longer surprised Genevieve. The countess turned and started back into Damaris’s house. “We must think to your future.”

“Must we?” Genevieve asked.

“Of course.” The countess sat down, allowing herself the first small show of weakness since the wedding began.
“The gossip Alec’s marriage will engender makes it even more imperative that you marry well.”

“I? Marry?” Genevieve turned toward her grandmother in surprise.

“Yes. The family’s reputation will suffer, of course, once people learn about the matter of Damaris’s unfortunate birth. Your marriage to a man of excellent name would do much to counter that.”

“But . . . I have no plans to marry.”

“Not yet. You needn’t look shocked, Genevieve. Surely you do not expect to remain a spinster?”

“Well, no, certainly not. But I had not thought of marriage . . . anytime soon.”

“There has been no need to think about it until now. But you are twenty-five years old, my dear. Not on the shelf, of course, but still . . . there’s the matter of children to consider.”

“Children?” Genevieve responded weakly.

“Goodness, Genevieve, there’s no need to parrot my words. I am simply reminding you that it is time. With Alec taking a bride, you will no longer be the hostess of Stafford House. You won’t run Rawdon’s household. You will scarcely enjoy giving over the reins to another woman. But, there, we don’t need to discuss it now. Plenty of time later.” Lady Rawdon turned away and scanned the remaining guests, and her hand went to the pocket of her elegantly simple dress. “Oh, dear. I seem to have lost my spectacles.”

“Your pince-nez?” Genevieve asked in surprise. The countess wore the little glasses only for close work.

“Yes. They must have slipped out of my pocket at the church. Be a dear and fetch them for me.”

“Of course.”

Pausing only long enough to pick up her cloak, Genevieve walked to St. Margaret’s, a squat, stone, square-towered church that lay across a small footbridge from the rest of the village. Inside the empty church lit only by the rays of the afternoon sun, Genevieve went to the front pew, where she and the countess had sat. There was no glint of the spectacles, though she ran her hand over the cushion to be sure, then squatted to search beneath the seats. Genevieve sighed and stood up. It wasn’t like her grandmother to be forgetful—or wrong, for that matter. But Genevieve could not imagine why the countess would have sent her on a fool’s errand, either.

Whatever the reason, Genevieve was glad to have a little time to herself to think about her grandmother’s startling words. The countess was right, of course. It was time that Genevieve married. However pleasant Damaris might be, she was accustomed to running a household; she would not leave the reins of her new home in Genevieve’s hands. And Genevieve was not the sort to relish living in a house under another woman’s control. It was not as if Genevieve had planned never to marry. She had always expected to, presumed she would . . . at some point in the future. But that point was now.

Genevieve sighed and strolled across the church into the small side chapel. Narrow, stained-glass windows cast a dim glow over the chamber, lighting the recumbent
effigies on the tombs of a long-dead lord and his lady. Against one side wall stood a cracked and battered wooden statue of a saint next to a rack of votive candles and a prie-dieu. This had to be Thea’s saint. She walked over to the roughly carved statue. It was even more humble than the rest of this country church. Here and there were faded traces of the paint that had once adorned it. A crack started at one shoulder and ran several inches down the figure’s chest. It hardly seemed the sort of thing to inspire a legend. She wondered if, as Thea believed, true love came to those who yearned for it. Not Staffords, of course. And yet . . . she could not help but think of her brother’s face as he danced with Damaris, the sharp lines softened, his eyes alight. Or the way they had looked at each other in the church today as they said their vows. Something turned in her chest, piercing and hot and cold, all at once. What must it be like to know that emotion? To lay one’s heart in another’s hands?

She swallowed against the choking sensation rising in her throat. Feeling faintly foolish, she picked up one of the tiny sticks beside the flickering votive candles and lit a candle from the flames of another. She knelt, carefully holding her skirt so it would not catch and tear, and clasped her hands in front of her on the padded leather bar.

Now what?

Genevieve glanced at the plain statue beside her. Crudely carved though it was, somehow the artist had made the face kind, even understanding. Genevieve turned back to the flames dancing in their small red-glass cups.

“Dear God,” she whispered, “pray send me a husband. The right husband,” she added hastily. But what did that mean? “A man of substance and good character.”

What else should she say? Surely the Lord would know the proper qualities her husband should have. The man must come from an old family; that went without saying. While he did not need to be a Midas, a certain amount of money was necessary. Not too old. Certainly not a rattle like Lord Farnsley’s son. But neither would one want a bookish man like Thea’s brother, say, who always prattled on about Roman ruins and such. Someone who could ride; she could not imagine spending her life with a man who did not love horses as she did. A man who was responsible and aware of his duty. Presentable in appearance. He need not be an Adonis like Gabriel Morecombe, but she would, after all, have to see him day after day. She imagined for a fleeting, wistful moment how nice it would be to have a husband who could make her laugh like Sir Myles did or who had his charm or his grace on the dance floor—but of course those were hardly necessary qualities in a husband.

She scowled into the candles. The flames were creating little gold and black spots in her vision. It occurred to her how peculiar she would look if anyone walked in. It was altogether silly—as if one could summon up a proper husband just by kneeling and asking for one.

A door slammed, and Genevieve jumped to her feet, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. She stepped out into the nave of the church.

A blond-haired man stood at the door, peering inside. Lord Dursbury. Presentable. Well-bred. Sober and responsible. And a lineage almost equal to her own.

“Ah, there you are,” he said cheerfully and smiled. “Lady Rawdon sent me to find you. Did you find what you came for?”

Genevieve smiled back at him. “ I believe I have.”

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

H
allo, Myles,” a voice greeted
Sir Myles as soon as he stepped into White’s.

Sir Myles glanced over at the gentlemen lounging by the fireplace and nodded politely. “Carrington. Giles. Mr. Dilworth.”

“Haven’t seen you in an age. Where have you been?”

“Business on the estate.” Myles strolled over to them. The other men belonged to a gambling-mad set Myles rarely joined, but courtesy required that he stop to chat for a few moments.

“Thought you’d be at the Morecombes’ ball tonight,” Carrington went on.

“Have the invitation right here,” Myles responded vaguely, patting his pocket. He saw no reason to add that he had not decided whether he would go. The social whirl had grown stale these days.

“Morecombe’s a good chap. Don’t know about this ball, though. Now that Lady Genevieve’s engaged to
Lord Dursbury, he and his set are bound to be there. Dull dog, Dursbury.”

“No doubt,” Myles replied, casually picking an almost invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. “Lady Genevieve seems happy?”

“Hard to tell, with her.” Mr. Dilworth chuckled. “Though the rumors are Dursbury may cry off.”

“What?” Myles raised his head sharply. “Who says that? ’Twould be the act of a cad to break their engagement.”

“Oh, I imagine Dursbury’s too much of a gentleman to do it. But the rumors are all over. If you hadn’t been ruralizing for months, you’d have heard it.” Carrington gave a vague wave of his hand.

“Lady Looksby’s where I saw it.”

“Who?”

“You know, the column in
The Onlooker
. Lady Looksby, she calls herself.”

“That scandal sheet?” Myles scoffed.

Mr. Dilworth retrieved a paper from the table in the hall. “Yes, it says right here: ‘What lord is having second thoughts about his wedding? I have heard bets are being laid in Brooks’s on whether Lord D___ will make it to the altar. He may be this northern lady’s last hope, but with the wedding delayed yet again, Lady Looksby thinks the omens are not good.’ ”

Myles let out a rude snort. “Don’t be a fool—as if this scribbler knows anything about either one of them.”

“Smoke and fire and all that,” Carrington replied archly.

“Yes, it’s the devil of a thing—Lady Looksby seems
to hear it all. There are some say she’s really a member of the
ton
.”

“Well, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your gossip rag,” Myles said, stepping away. “As you said, I have a party to attend.”

“But you just arrived.” The men looked at him, confused.

“Nevertheless . . .” Myles sketched them a bow and walked away.

Genevieve gazed out across the
crowd as Lady Dursbury and Miss Halford assured one another that the flowers were lovely, the music was melodic, and the crowded room was quite warm. A few feet away, one of Dursbury’s friends was droning on about the carriage he was considering buying.

The unfortunate fact was that Genevieve found several of her fiancé’s friends and family a trifle boring. Dursbury, of course, ever the perfect gentlemen, was much too loyal and polite to seek more entertaining company. Genevieve suppressed a sigh, reminding herself that only the need for chaperonage kept her and her fiancé constantly surrounded by others. Once they were married, it would be different. They would be together alone.

A hard knot formed in Genevieve’s chest. She was not sure what it was, but the constriction had made its presence known more and more often recently. She had not told her grandmother; she would not want to worry her, and it was nothing, really. Nor was it odd to be sleeping
less these days, to find it hard to fall asleep and sadly easy to awaken.

“Ah, Lady Genevieve, look who is here,” Lady Elora said, interrupting her thoughts, and Genevieve turned to see that Foster Langdon had joined Elora and Iona.

“Mr. Langdon.” Genevieve suppressed a groan. Foster Langdon had begun hanging about the past few weeks, professing his admiration and bemoaning his supposedly broken heart at the news of her engagement. Genevieve avoided him as best she could, but Lady Elora seemed to have a soft spot for the man and rarely turned him away.

“You put the moon to blush for shame tonight,” Langdon told Genevieve now, taking her hand although she had not offered it to him.

“Indeed, you are too kind,” Genevieve said coolly as she tried to pull her hand from his grasp, finally jerking it free.

He leaned closer, and Genevieve edged back, wrinkling her nose at the strong scent of wine that rose from him. The man was thoroughly foxed. As if to prove her point, he swayed a trifle and reached out to steady himself. Genevieve slid a few more inches away.

“Excu—” she began, and at that moment she heard Myles Thorwood’s voice.

“Ladies,” Sir Myles greeted them cheerfully. “Langdon, I cannot allow you to keep the most beautiful women of the
ton
to yourself.”

With relief Genevieve turned to Myles as he inserted himself between her and Mr. Langdon. On the other side
of her, Lady Dursbury preened and smiled at their new visitor, her dark, liquid eyes lambent with promise.

“Sir Myles!” she cooed. “I vow, we have not seen you in an age. You have been sorely missed. I was telling Miss Halford only yesterday that I believed you must be shunning our company.”

“No, you wrong me, my lady.” Myles bowed to Elora. “I have been out of the city. Pressing matters at home. Rest assured that it was out of no desire to avoid the company of such a lovely lady as yourself.” He turned to Genevieve, his smile rakish. “Lady Genevieve. I trust you missed me, as well.”

“La, sir, I had not realized you were gone,” Genevieve replied airily.

Sir Myles grinned. “My dear lady, I know that is a plumper.” When Genevieve raised her brows, he went on, “I believe you once told me I was like a small pebble lodged in one’s shoe. And one is always aware when such an annoyance as that vanishes.”

Genevieve’s laugh trilled out at his words. Dursbury’s stepmother cast her a surprised glance, but quickly said, “I am sure Lady Genevieve did not mean to insult you, sir.”