The Marrying Season (31 page)

Myles was talking about something, but she had no idea what. All she could think of was his hand hovering near her breast and whether he would move that last bit of space to touch her. When they reached her room, he walked in after her, and Genevieve’s heart hammered harder in her chest. It took her a moment to realize that her maid was not there waiting for her. She started toward the bellpull, but Myles took her wrist.

“Never mind. I told Penelope not to wait up. I shall be your maid tonight.”

She should have scolded him for his high-handedness, but she did not. She clasped her hands in front of her to hide their trembling as his hands went to her hair, carefully picking out her hairpins one by one until her hair fell around her shoulders. He wound his fingers through her hair, separating the strands and combing through it, massaging her scalp. Genevieve sighed in pleasure, relaxing beneath his ministrations.

Next he went to the buttons down the back of her dress, undoing them slowly, and her dress sagged open, sliding downward. Myles grasped the sides and pulled it slowly down, letting it drop at her feet. He put his hand on her shoulders, gliding down her arms, and he bent to kiss the line of her collarbone. She could feel him, hard and urgent, behind her, and she moved a fraction backward, pressing against him. His hands flamed suddenly hotter on her skin, and his breath turned ragged.

Genevieve smiled to herself. He
did
want her. The fire he stoked in her raged in him as well. He was going to make love to her again, and then these last few horrid days would be over. They could return to the way it had been. She relaxed against his hard body, anticipating his arms going around her, his mouth roaming over her shoulders and neck.

His hands dropped away and he stepped back, and though his voice was a bit uneven, he said, “I believe you can manage from here.”

Genevieve turned to him, too stunned to hide her response. “What?” She stared. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”

He took her chin in his hand. “I want you to come to me. That is what I want. You. In my bed.”

For an instant Genevieve could only stare, and then a saving anger rushed up through her. “Then go!” She drew herself up, flinging her arm out toward the door, her eyes blazing a blue fury and her voice drenched in scorn. “You think you can reduce me to begging? I will never be your slave. Your obedient, adoring wife. You were a fool to marry me, and I was an even greater one to agree to it. Get out of my room!”

Heat flared in his face. “Gladly!”

He whirled and strode out of the room, and Genevieve rushed over to the door behind him and slammed it shut with a resounding crash.

G
enevieve saw Myles stop at
her door, but she ignored him, as she had done her best to do the past few days. She had remained polite but cool ever since the night of Lady Hemphurst’s ball, answering his questions and responding to his conversational gambits, but she refused to rise to his remarks, no matter what the provocation, and she kept herself away from him as much as possible. She took breakfast in her room, not coming out until after he left, and in the evenings, she did not come down to supper until the last moment.

The future, she knew, was impossible if they continued in this manner. But she refused to give in to him. She would not give up her very self. For the moment, in the midst of her anger and pain and loneliness, this was the best she could manage. It was not a marriage. Not even a life. But she could get through the day without bursting into tears.

“I am going to meet Rawdon now,” Myles said, and she turned to look at him. He was wearing the expression she was growing accustomed to: his jaw set, his eyes murky, the carefree Myles grin missing.

She had ruined his life, she thought, just as surely as she had ruined her own. Emotion clogged her voice, and she had to swallow hard before she could reply in a neutral voice, “Say hello to my brother. And to Lord Morecombe, too, of course.”

“I will.” He paused. “I do not have to go, you know. I could accompany you to Mrs. Parminter’s gala, if you wish.” He frowned faintly. “Without your grandmother or Damaris there . . .”

“No, I am fine by myself.” She turned away, casually lifting a bottle of lotion from her dresser and pouring a dab in her palm. Keeping her gaze on her hands as she rubbed in the lotion, she went on, “You have been planning to attend this fight for days. There is no reason for you to give it up to take me to a gala. I have been doing it for years. After all,” she added lightly, “it has been three days or more since Lady Looksby has put my name in a column.”

“Very well.” He continued to stand there. “Genevieve . . .”

She gave him a bright, remote smile. “Go on and enjoy yourself. I will do the same.”

His mouth tightened. “No doubt.”

And he was gone. Genevieve sank down on the stool in front of her vanity, resting her head on her hands. She would not cry. She would not. Penelope came into the room, and Genevieve quickly raised her head. “Ah, Penelope. I believe I shall wear the blue gown with the silver tissue wrap tonight.”

Even with Penelope’s help, it seemed to take a long time to get dressed. But Genevieve had little desire to reach the party early. Whatever she had said to Myles, she dreaded entering the party alone. But, of course, she must become accustomed to that.

As soon as Genevieve walked through the door of the Parminter house, she realized that something was wrong. The hall did not precisely fall into a hush when she entered, but there was a definite lessening of the hum of conversation, and she noticed that several heads turned her way. Mrs. Parminter’s smile as she greeted Genevieve was tight, though her husband, the colonel, cast a decidedly roguish glance in Genevieve’s direction.

Whatever was the matter?

Genevieve strolled across the wide entry hall into the assembly room beyond. Was it her imagination, or was the crowd actually parting before her, edging away as she approached? Her stomach suddenly felt as if she had swallowed a block of ice. With all the nonchalance she could muster, she glanced around, hoping to see someone she knew. Indeed, at this moment, she would have welcomed the appearance of her grandmother’s friend Lady Hornbaugh.

Heads swiveled toward her; she felt the avid heat of their eyes, but when she turned, the gazes slid hastily away. Heads were put together in hushed whispering, punctuated by curious glances in Genevieve’s direction. Genevieve caught the eye of Lady Carstairs, and Genevieve nodded to her. After a second of hesitation, the
woman nodded back, though she immediately pivoted and began to talk to her neighbor.

Something was dreadfully wrong. Genevieve had no idea what was being said, but it was obvious that many of the people here knew something she did not—and they were busily informing everyone else of their knowledge. She could feel a blush rising up her throat, and she cursed her fair skin for being so revealing. Genevieve strolled to the side door of the large room and stepped out into the broad hall.

A number of people were scattered around the hall, and they behaved in the same peculiar fashion. Genevieve looked across the corridor into the room beyond. She would have liked to turn and run for the front door, but she could not play the coward. A Stafford never ran, she reminded herself as she strolled across the hallway and into the music room. She glanced around. The room seemed full of people, all staring and whispering, and she stopped, panic clutching at her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an empty chair. It was awkwardly placed, one of a pair from which the mate had been removed to another cluster of seats. Somewhat behind the piano, it was both isolated and too noisy for conversation, and that made it perfect for Genevieve.

It was hard not to run to it, but she managed to keep her pace even. Sitting down, she placed her hands on her knees, her back straight, and her legs demurely crossed at the ankle. She would not hang her head, she thought, and lifted her chin. But she could not bring herself to look
at anyone, so she fixed her gaze on a small statue sitting on a shelf straight across the room from her. Her mouth was like cotton, and her ears burned with shame. Why was everyone acting this way? Surely it could not be just because she did not have Myles or her family as a buffer tonight.

And how long would she have to endure it before she could escape? On the other hand, she realized, she was not sure she could stand up and leave this little island of safety. Now that she was here, she could almost feel as if she were hidden—so long as she did not look at anyone. It would take an effort of will to once again traverse the gauntlet of stares and whispers.

Suddenly a familiar voice met her ears, and she looked toward the door. Was that Myles’s voice? Genevieve sagged in relief, on the verge of tears. Myles was here. She would be all right now. She heard him again, too far away to be distinct. The sound moved away, and her heart began to thud. What if he left? What if he glanced around and did not see her and thought she was not here?

Genevieve jumped to her feet and slipped through the crowd, not caring if people turned to look at her. She reached the corridor just as Myles stepped out of the room opposite her. He was smiling and nodding to someone, but Genevieve could see the hint of tension in his expression, and his eyes were sharp and purposeful. His gaze fell upon Genevieve, and his face eased. He smiled, starting toward her.

Genevieve had to rein herself in to keep from running
to meet him. With what she hoped seemed only pleased surprise and not the sense of deliverance she felt, Genevieve moved forward.

“My love.” He took her outstretched hand and bowed over it, touching his lips to her fingers. She knew he must feel the iciness of her hand, the faint tremor.

“Myles. This is a surprise. What happened to your plans with Gabriel and Alec?”

“I deserted them. They will doubtless mock me for weeks for being hopelessly domesticated, but I would rather be here with you.”

“I am glad you did.” He had kept her hand in his, and the warmth spread through her, supporting her.

“Is there anyone else here we know?” he asked, casually tucking her hand into his arm as he started toward the music room. It was the last thing Genevieve wanted to do, but she knew he was right. Whatever was going on, the only way to combat gossip was to face it down. It might not dispel a rumor, but it established that one considered it unimportant.

“Yes, of course.” Genevieve cast about trying to remember any of the faces she had seen in her frozen walk. “Lady Carstairs. And, um, I believe Mr. Sanderson.”

Myles spotted someone he knew and stopped to chat, keeping Genevieve close to his side. A certain wariness was in the eyes of the woman with his friend, but like most women, she was susceptible to Myles’s charm and was soon chatting more warmly. After a few moments, Genevieve and Myles strolled on, stopping again and
again to chat. Myles was making the rounds purposefully, engaging first this person, then that, in casual conversation, forcing people to greet them or to be openly rude to him.

He was also, Genevieve noticed, most affectionate. He did not cross the boundaries of polite behavior, of course, but he kept her close by his side, leaning over now and then to whisper in her ear and gazing into her face with rapt attention when she spoke. In short, he appeared to be a man enamored of his wife. Since Genevieve knew he was anything but that, he had to be playing the role for some purpose. She didn’t know what it was, but she had too much faith in Myles’s social acumen not to play along. She smiled back at him and flirted, gazing up at him with lambent eyes, doing everything but bat her eyelashes at him.

It was excessively tiring, Genevieve found, and she was glad when Myles finally settled on a corner of the music room where one of his acquaintances stood and launched into a protracted conversation about the exhibition of fisticuffs that he had just left. Genevieve was not expected to join their chat, and no woman was there with whom she would have to make polite conversation, so she was able to relax and let her mind wander as one girl after another showed off her skills at the piano. Myles had neatly positioned them so that the three of them formed a tight, closed-off triangle in the corner of the room, making it difficult for anyone to casually join their conversation.

After a time they left to partake of some refreshments, though Genevieve had even less interest in eating than she
did in sitting and listening to a variety of young women slog through pieces on the piano. Finally Myles gave her a slight nod, and she knew he had decided that they had stayed long enough to leave without the appearance of running away. They strolled to the front door, stopping to assure their hostess with utmost mendacity that they had enjoyed the evening. Myles whisked Genevieve down the steps and along the sidewalk.

“Let’s walk. It’s a short distance, and I don’t want to wait for the carriage to return.”

“Of course.” Genevieve preferred to take some exercise to rid herself of some of the tension fizzing in her. “What is wrong? What happened? Why was everyone acting like that? Why did you race over to the gala?”

“I had a note from your grandmother. She thought to catch you before you left, and the chap delivering the note was so distressed that you had gone that Bouldin sent him on to me. Apparently there was another comment in that wretched scandal sheet today.”

“The Onlooker?
But what could they have said that would have caused everyone to—to react that way? Lady Carstairs all but gave me a direct cut.” Genevieve could not repress a slight shiver as she remembered the sideways looks and the cold, unwelcoming stares. “I haven’t done anything.”

“I know.” Myles’s jaw was rigid, and his eyes were colder than she had ever seen them. “They’ve made it up whole cloth, it seems.”

“What did it say?” Dread filled her chest.

“Lady Looksby intimated that Dursbury broke off your engagement not just because of what happened in the library but also because he learned you had been having an affair with another man.”

Genevieve felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. She stopped abruptly and stared at Myles, unable to speak. He turned to look at her, his face so grim that an icy fear clutched her heart. “Myles—you do not think—you don’t believe it, do you?”