The Unthinkable (36 page)

But he knew that until she trusted him, she would not confide anything about what had happened to her. He wanted the closeness back that they’d once shared. Their disastrous wedding night had showed him what a poor substitute passion was for intimacy. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. It had taken the fear of a carriage accident to make him realize that he still cared for her, but these weeks had shown him just how much.

“Wait here,” he said, seating her at the bench.

“Where are you going?”

“Patience, my sweet. I told you of a surprise. Now close your eyes.”

She frowned, but did as instructed. He motioned to a groom to bring the basket forward. He opened it to reveal a banquet of mouth-watering confections, from tarts, to biscuits, to delicate chocolate cream puffs sprinkled with powdered sugar. Everything her heart could desire.

She sniffed in the air. Her tiny brows furrowed together.

“Keep those eyes closed,” he ordered. Taking a chocolate cream puff, still warm from this morning’s baking, he swept it under her nose. Her tongue darted out to wet her upper lip.

Heat surged in his crotch and he wondered who was teasing whom. She had the sensual, naughty mouth of a jade, and he could well imagine that tongue licking something else.

He cursed under his breath. Despite his vow not to ravage her until she was ready, the swift bolt of lust kicked him hard.

“Now open your mouth.” His voice sounded rough.

When it looked like she was going to argue, he stopped her with a light kiss. She tasted of honey and it took everything he possessed to stop from deepening that kiss, from pressing the tight curve of her body against his in a crushing embrace. He spoke only inches from her mouth. “Open.”

He popped the tiny ball into her mouth and she moaned. The deep, throaty sound of rapture only heightened the erotic images already swimming about his head.

“You devil,” she said, but with a deliciously satisfied smile. “You know I don’t eat sweets anymore.”

“Chef and I thought we might change that.”

Before she could argue, he plied her with a biscuit. His mouth salivated, whether from the smell of the warm caramel or from watching the obvious enjoyment she was getting from eating it. Genie chewed the tender confection as if every bite were pure heaven.

When she’d finished, she opened her eyes. Amusement twinkled back at him. “Perhaps you might.”

With each tender morsel she devoured, Huntingdon watched her hard-wrought restraint crumble.

Later that night, Genie suffered for her gluttony with a severely upset belly, but it was all worth it—every delicious bite. She never thought she’d be able to enjoy sweets again, but enjoy them she did—thanks to her husband.

She rose the next morning feeling substantially recovered and ready for another ride. A soft knock at the door interrupted her toilette.

“For you, Your Grace.” The young housemaid bobbed and scooted out of the room before Genie could reply.

She quickly scanned the contents, then her heart lurched and the ability to breathe left her. The tersely worded note in the familiar scrawl paralyzed her with soul encompassing dread.

Distressing news from London prevents our morning ride. I await your immediate attendance in my private study. Huntingdon

The note fluttered to the floor. Stricken, she gazed out into nothingness.

The guillotine, it appeared, had fallen.

This was it. The moment she’d been waiting for. The moment of triumph for which she’d struggled. Genie would show him just how strong she was. That she was a woman who could not be forced, a woman not to be trifled with.

But it all felt wrong. The weight of what she’d done pressed down on her. She felt as if she was suffocating, not elated that revenge would soon be hers. Instead, it felt like her happiness had just come to a crashing, disastrous end.

She had everything she’d fought for: wealth, power, position… and now, revenge. The manor in Gloucestershire was hers, and she’d begun to implement her plan. She would never find herself at the mercy of a man again. But it wasn’t enough. She’d also been given a glimpse of the life she’d dreamed of as a girl. A life with a beautiful home and a doting husband.

She tried to calm the race of her heart, tried to calm the wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm her. Her body felt tight, as if every bit of air had been sucked out of her.

Too late. It was too late to realize that revenge was not what she wanted.

Much too quickly, her maid finished arranging her hair in a soft knot secured at the back of her head with a jewel-encrusted comb. Gowned in a simple green morning gown instead of her riding habit, she made her way down the stairs and long hallways to Huntingdon. Each footfall felt heavier, like she was sinking deeper and deeper in mud with each step closer.

His back was to her as she entered the room.

Her hands clenched and unclenched in her skirts. “You asked to see me?” She couldn’t control the slight wobble in her voice.

He turned and for a moment she froze, his visage was so severe. Her heart thumped loudly, waiting for the condemnation. At that moment, the magnitude of everything she’d forsaken struck her. The wait stretched beyond endurance, every muscle in her body clenched.

His handsome face broke out into a wide, easy grin, and a wave of pure relief washed over her. He wasn’t angry with her. The news from London didn’t concern her. Relieved, she exhaled loudly.

“Ah, there you are.” He came toward her and took her hand, leading her to a chair. “Tea?”

“No, thank you.” She didn’t trust her stomach, it still churned with anxiety over what she’d narrowly avoided.

He lifted a tray too close to her nose. “Cream puff?” he asked devilishly.

She grimaced, recalling her upset stomach last night and shook her head. “Beast,” she muttered.

He laughed, setting down the plate of sweets on his desk. “I’m sorry we missed our morning ride, but I received some disturbing news from London.”

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid we shall have to return to town sooner than expected. There is some unrest in Nottingham, a rebellion of sorts that must be put down before it spreads to Leicestershire.”

“A rebellion?” she asked, suddenly alarmed.

He patted her hand. “Nothing to fret about, my sweet. A few workers calling themselves Luddites are upset with the modernization of the mills and factories and have destroyed some stocking frames. It began this past spring, but the unrest has spread. Something needs to be done before the rioting turns violent, and I fear that unless I’m there to sound caution, Percival’s reaction will be strong and swift.”

Genie nodded, she’d heard some talk of these men—skilled croppers who resented the lower wages paid to unskilled workers who could operate the machines. With his mills and factories, it was only natural that Huntingdon was concerned.

“We will leave in a few days,” he added.

Genie experienced a sharp twinge of disappointment. She would miss the quiet peace of the country.

Apparently, sharing the same thoughts, he squeezed her hand encouragingly. “We’ll return as soon as we can. And I promise that it won’t all be business. There will be plenty of entertainment. I believe the Duchess of Devonshire is holding a ball next week to welcome all those in town for the opening of parliament.”

Genie forced herself to smile, but she knew it would not be the same.

She stood up. “I shall begin preparations immediately.”

Before she could leave, he stopped her. Taking her in his arms, he tilted her chin back to meet his warm gaze. “I know you are disappointed, but we will be back at Donnington before you know it.” He dipped his head, and placed a tender kiss on her lips.

An arrow shot straight to Genie’s heart. The painful truth was that she might never return to Donnington. She had a reprieve, but for how long?

She started the long walk back to her chamber, lost in thought. Still shaken by what she’d narrowly avoided, Genie realized that she’d made a mistake in sending that letter to Fanny. Fanny had never been one to hold a secret. Genie’s only hope was that Fanny would grasp the harm to Huntingdon if the news of Genie’s sham marriage was discovered.

Perhaps London was the answer after all. Anxious to leave after the wedding, Fanny had traveled to London with Lady Hawkesbury. In London, Genie would convince Fanny not to disclose her scandalous secret.

Also in London, Genie could focus on her plans for the manor in Gloucestershire.

She reached her chamber and began instructing her lady’s maid on the preparations for their trip. Resigned to leaving the happiness of the country behind her, Genie was determined that in London she would begin to make reparations.

Dampness clung to the darkened streets like a shroud of black pitch. Genie buried her nose in the heavy wool of her hooded cloak, trying to smother the overwhelming stench of bedpans that threatened to spill the contents of her stomach. This was a part of London that Genie was not supposed to know existed: the world of the underclass.

She jumped, startled by the sound of loud voices arguing across the windows above her. Besides the horrible stench, the noise was the first thing that struck her. Shrill voices raised in every perversion of the King’s English imaginable pierced the night air. People who spent their days fading into the background made up for their silence at night with a raucous clamor. Yet oddly, despite the squalor, Genie found something comforting about all the activity.

Hugging the shadows, she wound her way through the narrow streets, her hand securely fastened on the gun in her reticule. Her neck prickled with apprehension. It felt as though someone was following her. She spun her head around, but no one was there.

She shivered and quickened her pace. She knew what she was doing was dangerous, but she’d put off her vow for too long.

Gravely injured from the vicious beating that she’d received at the hand of her employer, Genie wandered the streets of Boston’s waterfront, finally collapsing at the door of a notorious brothel run by Madame Solange.

It was the first lucky thing to happen to her in a long time.

The generous women scorned by polite society took pity on her, taking her in and gently nursing her back to health. With their bawdy humor and stoic acceptance of the brutal card that fate had dealt them, they gave Genie the strength to survive.

She vowed never to forget their kindness.

Genie knew that there was very little separating her from the “whores” at Madame Solange’s. There were precious few choices available to a woman cast out, alone, without fortune. With beauty like hers, the choices were even fewer. Were it not for the timely arrival of Edmund, Genie knows she might well have found herself forced into a life of prostitution.

Luck in the form of Edmund had given her a choice they hadn’t had. Genie wanted to do as much for other girls caught in the same trap. Her plan was simple: She offered employment and education at the manor in Gloucestershire. She didn’t judge them if they refused her offer, her aim was to give them a choice—not make one for them. She’d already hired the small staff that had worked for the previous owner of the manor, but she would find space for as many additional girls as came to her.

In the week since they’d arrived in London, Genie had only had a few opportunities to escape the watchful eye of her husband. She’d visited a handful of notorious brothels passing out a card with the name and address of her solicitor, speaking to anyone who would listen. There weren’t many. So far, two girls had contacted her solicitor. Not as many as she’d hoped, but it was a start. She squared her shoulders and raised her hand to knock on the door. At least she was doing something, not simply waiting around for scandal to hit. Fanny had avoided her thus far, but she was due to dine at Huntingdon House later that evening. Genie had to convince her to hold her silence.

Before the knocker fell, a large hand grabbed her arm.

The little fool. Thank God he’d followed her. She’d disappeared so many times Huntingdon had grown suspicious. Now, to find her in the East End, standing at the door of a notorious brothel…

She’d better have one hell of an explanation.

He took her by the arm, intending to startle her—or perhaps shake some sense into her, he was so rattled. She gasped, turning on him as if she meant to fight him. Before recognition hit. Eyes that had been wide with terror only moments before narrowed angrily across her tiny nose.

“You frightened me,” she accused.

“Good.” Huntingdon tried to control his own burgeoning anger—his based on fear. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is in this part of town?”

She jerked her arm away. “Of course I do. I’m not a fool.”

He made a sharp sound, as if he would argue that point.

She squared her jaw defiantly. “I’ve taken precautions. I have a gun.”

He couldn’t believe this. “Aside from the obvious question of where you obtained the weapon, which I assume is in that reticule you were clutching so fiercely, I could point out—if I hadn’t already so aptly demonstrated—that a gun is of limited value if you are grabbed from behind.”

“Edmund gave me the gun.” Her lips pressed together stubbornly. “And if you’ll recall, I know how to defend myself.”

Huntingdon didn’t answer, but pulled her away from the door, practically dragging her to his carriage. Wisely, he kept her knee at a safe distance. He headed around the block, where he’d instructed his driver to wait.

Her eyes shot daggers at him. “I haven’t finished my business,” she argued, trying to shrug him off.

He lowered his voice and spoke in a tone that did not bode disagreement. “Yes,” he breathed menacingly, “you have.”

Genie remained stubbornly silent on the ride home, her face carefully hidden in the shadows. When he thought of what could have happened, of the danger she had put herself in… he could throttle her. Or pull her into his arms and hold her so tight she could never put herself in danger again.

Alone in the most dangerous part of London. Without even a maid or footman. He felt sick. Anything could have happened. What could she have been thinking?