Too Wicked to Love (16 page)

John stilled, every sense alert as Genny slowly looked up, met John’s gaze for one long, agonizing moment. The wretchedness shadowing her eyes shamed him, made him want to howl in denial. He had done that to her. He had broken her.

Genny looked over at Sir Harry. “If you will all excuse me, I do not feel well. I am going to lie down.” She set her napkin beside her plate.

“Of course, of course,” Sir Harry said, rising with the rest of the gentlemen as she got up from the table.

“Do you want me to come up with you?” Helen asked.

Genny’s lips curved in a bare hint of a smile though no such emotion lit her deadened eyes. “No, thank you, Mama. You enjoy your breakfast.”

“I hope you feel better, dear,” Dolly said. “Samuel and your sister are due back this afternoon, and I know you’ll want to see them.”

“That would be nice.” With a nod to those assembled, she left the room.

John watched her go, disturbed, agonized. He knew what he had done was for the best, but he had not counted on how his heart would ache at seeing the results of his handiwork.

“Is she going to be all right?” Annabelle asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Genny so quiet.”

Helen frowned as she looked after her daughter. “I hope so.”

“Bad night,” the admiral said. “But she’s young. She will be good as new by tomorrow. Now about that highwayman—”

“Robert, surely you care about your daughter’s health!” Helen said.

“Of course I do. But she’s gone to lie down, hasn’t she? Best thing for her.” He nodded to himself. “Now as to the highwayman . . . Find your enemy’s enemy is what I always said. Good strategic thinking. This Black Bill hates Raventhorpe. Might get an ally out of that.”

John tried not to think about Genny retreating to her room. Genny never retreated. Was she crying? The thought ripped through his heart as if it were paper.

“What do you think, Ready?” the admiral asked.

“Ah . . . about Black Bill?” His every instinct urged him to go after Genny, but he forced himself to focus on the conversation.

“Yes, yes.” The admiral reached for his coffee. “Perhaps we could get him to ally with us against Raventhorpe, eh?”

“I do not think that is a possibility, sir.”

“You just don’t like him because he shot you,” Annabelle said.

John sliced a look her way. “You would not feel fondly toward him either, Miss Bailey.”

“I don’t like that idea at all.” Dolly sent an anxious look toward her daughter. “Especially if he fancies my Annabelle.”

“But he seems to know a lot about what is going on in the area,” Helen said. “He might prove very valuable.”

“Probably makes it his business to know,” Sir Harry said. “Keep tabs on everyone so he can better move about in secret. I imagine he lives here.”

“Perhaps on Raventhorpe lands,” the admiral said.

“Maybe you should just ask him if he wants to help us,” Annabelle suggested. “Or is that a silly idea?”

“I would not even know how to find him,” John said. He thought about Genny, alone in her room. Should he speak to her? Or would that make matters worse?

“Seems to me,” Sir Harry said, “that you just have to travel certain roads at night.”

“Madness!” Dolly exclaimed.

“Only if you want to be killed!” Genny’s mother said with a hand to her heart.

“Might work,” the admiral said. His wife glared at him, and he applied himself most assiduously to his breakfast. “I said ‘might,’ ” he muttered.

“Do not even consider it,” Helen said. “It is too dangerous.”

“He is quite unpredictable,” Sir Harry said. “Might quite possibly be a madman in the literal sense of the word. After all, he did shoot you.”

“Point taken,” John said.

“Enough of this foolish talk,” Dolly said. “Samuel and Cilla are coming home today, and I don’t want anything ruining their homecoming.”

“And we’ve got our final rehearsal for the play this afternoon,” Annabelle said. “I hope Genny’s feeling well enough to perform tomorrow.”

“I would not worry about that,” John said with a quick glance upward. “If I know Miss Wallington-Willis, nothing will keep her from the stage.”

He hoped.

Genny lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. John had seemed in good spirits this morning. He had shaved his beard, revealing a strong jaw and almost aristocratic profile. Even through her misery, she could not ignore the spark that ignited when she had glimpsed his bare, handsome face.

But then, anytime John was within a foot of her, she could not ignore her body’s reaction. She wanted him, no matter what he had done. She loved him, no matter what he had said.

She was a fool.

He had shown her a brief glimpse of Heaven last night, then torn out her heart and cast her away as easily as he had shorn his beard. She had dreaded seeing him this morning at breakfast. How was she supposed to pretend everything was all right? In the end, she had given up trying. Everything was
not
all right. She had given herself to him, and he had soundly rejected her. Crushed her heart with his cruel words. And yet he behaved as if nothing was wrong.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Lord in Heaven, how could she possibly act in rehearsal later today? Sir Harry would be playing the prince in the actual production, but John was still standing in for rehearsals. Her character was supposed to be in love with him. It would be torture. But she would manage. She was certainly not going to permit him to drive her into solitude.

But hadn’t she already allowed him to do just that?

She had sat at the breakfast table, her broken heart bleeding openly for anyone who cared to see, and practically sobbed into her chocolate. Then when she could not bear the pressure of hiding her feelings any longer, she had fled to her room like a little girl. Was that the act of a woman who had boldly jilted her suitor after learning of his perfidy? She had trusted Bradley, but when he had betrayed her, she had taken a stand and broken it off with him, spiking his ambition of marrying the admiral’s daughter to advance his career.

Now John had used her body, then rejected her. Had she given as good as she had gotten in the face of his insults? No. She had just run away. Actually, she had not even run. She had
slunk
away, as if she were embarrassed about what had happened between them.

She was stronger than that.

Annoyed at herself, she got off the bed, went to the vanity table, and sat down in front of the mirror.

She looked like death. Her skin was pale against her dark hair, and her eyes looked like pools of misery. This would not do.

By the time they gathered for rehearsal, she would be back to her old self, even if it took the magic of the rouge pot to do it.

They gathered for rehearsal in the gallery as always. John had expected Genny to stay in her room—had actually thought the practice would be canceled because of her absence—and was surprised to see her join them right on time. Her color was better, and now when she looked at him, there was emotion in her eyes.

Icy rage, but still, emotion. Anything was better than that glassy-eyed stare.

“Miss Wallington-Willis, let us start with you and Mr. Ready,” Sir Harry said. “I want to go over the scene where Malevita comes upon Frederick sleeping in the forest and declares her love. Do you feel well enough to do that?”

“Of course, Sir Harry.” She sent John a polite smile that held more sharpness than sweetness.

“Excellent! Take your places.”

John went to lie down on the blanket Sir Harry had set out, and Genny took her place. As she moved toward him, reciting her lines, he could not help but remember the last time they had done this scene. How she had flirted with him, teased him. Aroused him.

Not so this time.

“O handsome warrior. O noble prince. My blood . . . my blood burns for thee.” She took a deep breath, then smiled at their stage manager. “I apologize, Sir Harry. Something was caught in my throat.”

“That is fine, Miss Wallington-Willis. Do continue.”

She nodded, coughed, then walked around John. “Malevita” was supposed to be admiring the form of her beloved, Prince Fredrick, but John noticed how Genny looked at the blanket, the floor, his shoes—anything she could to avoid perusing his face or body.

“O handsome warrior,” she recited, the words sounding wooden and awkward on her lips. “O noble prince. My blood burns for thee.”

She stretched out her hands toward him as they had agreed upon in previous rehearsals, giving the impression she wanted to stroke her palms over his body. Only he noticed her fingers quivering.

“Look upon him, all you sun and moon and stars, and know he is my love.” Her voice caught. She met his gaze, held it. “My mate. My future king.”

Her stance gave the impression of calm control, but her eyes revealed wild emotion rising and falling like ocean waves. Slowly, she began to circle him, a fairy princess longing for her lover. At the last rehearsal she had teased him by brushing her skirts against him. Now she seemed determined to avoid touching him at all costs.

But even though she was only playing a part, he could not help the way he reacted to the passionate words. Could not help imagining she meant the things she was saying to him. Still lying down, he bent one knee, hoping he would not embarrass himself.

“O love that lives as a flame inside me.” Her voice roughened. “Thou art my only reason for living. My heart—” She inhaled a deep breath. “My heart beats for thee.”

Her voice broke on the last word. Only he was close enough to see how she trembled, how she bit her lower lip to stop its quivering. How her green eyes revealed a storm of pain and misery.

The sound of clapping broke the strange spell that still held them. Genny ripped her gaze from his, her fingers curling into her palms as she held her hands at her sides and faced their stage manager.

“Brava
, Miss Wallington-Willis! Such range of emotion. You are truly talented,” Sir Harry said, applauding with the script tucked under his arm.

She nodded her head in acknowledgment, then stepped away from John and the makeshift stage. She did not look at him again during the rest of the play, not unless she was required to do so by stage direction.

She had made her feelings clear, not by fiery anger, not by icy disdain, but by sheer painful despair. When he had come to breakfast that morning, he had expected some sulky behavior like any other girl her age, but not this bone-numbing anguish. Why had he expected such a thing, when Genny had proven herself time and time again to be more than just another feather-witted debutante? Perhaps because it might have been easier to rub along with her if she
had
acted like a pouty child. But Genny Wallington-Willis never did anything predictable.

She had given herself to the man she had expected to marry.

She had rejected her suitor when any other girl would have wed him out of fear of scandal, no matter her broken heart and shattered trust.

She had gambled when she demanded Overton’s silence by making it clear she was not afraid to put her own reputation on the line against his ambition. And she had won that bet.

She had charged to the rescue when she thought John was out to use Annabelle for his own ends.

She had bravely come to his room last night and revealed her secret, then offered herself in a completely honorable proposal of marriage.

He should be horsewhipped for taking her body, then refusing her marriage proposal, but by the time the passionate haze had cleared, the damage was done. Rejecting her had been the hardest thing he had ever done, but he was protecting her, both from heartache and from Raventhorpe. That bastard might well use Genny if he thought it would get to John. Genny was safer far away from him. He would not allow her to end up like Elizabeth. He had failed his wife; he would not fail Genny.

Her reaction had thrown him, though. He had expected her to be sad for a while, then bounce back. Be that firebrand of a woman who stood up for what was right no matter what the cost. Maybe hate him a little. He had seen a glimmer of that when she had first come to rehearsal.

But now, this empty desolation defeated him. He had rejected her for her own good, lied to her for her own good. But in trying to do the right thing, he might have destroyed one of the most amazing women he had ever met. The one woman he might truly love.

And for that, he would never forgive himself.

A
fter rehearsal, Genny took solace in the gardens. The house now felt like a prison, the walls closing her in with John. Thank God Cilla and Samuel were coming home today. Their return signaled the beginning of the end. Soon John would leave for America, never to return.

How grand his plans had sounded! Leave the mistakes of the past behind. Run off to America and start all over again. Was she one of those mistakes? Apparently so. His best friend’s sister-in-law. She clenched her fists. His dismissal of her still stung. But despite that, she knew it was not the true reason he had refused her.

John had always treated her with the respect due a lady of her class—until he had discovered that she was no longer a virgin.

Why had she expected him to be different from any other man? His acceptance of her body but rejection of her marriage proposal proved he was not. One foolish decision had rendered her used goods, and no man wanted used goods for a wife. Not even one running from his past to start anew in America. And she had no one to blame but herself. She had given herself to Bradley of her own free will, just as she had surrendered to John of her own accord.

Would she never overcome this stigma? What were her choices now? She was too truthful a person to fake innocence in her marriage bed, and if she had to trick a man into wedding her, then he was not the sort of husband she wanted. She would rather become the spinster John had predicted, dandling Cilla’s children on her knee, than live a lie.

Which was why she had fallen for John in the first place. She had thought that he, at least, would accept the truth—and her. But he didn’t, and he hadn’t, and his rejection had torn her heart to shreds. But that cut no less than knowing she had given herself—again—to a man who held her in such low regard. If a man like him—a man with secrets and a past he was fleeing—could not accept her for who she was, then she might well be destined to end up alone.

That was how John found her—alone in the garden, a solitary figure standing amidst the glorious rosebushes, her entire being the picture of dejection: shoulders slumped, mouth curved downward. She twirled the stem of an unopened rosebud between her fingers, her focus apparently somewhere other than here and now.

Just the sight of her made his heart ache.

He could not let this lie continue. She meant too much to him. Maybe she would still hate him after this, but at least he would know he had done the right thing.

He was going to tell her the truth.

She must have heard his approach because she turned before he could call her name. Stiffened. “What are you doing here, John?”

“Genny . . .” He hesitated, uncertain where to begin.

She glared at him, but he knew bravado when he saw it. The caution in her eyes betrayed her. “Have you come to humiliate me some more?” she challenged, tossing the rosebud aside. “Or did you think to amuse yourself with the little whore here in the gardens?”

Fury flared at both the words and tone. “Do not refer to yourself like that again. Ever.”

“Why not? We both know what you think of me.” She turned her back on him, head bowed. “Go away, John. I want to be alone.”

By God,
s
he is going to listen
. He came forward, took her by the arm, made her face him. “If you still want to be alone once I have finished, I will let you be.”

She shook off his hold. “It seems to me that you did enough speaking last night.”

“Damn it, Genny, I do not blame you for hating me.”

“Hating you?” She curled her lip. “I would have to feel some emotion to hate you, John. Does disgust count?”

He ignored the obvious lie. “If you are going to hate me, at least hate me for the right reasons.”

“Last night’s conversation is all the reason I need.”

Even through his frustration, part of him warmed to see the return of the firebrand he knew. “At least it is better than the imitation of death that you were doing earlier.”

She folded her arms. “Say what you came to say and leave, John.”

“You are making this harder than it needs to be, Genny.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She threw up her hands. “If you cannot even spit out what you came to tell me, I am going inside. My headache has not completely faded.”

“No. Don’t go.” He stepped in her path, forcing her to halt what would have been a spectacularly dramatic exit. “I lied to you, Genny.”

“As if I did not know that.” She looked down her nose at him, but her palpable pain broke through the attempt at haughty disdain. “The only time you did
not
lie to me was last night.”

“No, Genny.” He took her by the arms again, held her fast so he knew she was listening. “Last night was the lie.” He bent his head, trying to get her to look at him, but she stared with stubborn determination at the shirt buttons above his vest. “You gave yourself to me, and I let you think I did not care for you. But I do care.”

She jerked her gaze to his, and the moisture shimmering in her eyes hit him like a fist in the gut. “I am not interested in a quick romp before you leave for America. I do not want
you,
John.”

He stiffened. She sounded like she meant it.

She took advantage of his distraction to pull away from his grasp. “I need to go inside and rest before Cilla and Samuel arrive.”

“No, wait. You have to hear this.” He moved with her as she tried to step around him. “Genny, last night . . . I made a muck of things last night. I said the wrong things, did the wrong things. I did not know it would hurt you like that. I was prepared to deal with your anger, but I cannot bear your pain.”

She paused, giving him a moment’s hope, then tried to go around him again.

He followed her, blocking her exit with his body. “Please hear me out. I need to tell you the truth. About who I am and most especially about my feelings for you. Last night—”

She lowered her gaze. “I said I do not want to discuss last night.”

“Last night I said what I did to push you away.”

She stilled, cast him a look of disbelief. “Then perhaps you should have said no, John—to all of it. I would have left you alone.”

“I did not want to say no. God help me, Genny, but it took every ounce of control to make you go last night.”

“Why the need to get rid of me at all? I gave you what you wanted.” She folded her arms, her expression growing more mutinous than miserable.

“Because I am trying to protect you!”

She sighed. “From what? As you pointed out, I am no innocent.”

“But you are, in so many ways.” He held out a hand. “Please, come sit with me. There is a bench down the path. Let me tell you everything.”

Genny hesitated. He looked sincere. His voice rang with authenticity, and his eyes had that hopeful look that made her heart melt in her chest. She wanted to trust him. But what if she did, and he rejected her again?

Still, he was only asking for her to listen. If she did not like what he had to say, she could leave.

“I will listen,” she said, “but it will not change anything.”

He nodded. “That is all I ask. Come sit down with me.”

She allowed him to guide her down the path with a hand at her back, just the gentlest brush of his fingers against her spine. And still her traitorous body warmed beneath his touch. Would he always have this power over her?

Once they reached the stone bench hidden behind a copse of flowering bushes, Genny sat down, folded her hands in her lap and turned her attention to him. John sat next to her. She shuffled over a bit to allow more space between them. It was bad enough she could feel the heat of him next to her, smell the woodsy, leathery scent of him. If he touched her, even accidentally, she might beg him not to stop. “I am listening.”

He nodded. “I am not sure where to begin.”

“Start with last night.”

He gave a nod. “First of all, I would like to apologize for my behavior last night. I had no right—”

“I was in that bed, too, John. I wanted it, too. Now it is over, so let us move on.”

“I cannot move on until I say this. Please believe me when I tell you I only meant to protect you and spoke to prevent you from entangling yourself with me. I had to make you walk away at any cost.”

“And you succeeded. May I go now?”

“No.”

She turned her head away. Let him make his apologies and be done with it. They had little left to say to each other.

“Genny, my name is not John Ready.”

She shrugged and poked at a pebble with the toe of her shoe.

“My name is John St. Giles.” He went on. “Do you recognize the name?”

“St. Giles?” She feigned disinterest. Why did he persist in drawing out this heartache? “Perhaps I have heard that name before, but I cannot remember where.”

“Maybe it was a few days ago when the magistrate was here. He brought a gentleman with him, Mr. Timmons.”

Genny nodded, a small smile curving her lips despite everything else. “I remember Mr. Timmons.”

“Then perhaps you will remember the client he had come to the country to visit. St. Giles is the family name of the Duke of Evermayne.”

“Evermayne!” Triumph edged her tone. “So I was right. You
are
connected to that family.”

“The Duke was my uncle,” John confirmed. “He died some weeks ago and left no sons. My father was his brother. Father died a few years ago, which means—”

She gaped at him. “Dear, God! You are now the Duke of Evermayne?”

He nodded.

She absorbed the blow as if kicked in the stomach. A duke. He could never go to America now. Never start over in that land where the past could be left behind. He had responsibilities. Lands to govern. He would be required to marry a lady of gentle birth—a virgin. A proper lady, fit to be a duchess.

Of course he could not marry
her.
She would be the most improper of duchesses, a woman lacking in modesty, one who enjoyed bed sport entirely too much. Once more, she had chosen wrongly, and once more, she paid the price for her foolish fantasies.

She spoke through stiff lips. “Now that you are the Duke of Evermayne, you will finally be able to stop hiding.”

He let out a long, slow breath. “That is the dangerous part. I need you to promise me that you will hear me out before you make any judgments.”

Fear surged like acid in her throat. “John, you are scaring me. Just tell me.”

“All right. Remember I told you I fled England years ago? I never intended to return.”

“Yes, I remember. And when you did return, you did so as Samuel’s coachman.”

“He needed my help, and the position of a servant was a way to stay out of sight. I could not let anyone from upper society recognize me.”

“Why? Were you hiding from your uncle? Did he disown you?”

“No, he encouraged me to leave England. Insisted, in fact.”

She frowned. “I still do not understand. Were you being punished?”

“Not exactly. He was trying to save me.” He took a deep breath then said, “Genny, I am a wanted man.”

She blinked. Frowned. “Wanted for what?”

“For murder.”

He was serious. The breath left her lungs in a whoosh. There must be some mistake. She could not have fallen in love with a murderer. A cad, apparently, but not a killer. “Who was murdered?”

“My wife.”

She shut her eyes, but the truth still rang in his words. “You were married?”

“A long time ago.” He closed his hand over one of hers. “I did not kill Elizabeth, Genny. You must believe me.” He squeezed her hand until she looked up. “Someone else did and made it look like it was me. I am innocent. I did not even intend to accept the title. I was going to let it pass to my cousin while I disappeared in America.”

“But you will not. And I understand why. Evermayne is a huge estate.”

“It’s not the money. I have money from the treasure Samuel and I found. I could have allowed the queen to declare me dead and lived a comfortable life in America.”

“But you decided you wanted to be a duke. Do not worry, John. I completely understand.”

“No, you do not.” He swiped a hand over his face. “Genny, I did not kill Elizabeth, but I cannot prove my innocence. Which means when I come forward, I might be facing formal charges.”

Her heart skipped. “Then do not come forward. Let your cousin have the title.”

“You believe me?”

“That you did not kill your wife? Yes. You are not the type of man to harm a woman—at least not physically.”

He winced. “Genny, what I said to you last night has haunted me since the words left my mouth. I wish I could call back every moment.”

“Pretty apologies will not work this time. You hurt me, John.”

He had the grace to look ashamed. “I know. I was trying to save you.”

“Save me? From what? Becoming a duchess? Do not try to pretend anymore, John. I know the truth. Clearly I am not fit material for a wife, much less a duchess.”

“Genny, I could care less that you have had some . . . experience.”

“I do not believe you.” She pressed her lips together. “You treated me differently once I told you the truth. That was when you started treating me like a . . . a tart.”

“No, oh, no.” He took her hands in his. “I was trying to save you from
me.
When I come forward, there is every chance I may be executed for murder. I will not be able to protect you from the ugliness of that.”

“Executed?” Dear God, she had not considered that.

“If they find me guilty. As a duke I would be hanged by a silken rope, but a noose is still a noose.”

“But you are not guilty! Surely there must be some way to prove it. And if not—run, John. Run to America. Leave tonight.”

He gave her a tender smile. “And there she is, my fierce little warrior.” He bowed his head, brushing a kiss over first one of her hands, then the other. “I knew last night that if I told you the truth, you would want to join the fight.”

He was right. If they were together, she would have fought for him. With him.