A Wedding in Springtime (25 page)

Concern wavered. Perhaps nothing was wrong with Grant that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix.

“Now, I am going to tell you what to do,” said Genie, taking charge. “You are going to go home this instant and sleep it off.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Grant set his jaw like a pouty boy. It was not his best look.

“I did not ask what you would like. Come now.” Genie stood and offered a hand. Grant took it and pulled himself up, using a bit more force than she expected. She stumbled forward as he stood, ending up in his arms.

Neither said a word. Neither moved away. Grant leaned down closer, and in his eyes, she saw a glimpse of sorrow. She reached up and put a hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. He bent down closer so that Genie thought he meant to kiss her, but instead he laid his head on her shoulder. Instinctively, she put her arms around him, as if to comfort him, though from what grief she did not know.

“Will you not tell me what is wrong?” asked Genie.

As if wakened from a trance, Grant stepped back, his eyes shuttered once more. “I see what you are about. Trying to seduce me at Almack’s and compromise me to force a proposal.”

“Mr. Grant. You are speaking nonsense!”

“Am I?” he said with confidence and swagger, only to have his shoulders sag the next moment. “I am, aren’t I? Apologize. Never take up the bottle. Makes you stupid.”

“It certainly does!”

“I need to go home,” said Grant, stumbling off in the wrong direction.

“No, no, you are going the wrong way.” Genie sighed and took his hand. “Here, let us find a back way out. You are not fit to be seen by anyone.”

“Not fit, nit fot,” slurred Grant.

“Try not speaking,” suggested Genie. She wandered her way through the back passages, the places that only a servant would go. She found a servants’ entrance and exited onto a side street. But here, Grant stopped her.

“No, no, I can find my carriage from here. Go back to the dance. Can’t be seen leaving out the back door with Mr. Grant, that would never do.”

“Still worried I am trying to compromise you?”

“I am a horse’s arse, Miss Talbot.”

“Will you not tell me what is wrong, Mr. Grant?”

“Lost a friend tonight.” Grant looked up into the dark night. Pale stars were barely visible in the small ribbon of sky visible between the buildings.

“I am so sorry. Is it someone I know?”

Grant looked back at her and smiled even as the sadness returned to his eyes. “You will marry and never again speak to me.”

“We can still be friends,” said Genie, but she knew the instant she spoke, the words were not true. Her feelings for Grant stretched long past friendship. When she was married, she would need to distance herself, which would not be difficult if she married Blakely, since she would leave for the country. Her friendship with Mr. Grant would end.

Neither said anything, the realization of their loss becoming real. This could be the last time she would ever speak to him alone. Genie tried to think of what she wanted to say. She wished to tell him how she felt, but considering she was about to accept another man’s proposal of marriage, the declaration seemed rather inappropriate.

“I will miss our conversations, Mr. Grant,” said Genie, wishing she could say more.

“I will miss your kisses,” said Grant.

And there it was. The truth she was afraid to say. She would miss them too. “Perhaps we should give each other one for good-bye?”

Grant raised an eyebrow. “That is supposed to be my line.” He stepped closer, and Genie’s heart raced. He stood before her for a moment, then reached up to touch her arms, tracing down from her shoulders to the skin below her short, lace sleeves to the edge of her long, white gloves. He slowly pulled off her gloves, first one, then the other. Tingles shot from her fingers to her toes at being so undressed. He lifted each hand to his lips, kissing first the back, then the palm. Shivers of energy pulsed through her at his touch.

He slowly encircled his arms around her and she returned the favor, floating in his embrace. She breathed deep and snuggled into him. This is where she had wanted to be, wrapped in his arms.

Slowly, he bent down and pressed his cheek to hers, then kissed along her jaw until he finally reached her lips. His lips were soft and warm, and she parted her lips to him. He was wet and warm and tasted of whiskey. She relaxed into his kiss, pressing closer and getting a full response in return as he deepened the kiss. She closed her eyes and was weightless and dizzy. Her knees buckled, but he held her fast.

“Run away with me,” breathed Grant into her ear.

“You cannot mean that,” whispered Genie.

“But I do.” Grant pulled back. “I don’t want to lose you. Come away from all this stupidity of society busybodies, and be with me. Leave your critical aunt and the gossiping hordes, and simply be with me. We could live in the country together.”

“What are you asking?”

“I could take care of you, protect you, and it could start tonight. You would have the best of everything. No lady would ever have been pampered the way I would lavish decadence upon you!”

Genie had an odd sensation of being both hot and cold at the same time. “You wish me to be your mistress.”

“I wish you to stay my friend. Come home with me tonight. I don’t care about the consequences.”

“That is perhaps because those consequences are not as grave for you as they are for me.” Genie stepped back toward the door, her heart beating painfully. She did not want to say good-bye and swallowed the disappointment that he had offered her everything except what she really needed—his name.

Grant closed his eyes, then opened them again, his eyes dark in the pale light. “If you loved me the way I love you, it would not matter.”

Everything slowed to a stop. Not a sound could be heard, not a whisper of wind could be felt, nothing made a noise. She could not speak. She could not blink. She could not breathe. Had he said
love
?

A scullery maid opened the door with a bundle of trash in hand. She stopped short, surprised to see guests, bobbed a curtsy, and continued on.

“Get back to your aunt,” said Grant as he swayed. “Do not listen to me. Drunk. Vile liquor. Bad for you I am.” Grant wandered down the alley in the general direction of the line of coaches.

Genie stared after him, still too stunned to move. He loved her. Yes, he was drunk, but the emotions he shared were real, honest. She could not say how she knew, but she did. And yet, he had not offered marriage.

She took a large breath and wondered how long she had been holding it. The damp night air filled her lungs, restoring her perspective. She liked Grant. Liked him quite a bit. Maybe even—but no. That line of thinking would do her no good. What she needed was a husband, and Grant, for all his charm, for all his self-declared love, offered her everything she wanted but nothing she needed.

Twenty-six

Genie awoke with the same fluttery sensation in her stomach with which she had gone to sleep the night before. A decision lay before her. A proposal. She needed to give an answer to Mr. Blakely. Could she marry him? Sleep in his bed? Give him children? The thought left her… flat.

Could she reject him? Her aunt would have a severe case of the vapors, probably toss Genie from the house, and she would return to her mother in shame.

What
about
Grant?

She tried to forget about him. His proposal was indecent. It was one she could not accept. And yet… the sensation of his lips on hers rushed through her with a hot flush. Could she see herself sleeping in his bed? Giving him children? The thought had her reaching for a fan. Yes, she could picture it; she could almost feel his hands running down her back and up her thighs.

Genie coughed and flung off the coverlet, standing up in the cold morning. She welcomed the cold shock of reality. She needed to get control of herself, get dressed, drink some stalwart English tea to steady herself, and then make a decision about Mr. Blakely. Mr. Grant could not enter into consideration. What would her mama say? It was too awful to contemplate.

An hour later, Genie was dressed and looking respectable, even if her meditations kept slipping into forbidden territory. She must stop thinking of Grant. Blakely would be a perfect antidote to being consumed with mad, passionate, lustful thoughts. The contemplation of him brought none of these strange sensations. He was as an Englishman should be. Predictable. Steady. Dull—that is dependable! She meant dependable, which is quite a nice compliment when you think about it.

Halfway through her eggs, one of the maids handed her a twist of a note. Since no one else had yet risen, she read it at the table.

In the garden. Come with all haste.

She knew his writing. She left the table immediately and went into the garden.

“George! Whatever are you doing in Lady Bremerton’s garden? The staff will think me quite naughty going to meet you like this.”

“I am sorry.” Her brother stumbled forward into the pale morning light and she could see he was not well.

“Whatever has happened? You look a wreck!”

George sank down onto a stone bench and put his head in his hands. His cravat was loose, his clothes crumpled, and he smelled strongly of stale smoke and liquor. “I should never have come. I am ruined now.”

Genie sat beside her brother, alarmed. “Tell me what has happened. Come now, sit up, there’s a good lad. It cannot be as bad as all that. You need to rest. You look like you’ve been up all night.”

“I do believe I have been awake for days, but what of it now? I’ve lost everything.”

“Did you lose at gambling?”

George looked up, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “I did not know the amounts we were playing for. They were saying three and four, I thought it was hundred.”

“You lost four hundred?” Genie gasped.

George laughed, a mirthless tone. “I lost four, then I wanted to make it up, but I lost another three. I had good hands, Genie, I had been winning and winning with much worse hands. I panicked. I knew I didn’t have the money, so I played again, trying to win it back, but every hand I lost.”

“How much did you lose, George?” A cold chill seeped through the stone bench into her bones. How could her brother get himself into such trouble?

George put his head down again and shook it.

“George, tell me the truth. How much did you lose?”

“Twelve,” mumbled George in a small voice.

“Twelve hundred pounds? Oh George!” Genie put her hand to her chest.

But George shook his head. “That’s when they told me they were not playing for hundreds. They were playing for thousands.”

Genie stood up, gaping at him. “Twelve thousand pounds?”

George nodded miserably.

Genie sat back down hard on the cold bench.

Twelve
thousand
pounds.

“George, that is impossible! You could never raise that kind of money. Even Father could not raise that money.”

“He must never know!” George grabbed her hand with his cold one.

“George, you are freezing out here. Come inside.”

He shook his head, a more miserable boy she had never seen. “Aunt Cora would send off a post to mother straightaway. Genie, I am sorry, but I’m going to need to ask for those emeralds back.”

“Yes, yes of course. I’ll just be a trice.”

Genie stepped lightly up to her room. She grabbed the box with the emeralds and paused to take one more look. Grant had complimented her on them. She did think they looked fine. She swallowed back regret and put the lid back on the box. It was time to be responsible and do what she needed to do to save her brother. Her decision was made. She would marry Mr. Blakely. What need could she have for sparkly ornaments?

Squaring her shoulders, she returned to the garden. She was a farm girl at heart, strong and hearty. She would meet this challenge directly and take care of her family. She would be respectably married and her fiancé would no doubt help to discharge her brother’s debts. Mr. Blakely was a nice sort of man. This was the best choice. This was her only choice.

Her brother took the emeralds from her without looking her in the eye. His shoulders were stooped, giving her rise to an uncharacteristic flash of anger.

“Do you know what I think, George? I think these men set a trap for you. They allowed you to win at first and then lured you into thinking you were playing for lower stakes, getting you to bet big. You should just explain to them that there was a misunderstanding.”

George let out a choking laugh that sounded more like a rasp. “You do not understand. This is a debt of honor, one I must pay.”

“There must be some way to have this debt forgiven.”

George turned toward her, his eyes hollow. “No, Genie. It is a debt of honor.” He stepped back and faded from view, in danger of being swallowed whole by the thick morning London fog. “If I cannot pay it…”

Cold shot through her and true panic rose in her throat. Her brother was in danger. She felt it from the hairs on the back of her neck to the tips of her frozen toes. “George, you must promise me you will not do anything rash. I will not have you jumping off a bridge because someone cheated you at cards. I will help you, I promise. Let us not give up hope.”

“I must go see what I can get for these emeralds,” said George in a dull voice.

“Promise me, George. Promise you will keep yourself safe. You cannot even contemplate hurting Mother like that.”

The fading shape in the garden bowed his head, smaller and fainter. He was disappearing. “I promise, for now. I love you, Genie. You have always been a good sister to me.”

“George! Promise you will meet me here tomorrow morning.” Genie heard nothing from the dense fog. “George? One day, just give me one day.”

“As you wish.” The metal gate creaked and he was gone.

Genie sank back down on the cold stone bench. Twelve thousand pounds. It was a fortune. She had heard the stories of young men being routed in gambling hells and then, unable to pay the debt, “putting a period to their existence.” She could not and would not let that happen to her brother.