The Marrying Season (23 page)

“It will do splendidly,” Genevieve said, turning to her grandmother with a determined smile. “We shall send our things over this afternoon.”

Myles trotted up the front
steps of his house, humming a tune under his breath. He had been taken aback when he’d returned to Rawdon’s house a few minutes ago and was told that Lady Genevieve was already moving into Thorwood Place, but, as he thought about it, his surprise had turned to delight.

He had feared that once Genevieve was back under her family’s roof, she would be content to stay in the familiar place, taking her time with decorating the house. And the thought of making love to her right down the hall from
her grandmother—not to mention her brother—felt deuced peculiar. When he had come back from looking for Langdon the night before and had seen that her room was dark, he had decided not to even go in. But it had been equally wrong to sleep in his bed alone. After only a few weeks of being with Genevieve, the bed had seemed uncomfortable and large and . . . lonely.

Clearly Genevieve was as eager as he to be alone together in their own home—why else would she have rushed to move into their house? They had had a bit of discord this morning, but Genevieve had always had a temper. She had just learned to govern it better and was no longer apt to chase one down the hall, wielding her hairbrush like a club, as she had when she was twelve. But she was apt to cool down quickly, too. And he could not imagine that she truly wanted to go meet the runner this evening. Genevieve was not the sort to flout convention.

Still, it was a relief to find that she was now happily engaged in setting up their home. She must be over her odd humor of this morning. It would be as it had been at the manor house. No, even better, it would be like their time in the cottage, the two of them alone, sharing their meals, sitting and talking after supper, sleeping with her warm and soft in his arms. The thought of Genevieve lying in his bed sent a ripple of primitive male lust through him, and Myles took the stairs two at a time and went down the hall toward the master bedroom, following Genevieve’s voice.

Before he reached it, he found her not in his bedroom,
but in the elegant bedchamber adjoining his. He stopped, watching her direct her maid as she put away Genevieve’s clothes, and disappointment settled in his chest like a rock.

Apparently this was not going to be just like their time in the cottage.

“Well, my dear, let it never be said you are not efficient,” Myles said, putting on a pleasant voice with an effort.

Genevieve gave a little start at the sound of his voice and turned to him. “Hello, Myles.” She held herself a little stiffly, and her voice had a formality that he had not heard in weeks. “There seemed little point in delaying.”

“No doubt.” Myles advanced into the room. Genevieve cast a look at her maid, and the woman bobbed a curtsy and left. Myles leaned against the footboard of her bed, his legs stretched out in front of him in a pose that looked more relaxed than he felt. Xerxes, who was lying on the end of the bed, shot Myles a look of contempt and sprang down, stalking off with his tail in the air. “I hope you warned the servants about your cat. No doubt we’ll soon have maids leaving our employment.”

“Don’t be nonsensical.”

“Ah, but that’s part of my charm.” He glanced around the room. “I see that you have established your separate bedrooms.” To his dismay, he realized his light remark wasn’t entirely devoid of bitterness.

“Yes, of course.” Genevieve raised her chin fractionally. “That is what is done, isn’t it?”

He heard the echo of his own words to her this morning,
and he wondered if she was still in a dudgeon about that. He tried a smile. “I suppose so. Still, I confess I will miss the way it was.”

“Yes. Well.” Genevieve turned away and began to straighten the bottles on the vanity. “We are in the city now. Life will return to normal. We need not be in each other’s pocket all the time.”

“Not if you do not wish it.” He stood up, faintly surprised at the disappointment he felt. He knew Genevieve well; she was not the sort to be a clinging wife. A few weeks in the country, no matter how sweet it had been, were not going to change her into a woman who would hang on his every word. He would not want her to be. Her spine was one of the things he had always admired about her. But, somehow, he wished she were standing there smiling at him, her hair a silvery curtain, her eyes full of sensual promise, as she had been a few days ago.

“Grandmama invited us to their box at the theater tomorrow,” Genevieve went on. “She thought it would be a good place for us—for me—to make an appearance. People will talk, of course, but they will whenever I go out the first time. And I will not have to mingle as I would at a party. I suppose I should get it over with.”

“I bow, as always, to Lady Rawdon’s knowledge,” Myles agreed, striving once again to hit the right note. Why did it suddenly seem awkward with Genevieve, when only a few days ago they had lain tangled together, her breath warm against his bare skin? “I shall be happy to take you to the theater.”

“You do not have to come,” she said in an airy tone, returning once again to nudging the perfumes and lotions about. “I do not expect you to shield me everywhere I go. No doubt you have interests of your own to attend to.”

“Do you not wish me to accompany you?” He was unprepared for the twist of hurt, but he kept his voice even.

“No, I didn’t mean that.” Her eyes flew to his, startled. “I was just saying, you do not need to tie yourself to . . . to defending my reputation. I will have Grandmama, and Damaris said she and Alec will go as well.”

“And so will your husband.” Myles grasped her wrist, turning her toward him. “Genevieve, stop fidgeting with those bottles and look at me. What are you playing at?”

“I am not playing at anything!” she fired back. “I am only saying—”

“What? That you have no need of me?” He felt his temper rising, matching the ache in his chest. “I am well aware of that and always have been. But I think it will look somewhat better if your husband of less than a month is actually with you.”

“Yes, of course, that is very important to you, how it looks.”

Myles stared at her. “You are accusing
me
of being concerned about how things look?”

“You certainly seemed so today.” She lifted her chin.

“You
are
still angry about this morning.” Myles had to smile. This was not so bad, then. Feminine annoyance was something he knew how to handle.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What a bag of moonshine. Try that with someone who doesn’t know you.” He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, giving it the tiniest shake. “I see that tilt of your chin. Are you really up in the boughs over my wanting to find Langdon?”

“I never said I didn’t want you to find him.”

“Do you really wish to go to some dockside tavern with us to talk to this runner?” His voice rose in surprise. “That hardly sounds like you.”

“Yes, no doubt I am far too poor-spirited to do such a thing.”

“I would never call you poor-spirited.” He grinned again. “Conscious of the proprieties, let us say.”

“You are right. I am.” She twisted her chin from his grasp. “I am glad to find that you, too, have some sense of what is acceptable. I will admit it surprises me.”

His hands went to her waist, and he pulled her closer. “I love it when you scold.” He bent to nuzzle her neck.

“Really, Myles, is that your answer for everything?” Genevieve twisted her head away, but it only exposed a longer line of her neck and shoulder for his lips to explore.

“I find it suffices for a number of things.” He slid his hands down over the curve of her buttocks, desire spearing inside him.

“It is almost time for supper,” she protested. “I must dress.”

He huffed out a little laugh against her skin as he kissed his way down her chest to the neckline of her gown. “Ah, then first you must undress. I can help you
with that.” He cupped her breast in one hand, kissing the trembling top of it above the lace of her dress.

“Stop. Do you think I am that easy? That all it takes to fob me off is a few kisses? That I can be soothed by your skillful lovemaking into doing whatever you want?”

“You seemed to enjoy it well enough last week.” He smiled sensually and ran a teasing finger along the neckline of her dress.

“I said, stop it!” Genevieve twisted away, planting her hands on her hips, and glared at him. “Honestly, Myles, you cannot be this obtuse.”

“Apparently I can,” he shot back, her words rankling. “Obviously I am once again a great disappointment to you.”

“Don’t be absurd. I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” He could feel the heat of resentment spurting up inside him. “It is clear; it has always been. In the past, I was too loose, too lax, too uninterested in the rules or propriety. Now am I too concerned with what people might think. You need not look for excuses, Genevieve; I understand wherein the fault lies. It is not whether I am proper, whether I ignore the rules or follow them too well. It is me. I am what is wrong in your eyes.”

“What!” Genevieve stared. “No! Myles . . . I never said that!”

“But it is what you think.” He could feel his calm slipping, knew that he was revealing too much. But he could not seem to hold it back. “I am ‘just Myles,’ the handy friend of your brother, the man with whom one wants to dance but not the sort one takes seriously. I am the man
you would never have stooped to marry if you had not been forced into it. Even though I am the one who helped you when you needed it, who offered you his name to save you from social ruin.”

Genevieve drew in a sharp breath. “You are throwing that up to me?”

Myles felt a pang of remorse, he could not hold back the words. They welled up from him like blood from a wound. “I tried in every way to make it easier for you. I cajoled and smiled and turned away your anger. I held my tongue because I knew you suffered. I did my best to awaken you gently, to give you pleasure. I held back until I thought I would explode because I did not want to hurt or frighten you.”

“Do you want another apology from me? Am I supposed to spend the rest of our marriage thanking you? Yes, I know you sacrificed your life so my reputation would not suffer. I am sorry, so dreadfully sorry for it! But I cannot pay you back by—by pretending that I am something I am not.”

“I am not asking you to!” He could feel his pulse pounding in his head, and he took a breath, struggling to control his voice. “I just wish that any of that meant something to you. Dursbury suited you. It didn’t matter that he was more shell than substance. He was high enough for you; his family was old enough; his pride matched yours. You cannot bear the thought of being only my wife. Not Genevieve Stafford, the daughter of an earl, but just Genevieve Thorwood.”

“I will always be Genevieve Stafford!” Color blazed in Genevieve’s cheeks. “Marrying you doesn’t change me!”

“That’s obvious,” he shot back. “You are still the same cold woman you have always been!”

Genevieve stiffened, looking as if he had slapped her. The anger drained out of Myles as suddenly as it had flared up, leaving behind only an icy hollow.

“Of course I am the one who is at fault. I am cold.” The words fell from Genevieve’s lips, as hard and unforgiving as her eyes. “Well, you are right. I don’t share your . . . your egregious appetites. I think there is more to life than carnal pleasures.” She waved her hand toward the bed.

“I see. So it’s all very well to enjoy your conjugal pleasures in the country, where there is not much to do. But here you are not swayed by lust. There are better ways to occupy your time.”

Genevieve faced him defiantly, her arms crossed over her chest. “I am sorry I don’t meet your expectations. I am sorry that you expended so much time and effort trying to imbue me with warmth and turn me sweet. Anyone could have told you that it was an impossible task.” She looked away. “I will not apologize for my pride in being a Stafford. And I cannot live the rest of my life begging your forgiveness. I warned you not to do it, Myles!” Her voice caught, and she stopped for a second, then went on in a low voice, “I have to be more than your wife. I am not meant for honeyed words or sweet kisses. There is no need for you to ‘hold back’ or try to ‘awaken’ me. I will manage just fine without your conjugal pleasures.”

“I don’t believe you,” Myles said flatly.

“I beg your pardon?” Genevieve sent him a look down her nose that would have done justice to her ancestors.

“I said, you’re lying. I’m just not sure whether it’s to me or to yourself.” Myles strode away, turning back at the door. “I will, of course, respect your wishes and not bother you with my unwanted attentions. But you forget; I have made love to you these past few weeks. You want me in your bed. And sooner or later you will admit it.”

G
enevieve stared at her reflection
in the mirror without seeing it. Behind her Penelope said, “Ma’am? Is there something wrong? Do you wish me to change the style?”

“What?” Genevieve realized that she had been sitting there silently for far too long. “Oh, no, everything is fine. You did an excellent job, as always. I am afraid I was woolgathering.”

Her maid stepped back, still watching her somewhat uncertainly. Genevieve knew she had to stand up and start down to supper. She could not delay it any longer or Penelope would know something was wrong. She could not give the servants cause for gossip. Genevieve stood up, clutching her skirts in her icy hands, and turned toward the door. Her breath caught in her throat and for an instant she could not go forward.

She could not go down there and face Myles. Not after the scene this afternoon. How could she talk to him as if everything were perfectly all right? How could she sit there and eat when her stomach revolted at the very idea of food? He would see the puffiness in her eyes, no matter
how she had tried to soothe it away with a cool, wet rag; he would know that she had cried over him.

She wanted desperately to hide up here like a coward and claim illness. Put off facing him until the next day. But she could not allow herself to do that. However much his harsh words had hurt her, she had to hold her head up. She had to act like a lady. Like a Stafford.