The Unthinkable (4 page)

“Oh Eugenia,” her mother exclaimed, her eyes misting with tears. “You are loveliness itself. You’ve always made your father and me so proud, always such a good, sensible girl. Now look at you, all grown up…” She trailed off, dabbing her eyes with a lace-trimmed piece of linen she’d pulled from her reticule.

“Truly, I’ve never seen you look so beautiful, Genie. The men will be falling at your feet. I do wish I could be there to see you tonight,” Lizzie said from her forlorn perch on Genie’s bed. “It’s not fair. Why must I wait until I’m eighteen?” She scowled at their mother. “Susan is coming-out with Genie and she has only just turned seventeen.”

Sly puss, Genie thought. Lizzie’s nagging magically lightened the sentimental mood.

“That’s only because Mrs. Andrews can’t wait to catch a title,” Mrs. Prescott replied briskly. “Your father and I harbor no such ambition. Though I wish we had more for you girls.”

Genie could hear the silent apology in her mother’s voice. Although her father’s advowson of seven hundred and fifty pounds a year under the patronage of the Marquess of Buckingham was considered substantial for a rector, after providing for her brothers and supporting her two maiden aunts there was not much left for the two girls.

“But you are both beautiful and accomplished,” Mrs. Prescott continued firmly, convincing herself. “It will be enough.” She sighed. “Before I know it both my girls will be gone with homes and families of their own.”

“That will be some time yet, Mother.”

“Especially for me,” Lizzie piped in glumly.

“It will be your turn soon enough, young miss.” Mrs. Prescott gazed at Lizzie thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is the bane of the youngest to always want to be the eldest.” Gently, she lifted Lizzie’s chin with her finger. “So impatient, always afraid that you’ll miss something.” Leaning down, she placed a light kiss on Lizzie’s cheek. “Try not to grow up too fast, my love.”

Empathizing with her sister’s impatience—a feeling she understood only too well at the moment—Genie offered what consolation she could. “I promise to tell you everything, including every boring detail about the duke’s sons—
if
they deign to make an appearance.”

“Boring?” Lizzie laughed. “You don’t fool me, Genie Prescott. You are as curious as I am. But I’ll hold you to your promise. I want to hear every detail.” She sighed dramatically. “I just know something wonderful is going to happen tonight.”

Any trepidation Genie may have harbored vanished in the first few minutes after her arrival when she was immediately surrounded by a throng of very enthusiastic gentlemen vying for her introduction.

Never had she had such fun. Dancing, laughing, even her first foray into a little innocent flirting. It was perfect. She wished the night would never end.

Awaiting refreshment, Genie stood with her friend Caroline at the back of the large hall next to the wide doors that opened to the patio, fanning herself with the cool breeze of the starry summer night. Along with her first ball, she was also experiencing the unbearable heat of a crowded ballroom lit by hundreds of candles. Genie welcomed the rare moment of peace, content to merely observe the dancers for a while. A sea of white and pastel silk swirled by, the ladies’ gowns shimmering in the soft flickering candlelight.

“It feels like I’ve been caught up in a pink and violet whirlwind.”

Genie turned to Caro, taking note of the bright eyes and flushed cheeks that surely matched her own. Fortunately, Caro had not lacked for suitors either. As the only daughter of the baronet Sir John Howard, Caro was guaranteed a certain modicum of success by her connections alone, but her vivacious joie de vivre immediately enraptured all around her. Her otherwise ordinary features transformed to beauty by the force of personality alone.

“I know what you mean,” Genie agreed. “The night has flown by. Everything has happened so fast I can barely remember any of it.”

“You better,” Caro warned, “or Lizzie will never forgive you.”

They shared a smile. Bereft of a sister, Caro loved Lizzie as her own. Thinking of her last conversation with Lizzie, Genie said, “She’ll be disappointed that the duke and his family have chosen not to attend. She was in quite a sulk when I left. I only pacified her by promising details.”

Caro nodded, understanding. “I suppose it is to be expected, but a disappointment all the same. I’ve never seen a duke before.”

“Most in this room have not.”

Above the din of the music, a wave of whispers rippled through the hall. Genie glanced toward the entry. A shiver of excitement ran up her spine. A distinguished older gentleman and an extremely thin woman of indeterminate age, wearing the most extraordinary turban she had ever seen, were being welcomed by the Marquess and Marchioness of Buckingham. Their unmatched elegance and haughty disdain alone proclaimed them as the Duke and Duchess of Huntingdon. Not to mention the giant diamond broach that secured a plumed feather that must have been two feet high to the turban. Genie could see the large sparkling gem from across the room.

“Perhaps Lizzie will not be disappointed after all?” Genie said, peering through the crowd that had gathered around the new arrivals but unable to see whether their sons had accompanied them.

“Her gown is magnificent.”

Genie nodded. It was true. The intricate design, the elaborate beading in a room of simply adorned gowns, the workmanship, and the bold purple color were unrivaled. The Duchess’s sophisticated ensemble exemplified rare wealth and power. Even the formidable Marchioness seemed provincial in comparison.

Their dancing partners, amiable young men from Tewkesbury, reappeared with the promised ratafia, drawing their attention away from the ducal party. She was led back onto the dance floor and the opportunity to apprize the sons from afar was lost.

Lizzie was going to kill her. The ball was almost over and she had yet to catch a glimpse of the duke’s sons. She’d managed a few discreet searches, but thus far, no luck. Perhaps they had decided not to join their parents? Perhaps they were too proud to partake of humble country society?

She tried not to be disappointed but failed.

The dance ended and her partner led her back toward the circle of women that included her mother and Mrs. Andrews. Though some in the room might look down on the Andrews’ trade connections as inferior, Mrs. Prescott was not so small-minded. “There’s no shame in doing a hard day’s work,” was her gentle refrain.

Before Genie could rejoin her mother, an animated Caro intercepted her. “They’re here,” she whispered.

“You’ve seen them?”

Caro nodded; a broad smile on her face.

“Then tell me,” Genie asked impatiently. “Are the duke’s sons more frog or prince?”

Caro’s eyes widened to enormous proportions. “See for yourself,” she whispered.

Genie’s eyes narrowed quizzically. She turned to find her eldest brother Charles at her side, looking as if he’d just swallowed a horse.

A lump of dread formed in the pit of her stomach.
Please, don’t let the duke’s sons be standing right next to me
.

Her prayer was only half answered.

“Sister,” Charles said tightly. “May I introduce Lord Fitzwilliam Hastings.”

Genie finally glanced at the young man at his side; though how she could have missed him, even for a moment, was incomprehensible. Her breath caught. Surely her eyes rounded with shock? He was tall, with dark blond hair and blue eyes, and quite simply the most handsome young man she had ever set eyes on.

Stunned into a temporary stupor, but eventually rote training took over and Genie curtsied. “A pleasure, my lord.”

He seemed to be alone, but she took little relief that there were not two handsome duke’s sons to witness her dreadful gaffe.

Beautifully white teeth gleamed from behind an amused grin. He bowed and an oh-so-tempting lock of dark gold hair fell forward across his cheek.

A single thought invaded her mind: She wanted to touch it.

The highly improper response succeeded in jolting her back to reality.

A reality where she might have just committed a horrible faux pas. Had he heard her compare him to a frog?

“Miss Prescott,” he said.

Two little words. But enough to hear the laughter in his voice. Oh, he’d heard her all right.

She’d certainly have something to tell Lizzie about now, only the single most embarrassing moment of her life.

Yet, the charming twinkle in his sea-blue eyes disarmed her. Mirth was not what she expected from a gentleman of his distinction and rank.

“I hope more prince than frog, Miss Prescott?”

The color slid from her face. Mortified, Genie wanted to crawl beneath the nearest table and hide. “Though you might not agree once you meet my brother Henry.” He laughed. His obvious good humor lifted the blanket of uncomfortable tension that had descended upon the small group. Even her staid brother Charles smiled.

Genie blushed at his gentle teasing. Lord Fitzwilliam Hastings was certainly not the too-proud man she assumed. Perhaps only a few years older than herself, she decided that he must be the second son. The elder had a title, Viscount Loudoun. Still too embarrassed to meet his gaze, she did manage a small smile in return. “Then I’ll reserve my judgment, my lord, until I have had the pleasure.”

Surprised by her own playfulness, Genie stole a quick glance.

From the way his dimples deepened, she could tell that he admired her pert reply. “If I promise not to croak too loudly, will you do me the honor of a dance?”

Her pulse raced. She hoped her voice sounded less eager than she felt. “Of course.”

He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. Even through the leather of her gloves, she could feel the firm strength of his hand and the hard muscle of his arm as he placed her fingers in its crook. She seemed to be aware of everything about him, from the overwhelming strength of his tall, lean build to the hypnotic clean scent of sandalwood that surrounded him.

It was strange. She’d never had this reaction with her other dance partners. She glanced at him from under her lashes. Though she supposed none of her other dance partners looked like they stepped straight off the pages of a fairy tale.

The Country Dance began and the next half hour was interspersed with only the occasional snippets of conversation.

He was enjoying his time in Gloucestershire thus far. He found the long stretches of farmland near the river Severn crossed by the old stone walls particularly beautiful. Peyton Park seemed a fine country house and was more than sufficient while Donnington Park was undergoing improvement, thank you.

Conversation might have been limited, but Genie had never enjoyed a dance more. When the divergent movements of the dance prevented speech, he communicated with her in other ways. Just by the way he stared at her, his interest was clear: the intensity of his gaze, the subtle lifting of a brow, the irrepressible charm of his roguish smile.

Genie couldn’t help but bubble with pleasure. She knew she was probably smiling too broadly, her eyes too bright, her cheeks too flushed, but she bloomed under his appreciative gaze.

She wanted to stare at him, to memorize his glorious features, but she kept her gaze down-turned and properly demure. Each time she managed to catch a glimpse of him from under her lashes, he was staring at her—improperly, boldly even.

Genie felt light-headed.

Unfortunately, the dance had to come to an end. He took a circuitous route to return her to her mother who was watching them with unabashed interest. As were most of the women in the room. He was amazing, and he’d singled her out. She couldn’t prevent the smile, but she forced herself to repress the companion sigh.

They’d nearly reached her mother, but were still far enough away for a few last moments of private conversation. “And what do you do with your days in Gloucestershire, Miss Prescott?”

She sensed something lurking behind his pleasantry, but she answered him matter-of-factly. “I enjoy the countryside, my lord. Long walks, picnics along the river as the weather permits, and of course, riding.”

“Hmm. Sounds delightful. Would you recommend any spots for walking in particular?”

“The path around the park of the castle is a great favorite of mine. My younger sister, Lizzie, and I take our morning constitutional there a couple of times a week.”

He seemed pleased with her response.

They were almost within earshot of her mother when he said, “Well, Miss Prescott, have you found the answer to your question?”

She blushed and didn’t bother pretending not to understand. “I am still as yet undecided, my lord,” she said primly.

“Hmm,” he considered. A naughty grin played upon his lips. “There is always another way…”

Genie looked up and their eyes locked. Her heart lurched, overwhelmed by the sheer charisma that radiated from him, sucking her in. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something more powerful at work than the simple attraction of his incredible good looks. He was stunning—if that term could be used to describe a man: the classic bone structure of a perfectly shaped nose, high cheekbones, square jaw and wide forehead; a wide sensual mouth; dark blond hair streaked with strands of gold; and striking blue eyes.

No, there was more. He seduced her with the charm of his twinkling gaze and naughty smile punctuated with dimples. When she looked at him she saw something that definitely wasn’t good for her, but which proved impossible to resist. Like the sweet cakes and chocolate cream puffs that she devoured. In the back of her mind, a voice urged caution. But Genie was drawn to him like a magnet.

How could she ever think him a frog? He was the prince of her dreams. Knowing she shouldn’t, she found herself asking nonetheless, “There is?”

“Indeed.” The huskiness of his voice sent chills down her spine. “You could always kiss me to find out.”

Hastings returned Genie to her mother, bowed, thanked her graciously, and excused himself. Rendered temporarily mute, Genie could only nod like a simpleton.