Chapter Twelve

G enevieve was drunk. She had to be to stand there and allow Lord Emory to pull her into his arms, place his hand on her cheek, and kiss her. He’d moved slowly, giving her plenty of time to reject him or move away. He wasn’t holding her tightly. She could have easily stepped out of his arms.

But she didn’t.

The dratted man knew she wouldn’t because she found him irresistibly handsome.

And he knew he was very good at kissing.

That kiss they shared in the closet had been nice, but this— this took her breath away. His lips were firm and unhesitating. He took her mouth as though he knew exactly what he was doing and had every right to do it. She’d been kissed before. The first kisses were often fumbling and awkward, but she couldn’t imagine this man ever doing anything sloppily, much less kissing a woman shoddily.

His lips brushed over her mouth in a light, teasing way that made her toes curl and the fine hairs on her arms stand up and tingle. Finally, when she thought she might grab his head and kiss him hard to end the tantalizing torture, he increased the pressure slightly, taking her mouth and laying claim to it. His lips closed on hers, then he pulled back, slowly. She followed him, wanting more, but he broke the kiss. His hand slid down her face to the portion of her neck revealed by the modestly cut gown. “Your pulse is racing,” he said, voice low and deep.

“That wasn’t fair,” she whispered.

“I know,” he murmured. “I want you to say yes. I don’t mind cheating a little to get what I want.”

“I need time to think.” She stepped back and put her hand on her chest to quiet her racing heart. “My head is spinning.”

“Fine.” He was all formality again. “How long do you need?”

“I don’t know. This is an important decision.”

“You have four days or until I return, whichever comes first.”

“Return? Where are you going?”

“To get a special license. I don’t want to call the banns and all that.” He waved a hand. “I don’t need everyone gossiping about how my wife hasn’t even been dead a year.”

Genevieve blinked. “That’s a good point, though, my lord. We should wait.”

“No. Frances needs a mother, now more than ever.”

“The child is simply trying to adjust to you and life at Lilacfall Abbey, my lord. We should give her time and not rush into anything.”

“I may not have time, Genevieve. Recall that I have a curse hanging over my head. If anything happens to me, I want Frances safe with you.”

She opened her mouth then closed it again. Just when she had forgotten about his preoccupation with this curse, he brought it up again. She was beginning to fear he might be half mad.

“If this is about Frances’s protection, we can draw up papers—”

“Too late,” he said. “If you’d mentioned that before, I might have considered it. But now I’ve kissed you again, I want you in my bed.”

“My lord—”

“Genevieve, if you need further convincing, I know how to do more than kiss.”

She felt her eyes go round. “I had better go to bed now.”

“I agree.”

“I’m sleeping in Frances’s room,” she said, just in case he got the idea to find her in her bedchamber.

“Good idea. I trust you to keep her safe.”

Genevieve backed out of the library and then took the stairs two at a time, handfuls of her damp skirts in her hands. Once in the nursery, she leaned back against the door and attempted to catch her breath. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw his brandy-colored eyes and his soft mouth and felt his capable hands on her shoulders. She shivered.

How would she ever refuse him?

*

He was gone the next morning, squashing any hope she had that she had merely imagined or dreamed the events of the night before. When she inquired after him, Mrs. Mann said he had left early to see the Archbishop of Canterbury. The housekeeper raised her brows meaningfully, showing she knew exactly why gentlemen of his stature hied off to Doctors’ Commons in London in the wee hours of the morning. Genevieve wondered what the woman would think when she discovered it was a governess, not some fortunate daughter of the local gentry, Lord Emory was planning to marry. That was if the special license was granted. Oh, who was she fooling? Lord Emory could convince anyone of anything. He’d all but persuaded her to marry him, hadn’t he?

Fortunately, Genevieve didn’t have leisure to mull over Lord Emory and what could have possibly gotten into him. She needed to have a very serious conversation with Frances. She’d allowed the child to finish her porridge and dress before she mentioned that, since the ground was still wet and muddy from the previous day’s rains, they might spend the morning in the music room.

Frances readily agreed, and after a half-hour practicing pianoforte, Genevieve sat on the bench beside her, took the child’s small hands in her own, and said, “Shall we talk about yesterday?”

The girl shook her head. “No, thank you.”

Genevieve smiled. “It wasn’t really a question, sweetheart. We need to talk about what happened yesterday. You can’t run away like that. You know my rule.”

“You broke the rule. You ran away too!”

Genevieve took a breath. “I went to visit my mother. I told you she’s been ill, and I need to see her sometimes. I told you I would be back.”

“Yes, but Papa said if I was naughty, then you wouldn’t come back.”

Genevieve took another breath and squeezed Frances’s hands. “He shouldn’t have said that. I know he didn’t mean it. Haven’t you ever said something in anger that, later when you are no longer angry, you regret?”

“What’s regret?”

“It’s like when you wish you had not done something you did.”

Frances shrugged.

“Your Papa had to, er, attend to some business today, but when he returns, I know he will want to discuss what he said with you. I’m sure he will tell you he did not mean it. But…”

Frances looked up. “But?”

“But even if he had meant it, and I wasn’t coming back, that is still not an excuse to run away. Your papa was worried about you, and so was I. The entire household was searching for you. We were all very scared, even Admiral.”

“Oh.” The little girl looked down at her skirts, lifting the material and plucking it between her fingers. “I was scared too.”

“You mustn’t ever run away like that again. If you ever do something like that again, there will be serious consequences, Frances. Do you understand?”

The girl looked up at her and nodded.

“I don’t know what the future holds.” Never had a statement been truer. “But one thing I do know is there will be difficulties. You might disagree with your father or become angry at me. You might be scared, or something might happen that makes you very angry. Whatever the problem may be, running away from it is not an option. Avoiding a problem won’t solve anything. You must confront adversity, face it, and be brave. Can you promise me that, from now on, there’s no more running away from problems?”

Frances nodded.

“I need you to say the words, Frances.”

“I promise.”

“Good.” Genevieve rose. “Now shall we go play with Harriet and Marcella before our spelling lesson?”

Frances nodded but didn’t rise from the bench. Genevieve sat back down. “What is it?”

“Is it running away if I go with Papa?”

“Of course not. If your father or I am with you, then you are not running away.”

“And Mama?”

Genevieve couldn’t stop the sudden intake of breath. “What about your mama?”

“If she comes, is it running away if I go with her?”

Genevieve closed her eyes and squared her shoulders. She took Frances’s hands in her own and looked into the girl’s brandy eyes behind the spectacles. “Frances, remember we talked about how my father passed away?”

Frances nodded.

“When someone passes away—when they die—one of the hard things for those of us who are still living is that we don’t see them again. I missed my father so very much when he died. I wanted to see him again, but that just isn’t possible. When someone dies, like your mother died, we don’t see them again. Your mother will not come to take you away with her because she died.”

Genevieve braced herself for tears and even anger, but Frances simply pursed her lips. “I understand,” she said.

Genevieve blinked. “You do?”

Frances nodded.

“Do you want to talk more about it? I understand if you want to cry. I still feel like crying sometimes when I think about my papa. I still miss him.”

“I miss Mama,” Frances said. “But it’s different than with your papa.”

“Of course it is. I only meant that if you talk to me about how you feel, I will try to understand how you are feeling. I know you are sad. If you are feeling sad and want to cry, that’s understandable.”

“I’m not sad.”

Genevieve blinked. “Good,” she said slowly. “If you ever do feel sad, you can tell me.”

“I do feel sad sometimes,” Frances said. “Because I miss Mama, but it won’t be long now before she comes for me.” She hopped off the bench. “May we go play now?”

“Frances, I told you that when someone passes away they don’t come back. Your mother cannot come for you because…sweetheart”—Genevieve reached for her hands—“she’s dead.”

“No, she’s not. I told you, she had to go to her kingdom far away. She will be back for me because I am the princess. I need only wait. A queen has many responsibilities, but she will come back for me.”

Genevieve shook her head. “Frances, no. Your mother is not in another kingdom. She—”

“Yes, she is!” Frances stamped her foot. “She is!” she yelled.

“Frances.”

She put her hands over her ears. “She is! She is! She is!” The girl crumpled to the ground and began to sob.

Genevieve slid down beside her and pulled her into her arms. “Shh. I’m here,” she murmured, not sure what else to say. Clearly, Frances needed to believe her mother was still alive. It seemed cruel to keep reiterating that her mama was dead. Certainly, Genevieve had said enough today. She would give it a few days and then, when the moment was right, bring it up again. Perhaps she could find a way to do so that was gentler.

“Do you know, I think we have had enough of serious conversations for now,” she said. “Shall we go to the nursery and have a silly conversation with our dolls?”

Frances looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. “A silly conversation?”

“Yes. We can talk about how pink the sky is or how orange the water of the trout stream looked.”

Frances stared at her. “That is silly. What if the trees had purple leaves?”

“And the grass was blue?”

“And was soft as a blanket!”

“What if the grass was an enormous blanket, and we could lie down, pull it over us, and nap under the clouds and the sky?”

“The pink sky!”

“That’s right.” Genevieve took Frances’s hand, and the two skipped out of the music room and up to the nursery. But later that day, after they had laughed and sung, and read and even attempted some mathematics, Genevieve couldn’t help but feel a ball of dread sitting heavy in her belly.

Some of the dread was for the hard conversations coming with Frances.

And the rest of it was because her four days were ticking away, and soon Lord Emory would be home with the license, expecting to make her his wife.

*

By late afternoon of the second day, Rory had achieved his aims. He had the license safe in his pocket, and, all things considered, obtaining it had not been as difficult as he’d expected. Yes, the archbishop had given him a long lecture about marrying in haste. Rory had borne it in stony silence and then, when the archbishop had run out of admonitions, raised a brow, handed over the thirty pounds, and said, “Will you sign it now?”

As anxious as he was to return home to Lilacfall Abbey, he didn’t relish another twenty hours in his coach, and didn’t want to risk the horses or his outriders by starting out so late in the day. He gave orders to be ready to depart at dawn and made his way to the Clarendon Hotel. He’d sleep for a few hours then hie back to Devon. If the weather held and the posting houses supplied fast horses, he would be home for breakfast the day after tomorrow.

He’d been thinking about Genevieve and how she might look when he walked in the door and showed her the license. So deep in thought was he that he started when there was a tap on his shoulder in the lobby of the Clarendon. He turned and found Munro Notley.

“I say, didn’t you hear me call your name?”

Rory smiled and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I’m like to fall over from exhaustion.”

“What brings you to London? I thought you were playing the perfect papa in Devon?”

Rory hesitated, and Notley’s eyes went wide.

“Oh, ho-ho! A secret? Have a drink with me and tell all.”

Rory secured a room then met Notley in the plush public room of the hotel. Notley had already ordered wine and poured two glasses. Rory sat and sipped his, then sipped again. It was excellent wine. “What’s the occasion?”

“You tell me. You look like a man who has had a fifty-pound weight taken off his shoulders.”

Rory took another sip. Notley knew him very well, almost as well as Henry and King. No point in pretending this trip to London was a lark. “I decided my daughter needs a mother.”

Notley almost choked on his wine. “You’re marrying again?” he sputtered when he could speak again.

“That is the best way to obtain a mother for a child,” Rory drawled.

“But you detest marriage. Every time we raised a glass on the Continent, you used it as an opportunity to curse marriage. To curse women. To curse—”

“I remember, Notley. Most of it anyway.”

“Then…why?”

“I told you, Frances needs a mother.”

“She has a perfectly capable governess. Why not—Oh, no .” Notley held up his hands as though to ward off the thought itself. “ No . You don’t mean to say you are marrying the governess.”

“I’m aware it’s clichéd and bourgeois.”

“It is that.” Notley stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment. “Now that I think about it, she’s perfect for you.”

Now it was Rory’s turn to choke on his wine. “I beg your pardon. She’s not at all perfect for me. She’s dictatorial, interfering…” Smart, kind, calming.

“True. She did give me what for and convinced you to send me packing.”

“Exactly.” Rory pointed a finger at Notley.

“She’s not the usual sort to turn your head, either. I can’t remember your ever taking interest in a redhead.”

“Of course not.” But why had he never looked at a ginger before? How could he have failed to see the way Genevieve’s hair looked when the sun filtered through it? It was like a halo of fire. And her eyes… Why had he always thought blue eyes so lovely? He hadn’t known that green eyes could possess so much depth.

“I do see her appeal.”

Rory narrowed his eyes. “Do you?”

“I see why she appeals to you,” Notley added. “She’s no great beauty, but that’s not what you want.”

Rory took a breath to argue that Genevieve was quite beautiful, but then he blew it out again. “It’s not?”

“No. Your first wife, from all accounts, was incredibly beautiful. We’ve all had our heads scrambled by a pretty face, but this time you are entering marriage clear-eyed. You’re no longer two and twenty and apt to believe anything a handsome chit tells you. This time you know you’re not marrying for love. Obviously, Miss Brooking is marrying you for your money and your title. You are marrying her to care for the demon child—”

“ Notley, ” Rory said.

“Excuse me, that sweet little girl. The governess gets what she wants and you what you need, plus the advantage of a woman in your bed whenever you want. It’s a perfect arrangement.”

A perfect arrangement. Yes, that was all it was. Rory would not be fooled this time, wouldn’t be betrayed. He was wide-eyed and clearheaded. This marriage was the sort of arrangement couples made every day. There needn’t be any feelings involved. In fact, it was better if neither of them was plagued by emotions. He’d felt practically every emotion imaginable when married to Harriet. Falling in love with the woman had been his biggest mistake. He didn’t want to repeat that experience.

“You have a point, Notley. All this time I thought I never wanted to marry again. The truth is, I don’t want to fall in love.”

“Of course you don’t. No chance of that with the governess.”

“No chance,” Rory agreed.

Notley lifted the wine bottle and refilled both of their glasses. “You have been preoccupied with family matters and may not recall the favor you asked of me.”

King. Damn it. “I admit listening to the archbishop drone on for hours has left me feeling a bit dull, but King and the Duke of Carlisle have been on my mind. Were you able to find King and deliver my letter?”

“No. From all accounts, the man has disappeared. He was last seen on the morning after his father was found guilty by the Lords. His creditors all but broke down his door. He made off with a woman no one recognized, and he hasn’t been seen since. Trust me. There are some irate merchants looking for him, but he’s keeping his head down.”

“Perhaps he’s left London.”

“I can look into it, but my guess is he’s hiding in one of the rookeries. Give it a couple of weeks, and I imagine he’ll turn up.”

“I’ll contact my solicitor and ask him to look into King’s whereabouts.”

“Have him look for the Duke of Carlisle as well.”

“Henry? He wrote me from the dower house at Carlisle Hall.”

“I believe he was there, but yesterday all London was talking about how the Marquess of Shrewsbury left Town abruptly in the middle of the night. The rumor is that he’s trying to stop his daughter from reaching Gretna Green.”

“You think Henry has abducted the marquess’s daughter and run off to Scotland to marry her?” Rory had known Henry to engage in risky and outlandish behavior in the past—all three of the men had—but had never known his friend to feel strongly enough about a woman to bring her flowers, much less run away with her.

“I don’t know what to think,” Notley said. “I don’t know either the duke or the marquess, but I have it on very good authority that Lady Katherine was in residence at Carlisle Hall. Her father sent her there after he took possession.”

“Which means she and Henry were in close proximity. Still…” Rory scratched his head. “I find it hard to believe.” He took another sip of his wine and contemplated the facts as he knew them.

One: the three men had a curse hanging over their heads.

Two: King had lost his fortune and his title and was now in hiding.

Three: Henry had gambled away his fortune and was also unaccounted for.

Four: Rory had come back to aid them and didn’t know where either might be. Even if he hadn’t needed to return to Lilacfall Abbey to keep an eye on his daughter and marry his governess, there was little he could do in London. He was no Bow Street Runner. Better if he asked his solicitor to search for the men or hope they wrote him again soon so he might respond and offer assistance.

“I don’t imagine you will be in London much longer,” he said to Notley.

“I’m leaving as soon as I can find a ship. Old Boney is making sea travel difficult, as usual.”

“You plan to return to the Continent?”

“I’ll go anywhere as long as it’s not England.”

Rory nodded. He’d felt the same at one point. Now he wondered what he had been thinking. Why had he left Frances and his home at Lilacfall Abbey? Why hadn’t he ever bothered to try to spend time with his daughter? He didn’t need to wonder at the answer to that question. Seeing Frances had meant seeing Harriet. But after her death, he should have been the one to take Frances in, to comfort her in her grief, to make her feel safe. No doubt the Dowlings had done their best, but Rory hadn’t known Harriet’s father’s health would so quickly decline.

Rory hated regrets because, for the most part, nothing could be done to change the past. But he could change the future, and he could be the father his daughter needed. He would start now by giving her a mother.