Chapter Thirteen

G enevieve had just checked on Frances and found the child asleep and Mary sewing by firelight when she heard the wheels of a carriage on the gravel drive. Her heart immediately jumped into her throat.

He was home.

She’d expected him earlier in the day, and when he hadn’t arrived by dinner, she assumed he had stayed in London an extra day to attend to whatever business he might have. But he was home now, and if he had the license, he would want to marry her.

Would he demand she marry him tonight? Genevieve rather doubted that, but she knew she had no more time to think things over. Not that it would have mattered. She’d come to no conclusions. There were as many reasons to say no as to say yes.

Perhaps he hadn’t been able to procure the license. Perhaps she had fretted and paced for naught. She considered retiring to her chamber and pretending to be asleep so as to avoid the topic tonight, but she was no coward. She clenched her hands and forced her feet down the steps to join the other servants in the foyer. She’d barely taken her place beside the housekeeper when the door opened, and Lord Emory strode in.

Genevieve felt her breath whoosh away.

She hadn’t forgotten that he was handsome, but remembering his brandy-colored eyes, his thick, wavy hair, and the seductive curve of his mouth was not at all the same experience as seeing it as a whole right in front of her.

The wind whipped behind him, sending his greatcoat swirling as he stood so his valet might attend him. Once the coat was removed, he offered his hat and gloves. She saw his head turn and knew he was looking for her. As soon as their eyes met, she felt her knees give way. Mrs. Mann gave her a sharp look, but Genevieve managed to regain her balance. She looked away from Lord Emory, hoping, without any hope, he would save their conversation for the morning.

“Miss Brooking,” he said.

She curtseyed even as she winced at her name.

“Might I speak with you in the library?”

“Of course, my lord.”

He strode away, and she supposed she was expected to follow. She lifted her skirts and trudged after him. As she neared the library, she saw he stood in the doorway, waiting for her. He bowed and extended a hand for her to pass. As soon as she was inside, he closed the door.

The library was cold and dark. He hadn’t been expected back, and the fire hadn’t been lit in the hearth. She saw the spark from the tinderbox, and the lamp glowed yellow.

“How was your journey, my lord?”

“Awful. This morning one of the horses went lame three miles from the posting house, and we had to send a man back for a replacement. Then when we were only five miles from Lilacfall Abbey, one of the wheels came loose. Fortunately, my men repaired it, but it took time.” He looked at her. “I was impatient to return.”

“No need to be, my lord. Frances is well and has been the model of good behavior. She has asked about you, and I am certain she will be pleased to see you in the morning.”

“That’s good to know, but Frances wasn’t why I was impatient to return.”

He reached into his coat, and as soon as Genevieve saw the paper, her knees went weak again. She put out a hand to grasp the back of a chair. “Is that…”

“The special license? Yes.”

“May I see?”

He handed it over, and she took it with shaking hands. Strange to see her name—her full name, Genevieve Albina Brooking—written there next to his, Emory Louis Gabriel Lumlee. Strange but also…thrilling. What would it mean to be this man’s wife? To share his bed and his life? She’d become so accustomed to the idea that she would never marry, but was that what she wanted, or had she simply resigned herself?

“I had to part with thirty pounds and suffer an endless lecture to obtain that, so I’d appreciate it if you held it further from the lamp.”

“Thirty pounds?” Genevieve gaped at him. “That’s a fortune.”

“I’d have given the archbishop twice that if he had spared me the lecture. Now, I see no reason to wait. I can have the vicar here tomorrow morning. Say, ten o’clock?”

Genevieve handed the paper back to him, but as she withdrew her hand, he caught it. His hand was large and warm, and it closed over her cold, trembling one. “You’re shaking like a leaf before a storm. What’s the matter?”

How was she supposed to tell him she hadn’t made up her mind yet? That she wasn’t certain she wanted him. Well, that was a lie. Of course she wanted him. What sane woman wouldn’t want this man? But she didn’t know if she wanted to tie her fate to his.

His hand tightened on hers. “I’m exhausted, and that must account for my idiocy. This hesitation is regarding the wedding night, I assume.”

“The wedding night?” If he was trying to soothe her, bringing up the wedding night was not helpful. The prospect of going to bed with a man she barely knew was not exactly comforting. She was certain her pulse jumped.

“My first wife was a virgin, of course. I know how to be gentle,” he said. Genevieve had always thought of herself as a person who valued directness, but she had not been prepared for such a frank statement. Perhaps that was why she spoke without thinking.

“I’m not a virgin.” She clapped her free hand over her mouth, but it was too late now. And then she realized perhaps she had just saved herself from having to decide. Perhaps now he wouldn’t want to marry her.

But he didn’t release her hand, and his only reaction was to raise a brow. “That simplifies the matter. I have a few questions.”

Really! Who did this man think he was? “I have questions too,” she said, giving him a challenging look.

“Fair enough.”

She stared at him. She had been certain that statement would put him off.

“Ladies first.”

If he thought she would begin the conversation about his previous private relations, he was more than exhausted—he was delusional. “I think you are forgetting something, my lord.”

“What’s that?”

“I haven’t yet agreed to marry you.”

“Haven’t you?

“No. And my answer is…no.” She couldn’t believe she’d said no. She didn’t know why she said it. Any woman would be an idiot to refuse a marriage proposal from the handsome, wealthy son of a duke.

But then, he hadn’t really proposed, had he?

“Are you certain?”

She looked away.

“Not certain, I see. I thought we discussed this.”

“No, you kissed me and then I became confused, and you left for London.”

“Forgive me if I argue, but you still seem confused. Shall I kiss you again?”

She held out a hand. “No. No more seduction.”

“I’m happy to marry you and then seduce you, but you’re making that difficult. Might I ask why you are refusing my offer?” His reasonable tone of voice was beginning to irk her.

“I have several reasons.” She pulled her hand out of his.

“Go ahead. I’m listening.” He leaned one hip against the desk and crossed his arms.

She paced away. “First of all, I’m a woman of thirty. I value my independence. I am not at all certain I want to become the property of any man.”

“I cannot change the law or the fact that wives are seen as their husband’s property. I don’t see a wife as property. For the most part, the intent of the law is to deal with financial matters. Everything you own becomes mine when we marry. You own very little and give up very little in the way of monetary concessions.”

“I don’t need a lecture, my lord.”

“Then let me come to the point. Forgive me, but I don’t think you have any idea what independence truly means. How long have you been a governess?”

“I have fourteen years of experience.”

“Which means you have been in the employ of some master or other from the age of sixteen.” He held up a hand. “Not only were you in their employ, you lived under their roof. How much independence did you really have?”

Genevieve bit her lip. “I could leave whenever I wanted. That choice was mine.”

“Do you think I’ll hold you prisoner here? Did I hold Harriet prisoner?” He pushed away from the desk. “I don’t intend this marriage to be like my marriage to Harriet. We are both clear-eyed about the arrangement. I expect you to be a mother to Frances and any other children you bear me. If, once the children have grown, you want to separate and pursue your own interests, I’ll give you whatever money you need or want. If you can agree to that, then I am ready to stand at the altar.”

A moment ago, Genevieve had so many reasons she was uncertain about the marriage, but now she couldn’t seem to think of a single one. What he asked was perfectly reasonable, and yet she felt uneasy. Wasn’t marriage more than setting expectations and drawing up contracts? What about romance? Was she never to have romance in her life again—not that she’d had much before, but there had always been the possibility.

“I’ll have Gables send for the vicar to come at ten,” he said, and started for the door.

“You certainly possess an unlimited supply of gall.”

He turned back to her, his expression truly one of confusion. How did he not understand?

“I haven’t said yes yet. In fact, you haven’t even asked me to be your wife.”

“Of course I did.”

“No, you told me you needed a mother for your child, and I was to be that mother. Then you said I had a few days to think about it while you went to procure the license. Now you have told me what our marriage will look like. But you still haven’t asked me to marry you.”

He shook his head, seemingly bewildered. “Fine. Will you—”

“Stop.”

His brow lowered, and she almost took a step back. “Genevieve, I like to think of myself as a patient man, but you are making me question that.”

“If you are to propose to me, you must do it correctly. I only get one marriage proposal. I have the right to some romance, don’t I?”

“Romance?” He stared at her, and she was certain he would burst out laughing or walk away or simply refuse. She felt her face grow hot as he continued to stare at her. Why had she said anything? Why hadn’t she simply agreed to the vicar coming or told him no and gone to pack her things?

Why didn’t she do one or the other now? Anything to escape the mortification settling over her. She needed to get away and started for the door. Lord Emory reached it just before her and put his hand on it, preventing her from pulling it open. She could feel his body behind hers, almost touching her. She slid around to face him.

*

She wanted romance. She might go on about independence and law and contracts, but she’d given him the key right there.

What an idiot he was! Of course she wanted a romantic marriage proposal. He’d just have to lower himself to one knee and beg her to make him the happiest man alive.

Except he couldn’t do that. This marriage was supposed to be a practical arrangement. He’d married for love once before. He’d never let love and marriage become tangled up again. He was not in love with Genevieve Brooking, and he didn’t want to pretend.

And yet she was looking up at him with those clear green eyes, and he had to say something. She was correct that he had told her she was marrying him, not asked. Surely he could ask.

Rory opened his mouth to do so, but no words came out. Apparently, his voice was trapped in his throat. A thought raced through his mind: What if you ask and she says no?

He rolled his shoulders. If she said no, then that was fine. He’d find another mother for Frances.

Except he wanted Genevieve.

And she wanted a proposal.

Rory took a breath, and Genevieve lifted her brows expectantly. He blew the breath out. The whole situation felt far too vulnerable. He’d offered his whole heart to Harriet, and she’d trampled it and sent it back to him with a knife through the organ and a round of shot in his pride. Now, he was not offering Genevieve any part of his heart, but he felt the danger to his scarred vanity.

“My lord?”

They had been standing in the same spot—she leaning against the door and he facing her with his hand holding the door closed—for a full two minutes. He had to say something, or she’d start worrying—with some validity—that this marriage would be a prison.

He looked down at her and did the one thing he wanted to do in that moment. He kissed her. He hadn’t thought it through, but now, as his lips touched hers, he realized this was a way to ask without words. The physical felt less vulnerable. The physical felt very, very right.

He didn’t think he was the only one to feel this way. Her lips softened immediately, becoming pliant and yielding under his. She might not be certain if she wanted to marry him, but she wanted him physically. Her hands came up to rest on his waist, one sliding up to his abdomen then higher to his chest. His heart began to pound harder, and he wondered if she could feel it.

He’d kept the kiss light. This part was the will you of the question he was asking. He teased and tickled her lips, pulling away before the kiss could intensify.

She closed her hand on his shirt, tugging him closer, and, without even thinking, he deepened the kiss, pressing his lips firmly against hers, taking her and giving more of himself. This was the heart of the question. The two becoming one.

With gentle persuasion, he coaxed her lips open and slid his tongue into her mouth for a quick taste. He didn’t invade, didn’t force, and she met him halfway, twining her own tongue with his for a heart-stopping moment. He hadn’t expected the jolt he felt when her tongue touched his. Hadn’t expected his body to react the way it did. He clenched the door to keep from winding his fingers into the flame of her hair and tilting her head up so he might claim her fully.

He pulled back from the kiss, very slowly, opening his eyes. She opened hers as well, her pupils wide and her lids heavy. “Genevieve,” he murmured. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” she whispered, and tugged him back to her. He resisted, sharpening his gaze.

“You meant that?”

“Yes.” She brushed her lips against his.

“You know what you are saying yes to?”

“Yes, I’ll marry you. Kiss me again, Rory.”

The use of his sobriquet gave him a start, making his heart clench like she’d reached through his chest and grasped it as she did the lawn of his shirt. For a moment, he wasn’t certain if he was struck with desire or fear or some combination of both.

He stepped back, stepped away. She leaned back against the door, seeming to need it for support. He could have used something solid behind him as well. “We’d better save any further kisses for after the wedding,” he said.

She nodded absently. “I…” Her voice trailed off as though whatever thought she’d had in her mind had vanished. “Frances,” she said finally. “You must tell her.”

“I thought you’d handle that.”

“You’re her father. You should give her the, er, good news. Better yet, you should ask for her blessing.”

“Ask for her—The child is seven.”

“And this marriage will affect her as well. She should have a say in it.”

Rory wanted to shake his… What was she now? His affianced? His betrothed? Apparently, she was nothing unless his seven-year-old daughter agreed. Certainly, the child would be thrilled to have a new mother. She obviously cared for Genevieve already. But if she did not want him to remarry, that wouldn’t stop him.

It might very well change Genevieve’s mind, however.

He’d just have to be certain Frances did agree.

Rory removed his hand from the door and reached past Genevieve to open it. “I’ll have the vicar come at ten,” he said.

“And Frances?” she asked.

“Leave that to me.”

He wanted to fall into bed and sleep for twelve hours. Instead, he made his way to his chamber, washed, changed for bed, and instructed his valet to wake him at dawn.

“Dawn, my lord?”

“That’s right.” His daughter always seemed to wake with the sun. If he hoped to win this battle, he’d better be ready and with provisions in hand.

*

Rory felt as though he’d barely closed his eyes when Chaffer was shaking him awake. “It is just after dawn, my lord.”

Rory climbed out of his bed, groggy and disoriented. He was reminded of his school days, when he and the other boys had been unceremoniously shouted awake then forced to wash and dress quickly in the cold and the dark. His daughter would never be screamed at or forced to eat gruel or shiver in drafty classrooms. Rory dressed and made his way to the kitchens, where his cook whistled and clanged pots together. The plump older woman had her back to him, and when clearing his throat failed to garner her attention, he said, “Mrs. Donnelly.”

She spun around, dropped one of the pots on her foot, then squealed in pain, hopping on the other foot.

“Are you injured? Shall I call for Mrs. Mann?”

“I’m fine, my lord.” She attempted to curtsey on one foot and almost lost her balance.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Donnelly.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, my lord.”

“You can.” He stepped outside the kitchen and returned with a chair. “Sit here a moment.”

She did as she was told, her eyes wide as she straightened her white cap. “Have I done something amiss, my lord? Mrs. Mann assured me you did not want dinner when you returned last night.”

“You’ve done nothing amiss, Mrs. Donnelly. I’ve come to beg a favor.”

Now she gave him a look as though some imposter had taken over his body. He plowed on. “What does Miss Lumlee usually eat to break her fast?”

“I send up a bowl of porridge with a bit of honey, my lord.”

“This morning, I would like to dine with Miss Lumlee in the dining room.”

“Oh.” Her lips went as round as her eyes.

“And I’d like you to make something special, something a child would like. Perhaps something sweet?”

The cook nodded. “My brother served in the army during the war with the Americans,” she said. “He showed me how to make American flapjacks. They are similar to our pancakes but made with baking powder, so they rise and become fluffy. The Americans eat them smothered with butter and maple syrup. His children would beg him to make them then eat stacks of them.”

“Perfect. Could you make us these flapjacks? And instead of tea, let’s have chocolate, yes?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“I’ll go and wake Frances.”

The sun was peeking through the windows above the door in the foyer as Rory made his way up the steps and tiptoed past Genevieve’s room to the nursery. He tapped quietly, then eased the door open. Mary, his maid, rose from her chair near the fire, rubbing her eyes, but Rory put a finger to his lips and motioned for her to sit back down. He made his way to Frances’s bed, but before he could gently shake her away, he caught a look at her.

She slept on her side, one hand tucked under her chin, her doll clutched in the other arm and held tightly. Her dark hair had been plaited and her cap had fallen off in the night. He couldn’t see her freckles in the dim light from the fire, but he could imagine them. She looked so peaceful, and he had the sudden urge to protect her so she could always sleep so peacefully. He put a hand on her bony shoulder and watched her eyes flutter open.

“Good morning, Frances,” he said.

She blinked at him and then her mouth broke into a grin and her entire face seemed to light up. “Papa!” she whispered.

Rory’s heart felt as though it warmed and expanded, as though the last chunks of ice melted away. Frances’s smile was enough to thaw anyone’s heart. “I’m home,” he said, his voice sounding a bit gruff. He cleared his throat. “Will you come down and break your fast with me?”

She hoisted herself onto her elbows. “But Cook always sends a tray to the nursery.”

“I’ve had a word with the cook, and she is preparing something special for us. Dress and then join me.” He glanced at Mary, who was pretending not to listen. “Will you help her dress, Mary?”

“Of course, my lord. I’ll bring her down in a few minutes.”

Rory left them to it and made his way to the dining room. Gables greeted him. “Did you want chocolate, my lord?”

“Gah. No. Save that for Frances.” But he didn’t take his usual seat. Instead, he paced back and forth, trying to think what to say, how to approach the topic with his daughter. He didn’t think he’d been this nervous since asking Harriet to marry him.

“Mrs. Donnelly informs me the flapping jacks will be served momentarily, my lord.”

“Excellent, Gables. Bring them when they are ready.” He made a motion dismissing the butler, but before he could return to his musings, the door opened, and Frances entered.