Chapter 30

Chapter

Thirty

T he following morning, Genevieve sat down at the breakfast table, her steaming pot of tea, lightly toasted bread, and ham set out before her. Her appetite this morning was indeed considerable, and she could only put it down to last evening's endeavors with her husband.

Their wedding ball, held by her dear parents, had been a success, and no one dared mention that the marriage itself happened in Scotland.

And what had occurred in her bedroom had been an added boon she'd not thought to experience. Since their marriage, Beckett had barely looked at her, nevertheless touched her.

Not that she particularly wanted him to. Well, she wouldn't have prior to their marriage. They were barely friends, but after what he made her feel, how was one now to go about life and not enjoy such interludes?

If he did not wish to darken her bedroom door, he should not have shown her another side of marriage to begin with. Her desire, which was what it was when all was said and done, was his fault. Her wanting him, at least continually, could all be laid at his feet.

A footman set down the latest paper, and she glanced at it, not in the mood for more serious matters pertaining to London and England in general.

"Can you advise me when Lord Tyndall returns from his club? I wish to speak with him."

"Lord Tyndall, my lady?" The footman stood to attention and stared at her as if she had suddenly sprouted two heads.

"Yes, Lord Tyndall, can you give him a message that I wish to see him when he returns home?" She poured herself a second cup of tea, picked up her knife, and spread some jam onto her toast.

The footman cleared his throat. "His lordship, my lady, is asleep in his library this morning. He returned not long after you last evening, but we found him resting downstairs. We have not disturbed him."

The knife fell out of her hold and clattered onto the plate. She picked it up, finishing spreading her jam before taking a bite and digesting both her breakfast and what the footman had said.

"Are you certain his lordship arrived home early last evening?" That was odd of Beckett, who found his club his second home these past weeks.

"Yes, my lady. I'm most certain. His lordship arrives home most evenings only a little after yourself, but remains downstairs."

She placed down her toast and stared at the footman, a little astonished at this announcement. Beckett returned home not long after she did. She had been having nightmares of where he'd been going at all hours of the night, what ladies were trying to cozy up to him, what he was doing with those who wooed him with their wiles.

And all the while, he was under the very roof she lay beneath, except hiding in the library.

"Thank you. I shall seek out his lordship after I break my fast."

"Yes, my lady."

Determined not to rush, she took her time finishing her meal and even spent a good ten minutes reading the newspaper, or at least pretending to, before she pushed back her chair and went in search of Beckett.

She was supposed to attend a ball at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens this evening. The invitation had been for both of them, but Beckett hadn't mentioned it in passing these past days.

She might consider bringing Matilda and Charlotte if he were not attending, even though the ball was rumored to be for married couples only.

She knocked on the library door, but when she received no response, she turned the handle and entered where Beckett was hiding these days.

No light penetrated the room, and the shutters and curtains remained closed. The fire had long burned to nothing but a few glowing coals.

She shut the door and walked over to the settee. Beckett lay on his back, his head cushioned by one arm, the other falling to the side, his fingers just grazing the Aubusson rug.

A shadow of stubble sat on his chiseled jaw, his mouth open a little in sleep.

She could not help but stare at his beauty. This virile, handsome rogue was her husband. A boy she had once adored and grew to hate after his teasing of her.

She reached up, feeling her red curls, free to do as they pleased in the privacy of her own home. But how could she know for certain that there may be a possibility for them? A true connection that went past the physical compatibility they shared? There was little doubt that he found her attractive and wanted her in his bed when he allowed himself to admit such things, even if he'd never outwardly confess it.

But she couldn't help but feel the inklings of those old dormant feelings she had quashed for so long, pretending that those emotions had been twisted into contempt and annoyance. For when standing before him now, watching him sleep, she knew those emotions to be quite the opposite.

She still loved him as much as she had when she was an impressionable girl, with nothing but hope and expectation in her eyes whenever she was around him.

He'd been older, much wiser, she believed, and how she adored him. The way he spoke, so clear and confident, rode horses like he'd been born to live in a saddle or swam in her family's lake during his time with them at the estate was perfect.

Until he'd taunted her and broken her young heart.

She frowned, trying to remember his exact words.

At the tender age of fifteen, she'd been devastated by his teasing, but maybe that was all it was. He was jovial and did not mean to cause such an offense.

She sat on the settee and touched his chest, shaking him a little. "Beckett, are you going to get up today or slouch in your library until this evening?"

He mumbled something she did not catch under his breath and clasped her hand, holding it firmly against his chest. His heart beat against her palm. He was warm, wore nothing but his shirt and breeches, and his feet were uncovered.

He'd obviously attempted to undress and had stopped halfway.

He startled awake, his attention snapping to where his hand pressed hers against his chest. His eyes met hers, and he let go, attempting to sit up and ignore the fact that he'd been holding her hand close to his heart.

"What time is it?" He rubbed his face with his hands, blinking.

"It's just after ten in the morning, but I wanted to come and ask you if you'll attend the Vauxhall ball this evening. The invitation states that married couples are preferred, and I want to go, but I cannot without you. I could try to sneak Matilda and Charlotte in, but I would not need to if you go with me."

"The Vauxhall ball?" He paused, frowning. "I cannot, I'm afraid. A previous engagement, you understand."

Annoyance settled in her chest, and she fought not to glower. "What previous event? It will look crass if I attend the ball without you. People will think there is something amiss in our marriage."

He scoffed and stood, moving over to the bellpull and ringing for a servant. "Well, isn't there something amiss? Need I remind you we're not a love match? We're merely a match made due to my gentlemanly behavior and unwillingness to see my best friend's family ruined."

She swallowed, confused after their interlude last night where she'd thought—hoped—they may have a new arrangement. But apparently not. Yet again, he was pushing her away, keeping her at arm's length. "Very well." She stood and started for the door. "You've made yourself perfectly clear. Have a good day."

She stormed out into the hall, probably less ladylike than a countess ought to be, but the man was maddening. How could he be so sweet, so determined to show her she was his, only to push her away the next day?

Well, if he would not attend with her, she would simply go on her own. And if he would not commit and wanted to continue with his life, then so too would she.

Two could play at his cat and mouse game, and she'd learned many years ago that she grew claws when wronged, and maybe it was time Beckett was scratched.