What I Did For a Duke (28 page)

“I will be your wife.”

He held her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. In her mind’s eye she saw another man’s arms curled in the shape of a baby. She allowed Harry to hold her face. She saw him too clearly in a moment when she ought not be seeing or thinking at all, but feeling. And there was a flailing moment of dread—surely only nerves—that she already knew all there was to know about him. That he would never surprise her, that he would never teach her anything, that she already knew him too well, that he was too safe, that they were too alike, that he was simply wrong.

Nerves, surely. She’d got what she’d wanted, and naturally it was impossible to believe. She’d
wanted
safety and certainty.

She’d wanted Harry.

“Genevieve,” he breathed.

She didn’t so much kiss him back as allow herself to be kissed. At first. For he was good at it, and she’d learned about herself that so was she and that she liked being kissed, though she had the presence of mind not to let this on. She also realized her mind oughtn’t be involved at all in a moment where she was being kissed for the first time by the man she loved—certainly she’d done very little thinking when she was in the arms of the duke—but there it was, whirring away, assessing. It was . . . different. Where had Harry learned to kiss?
Stop thinking at once
, she told herself. And once again she was thinking when she ought to be surrendering to the moment. He took her lips softly with his, and parted them with his own, and spent a moment in soft kissing before he got his tongue between them, and her tongue met his warily, and so their mouths meshed.

It was a good kiss, and she indulged her curiosity: his mouth was different than the duke’s, his . . . approach was different. His arms went around her and hers around him, though this felt strange and new, and she felt the thrumming tension of desire for her in him, and she could feel the start of his erection, which pressed against her belly.

But nothing was stirring in
her
.

Yet. If nothing else during the past week she’d learned she was human. It might simply be only a matter of time.

He loved her and wanted her and she would be cherished and safe her life through.

He released her, and he gazed upon her, flushed with happiness.

She gazed back at him with fascination, a detachment that lifted her up out of her body and watched the two of them. He was utterly familiar, very dear . . . and had become a total stranger. She moved her eyes to the buttons on his shirt—no nacre buttons for him—and imagined unfastening them with unseemly haste, sliding her hand inside his shirt. Imagined Harry nude and avid and sweating and plunging again and again into her body and—

Heat stormed her face. She was certain she’d gone scarlet. Was it desire or mortification? Surely one could become the other fairly easily.

Harry stood back from her, in all likelihood assuming his erection was unnerving her.

“I will be gentle, Genevieve,” he said to her softly, interpreting her embarrassment and apparently satisfied with the success of the kiss.

“Gentle” sounded dull.

His face was radiant with joy and relief. He’d gotten through the proposal. His life, as far as he was concerned, was complete. Now that he had her, and always would.

She would be Lady Osborne.

There was relief in knowing the endless tangle of confusion and uncertainty of the preceding days was now over. She inhaled her first peaceful breath in days: her future was now certain. She allowed the rays of his joy to wash over her, until she almost couldn’t distinguish his happiness from her own, because she was always happiest when he was happy, too.

She smiled at him. There was a symmetry, an inevitability to their union that her artistic eye appreciated. She
would
be happy. Why shouldn’t she be happy when she was marrying her dearest friend?

“Of course we will.”

“Will we go share the news with everyone now? Oh!” He stopped. “And before I forget . . .”

He fished in his pocket and emerged with a fistful of daisies.

“Flowers for you.” He beamed. “The sort you
like
.”

Chapter 26

E
veryone seemed surprised, judging from the silence that greeted Harry’s breathless announcement (had
no one
ever suspected?), and yet willing to be delighted by the news of their engagement. Her brothers, all looking much worse for wear after the previous night’s debauchery over the card table, and even Millicent, professed delight. Her parents even more so now that Harry had property and a title and a nice pile of winnings to start off their married life, thanks to the duke.

“We’re used to you, Osborne,” was what Jacob Eversea said by way of a blessing, with a clap on the back and a kiss on the cheek for his daughter. Still, he had a faint frown between his brows, even as his lips were smiling. He seemed a bit puzzled.

“What’s that in your hand, Genevieve?” her mother asked, after kissing her on the cheek and giving her a hearty squeeze.

Genevieve proffered the daisies. “Harry gave them to me right after he proposed.”

“Nothing like those flowers on your sampler,” her mother commented lightly, but it was accompanied by the sort of penetrating look that usually resulted in Harriet being ordered to prepare a simple for her.

Genevieve was startled. “No.”

Her mother’s mouth parted as if she meant to say something. And then she closed it again.

“I think you’ll make him very happy,” is what she finally said.

An odd way to put it, Genevieve thought.

“Speaking of the duke,” her mother said, though no one had. “He left something behind for you. Wrapped in paper in the green salon.”

“ ‘Left’ something . . .
behind
for me?” Genevieve said faintly.

But when she saw how cheerful Ian was, she knew no other event could have made his face so fulsome. Certainly it wasn’t only her engagement.

“Oh yes. Falconbridge departed outrageously early this morning,” her father told her. “Almost as though he didn’t sleep at all last night after the card game. But then I suppose has to see the little matter of what he lost.” He winked at Harry.

Genevieve was frozen in place.
He was gone.

“Well, go see what he left for you,” her mother urged.

H
arry followed her into the green salon. The rectangular parcel in question was propped against the settee. She knew what it was before she knelt to unwrap it.

She tore off the paper with trembling hands while Harry silently watched.

And they both dropped to their knees in reverent silence when Titian’s
Venus
was revealed.

She read the message attached.

With felicitations for your every happiness in your wedded life, and with much gratitude for showing me the true beauty in it.

Your humble servant,

A.M.

Humble.
She almost snorted.

Harry was silent.

She read the message again and again. But no matter how often she read those few words, it never said anything else, never revealed anything more to her. She didn’t know why she thought it ought to. She held it tightly, but it didn’t burn her skin, the way his kisses had.

She didn’t know why suddenly things were blurry. And her heart was pounding sickeningly. It wasn’t pounding because she’d become engaged to the man she loved.

It was pounding as though she’d been
betrayed
.

He’d
known
. Somehow he’d
known
Harry was going to propose. But how?

She licked dry lips. “Harry . . . what’s the thing that decided you? That made you propose to me this morning of all mornings?”

Harry was as surprised by the question as he was by the gift.

“I hesitate to tell you but you may as well know as I vow to never keep a secret from you. I won an estate in the card game.”

She sat down hard on the carpet. “You did
what
?”

“For
you
,” he reiterated mischievously, laughing at her shock. “I won it for
you
. And it unnerved me so thoroughly I promise I shall never gamble again.”

She stared at him.

“I suppose I should say . . . well done,” she began cautiously.

Which made him laugh.

“But . . . from
whom
did you win the estate?”

“From Falconbridge, if you can countenance it.”

Oh God. Just saying his name was almost as good as conjuring him. She wanted to hear his name again and again. The hollow howling in her gut was surely wrong. As were her clammy hands.

Something was terribly awry. The back of her neck prickled in portent.

“I can’t countenance it, as a matter of fact. How did it come about?” Her voice came to her distantly. Her breathing was a little rough.

“It’s a bit of a blur. But I will tell you this: His heart is not so black as one might think.”

Heart.
The word
heart
chimed in her head. The portent only amplified.
No. His heart is precious. His heart is worth having.

“What makes you say that?” she heard herself say calmly.

“I will never tell another soul what I’m about to tell you. But during the last hand of the evening, he called my bluff, and I showed him my hand—I had an excellent hand, by the way. I wasn’t simply being reckless. And he took one look and
folded
after my final wager. He claimed I had the better hand, and he’d lost. I’m a grown man, Genevieve, but I nearly fell right out of my chair, for I had wagered every last shilling I had. And he’d put up his property in Sussex. Rosemont. So I won it. It’s mine.”

Her heart stopped then. She gripped the note until the edges crushed in her fingers.

Harry continued on, obliviously cheerful.

“Well, everything after that was a bit of a blur. Everyone had rather scattered after that hand, including the duke. I never had a chance to shake his hand or say good-bye. I lingered, savoring my victory a bit, as God knows that room has been the sight of defeats this week. And the servants began to enter to tidy everything. Well, when all the guests were clear of the room, I took a peek at the duke’s cards, out of curiosity. His hand was still lying there, all of it, facedown. And . . . Genevieve, he’d
won
. He had the best flush. He would have
ruined
me if he hadn’t folded.”

She couldn’t feel her limbs. “You’re saying he lost to you . . . purposely?”

“I cannot say whether it was purposefully. But it made it possible for me to propose to you. And so I did.”

But we don’t love each other.
She’d said that to the duke. When he’d
suggested
they marry. He’d never said any such thing to her. He’d never agreed. He’d merely absorbed her words, like a blow.

He’d made it possible for Harry to propose to her. He’d given her everything he thought she’d wanted because he
loved
her. And it was all he could do for her, because he thought she loved Harry.

The greatest pleasure in my life was making sure she was happy and safe
, he’d said about his wife.

“Perhaps we can name a child for him. Our first son.”

She didn’t precisely recoil. But she looked at Harry in rank astonishment. Dear God, he truly was oblivious.

He misread her. “Very well. Alexandra if it’s a girl. If you prefer a girl. Anything at all as long as he or she looks like you.”

He loves me. Harry really does love me.

And she found herself thinking a violently heretical thought:

But what does he really know of love?

“Genevieve, what do you think?”

She looked at Harry for a silent moment. She touched a hand to his cheek briefly. The first time she’d done anything of the sort.

He gazed back at her warmly.

“That
bastard
,” she said vehemently.

And then she bolted.

S
he dashed past her astonished family out of the house at a run and learned from a shaken stable boy, who was paralyzed by the sight of the furious Miss Genevieve Eversea advancing upon him—she was the quiet one, the sweet one!—and who would have nightmares for a week about it, that the Duke of Falconbridge had told his driver to take him to Rosemont.

Genevieve promptly turned to the head groom.

“Take me to Rosemont now,” she ordered him. “Harness the team and have the driver take me there
now
.”

“Now, Miss Genevieve . . .”

“
Now
.”

If she’d had a whip she would have cracked it. He took a step back as surely as if she had and put up an arm to do it, as if in defense of her lightning-bolt gaze.

Her family and Harry were astounded a short time later when the Eversea barouche hurtled down the drive.

S
he found him, after demanding his whereabouts from the footman who’d so kindly received them the other day, in an office, sorting through the papers that would make it possible for Harry to take Rosemont.

She paused in the doorway to watch him for a moment.

She said it quietly. “You
bastard
.”

Moncrieffe turned slowly. When he saw her he went motionless. If anyone could drink with eyes, he did it. He drank her in.

Not that there wasn’t a particle of
trepidation
in his gaze, too. Because there was.

It was a long while before he could speak. “It was ‘badger’ . . . before.”

She
wouldn’t
smile.

“You would have let me
go
. You would have allowed me to marry him.”

“I did let you go. I did allow you to marry him. Did he propose?”

He said it so coolly she nearly struck him. Her hand actually raised, she dropped it down again. She was shaking with fury. So much this man had unleashed in her. Laughter and truth and depth and passion, and oh yes, temper.

He eyed that hand warily.

“Yes. He proposed.”

“And did you accept him?”

“Yes. I accepted him.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Ah.” He stood watching her, a frown between his eyes. She could feel him beginning to retreat into himself. “That
is
a dilemma.”

He thought this was amusing?
She
was in hell.

“You
love
me,” she accused softly.

He didn’t admit it. He didn’t deny it.

He
was
breathing rather more quickly.

“Are you here for a reason, Genevieve?” His voice was growing colder. His way of imposing distance.

Her frustration howled from her. “You helped me show Harry’s heart to him. But you couldn’t show mine to
me
?”

“Listen to yourself, Genevieve. You sound like a child stomping her feet. How spoiled and greedy you’ve become. I can only teach you so much. You’re a grown woman. I can attest to that.” He raked a look over her that took in the wine red walking dress that yes, suited her beautifully and wouldn’t clash with her complexion should she go scarlet with a blush or anger. “And some things you have to learn entirely on your own.”

“But . . . you left. And you
gave
him Rosemont. You lost to him
deliberately
.”

“Genevieve . . . I swear to you. It wasn’t meant to hurt you. Or Harry. But tell me, how would you ever have seen it otherwise? And isn’t it better to know?”

“It” being her heart.

“It” being how she truly felt.

Damn
him. He was right.

It didn’t mean she was any less furious with him.

“I couldn’t see it because
you
are
my
heart
, damn you! And
how
can I see my own heart if it’s beating in my own chest?” She was practically raging at him.

He had no answer to that apparently. But something fierce and thrilling flashed in his eyes, and stayed there and the devil . . . he smiled slowly, as though a dim pupil had finally come around.

“And so you see now.” He was demanding clarification.

She still wasn’t ready to say it. “And now, because of you, I have to break Harry’s heart.”

“Do you?” he said softly, swiftly. He took a step toward her.

She took a step back. “I don’t want to do it.”

“
Everything
has a cost, Genevieve,” he said softly, stepping closer.

She took a step back. She put her hands up to her face. And yes. Of
course
it was hot. It always seemed to be around him.

“It’s a
terrible
cost. He loves me . . . so
much
.” Her voice cracked. She made it sound like his fault.

“You cannot get through life unscathed, Genevieve.”

“Stop lecturing me. I don’t
want
to hurt anyone.”

“Then what a pity it is that you love only me,” he retorted.

Silence was absolute.

They stared at each other, astonished to hear that word for perhaps the first time between them.

And then wary.

She inhaled, and sighed out the breath, and closed her eyes.

“Bastard,” she murmured. This time it sounded very like “I love you.”

His mouth twitched at the corner. He may have released a breath.

They continued to regard each other warily from a distance beyond the reach of their fingertips.

“Have you stopped loving me?” she whispered. Astonishing what she now had the courage to ask. “Because of how stupid I’ve been?”

“Tell me first what you came here to say and then I’ll tell you whether I ever did.”

His idea of humor. And she noticed he didn’t rush to her defense when she’d called herself stupid.

It would have been silent, except that her head thudded so hard the blood rang in her ears. Nobody spoke, until:

“Bastard,”
he whispered mockingly right along with her.

She was going to say it. It was welling in her. Her head felt as though it might float away from her body from a sort of joyous terror. Vertigo again—everything associated with love seemed to make a person either desperately physically uncomfortable or out of their minds with pleasure—but it was the kind of vertigo that deceived her into thinking she was flying. And all at once she could see forever, but she wasn’t entirely certain the forever she wanted would be hers. That she would ever reach it.