What I Did For a Duke (9 page)

He
could
truthfully say he’d lost his breath for a moment. He doubted she’d noticed.

He found it again in time to speak. “Do your feelings about paintings—and other things—change so very often then, Miss Eversea?”

“
Some
of my feelings about things never change. Including paintings.”

It was a cryptic statement nevertheless meant to cover a multitude of things: how she felt about her family, about Harry, about the duke and whatever his motive might be for courting her, if that’s what he was so determinedly doing.

“There are things the artist intends, and things the viewer sees, and what the viewer sees isn’t always what the artist intends. Isn’t always apparent upon first viewing. I suppose that was my original point,” she added.

“Isn’t it the same with people?” the duke asked.

Genevieve looked up warily. Was he actually implying she possessed
hidden depths
? Because of course she did, but it wasn’t as though anyone else seemed to think so. Was he perhaps thinking of his erstwhile fiancée? She wondered why the engagement had ended, and if it had indeed been as mutual and friendly as gossip would have it.

She sincerely doubted it.

“I suppose it is,” she decided to say carefully.

“But paintings are a good deal
safer
than people, aren’t they, Miss Eversea?”

Safe. It was another word she found unflattering and yet strangely appealing. She had a terrible suspicion this was leading to another assessment of her character she wouldn’t appreciate. She might be called “sensible” and “serene” and “mature” again and if he uttered those words she’d be unable to bear it. She would scream until the chandeliers shook.

“
Some
paintings are considered heretical,” she said irritably.

“Ah, but that isn’t the fault of the painting. It’s the prejudice of the viewer. For instance, isn’t the fault of your
dress
that when you turn it looks like a pond rippling beneath a full moon at midnight. Or that you resemble a naiad rising from the depths in it. It is the opinion of this particular viewer.”

Her head went back in shock.

And instead of casting her eyes down bashfully again, or fluttering her lashes in coy confusion or responding with a mumbled thank-you . . . she locked her eyes with his.

Her eyes were so soft. Like the hearts of pansies. But they were also surprisingly intensely searching, and he thought he could feel them probing his soul. Sorting through impressions.

Hot color swept her cheekbones as she absorbed the impact of this observation. She was attempting to decode it.

So she wasn’t immune to the compliment. She simply didn’t trust it.

In truth, he hadn’t fully expected to say it himself. Where on earth had it come from? This was what unnerved him.

And to think he’d once thought her face ordinary.

How could anyone think this was a
quiet
girl? Her stillness and calm were deceptive. She disturbed him the way the approach of a distant storm did; she enervated him. She felt like . . . portent. He wondered if she contained her passions because she instinctively knew they’d too rapidly run away from her if unleashed.

He sensed seducing her would neither be as impossible nor as tedious as he’d originally feared. And if he kept her off balance just often enough the event might happen sooner rather than later.

She finally ducked her head. She was frowning just a little, troubled.

“Do you see what you expect to see, Miss Eversea?” he said softly.

“Lines,” she murmured.

“Lines?”

“I saw lines. The faint ones in your forehead. And the ones at the corners of your eyes. Perhaps from frowning overmuch?”

She suggested this gently, as though he ought to give up the habit of glowering.

Why the . . . . little . . .
devil
.

He was perversely, wildly entertained.

“Are you insulting my appearance, Miss Eversea?” In all of his born days no woman had tried as hard not only to resist him but to actively
drive
him away.

“I didn’t say they were unappealing. They add interest to your face. From an
artist’s
perspective, anyhow,” she added hurriedly, lest he mistake it for a compliment.

He’d been inwardly admiring her
eyes
and
she’d
been counting the lines ’round his as though they were the rings in the oak in Ashdown Forest and would reveal his true age to her.

Which was nearly, but not quite, twice hers.

Then again, she’d just shot another miserable, yearning glance toward Osborne, who hadn’t yet any lines to speak of in his face. He probably scarcely even taxed the edge of his shaving razor with whiskers yet.

“So if they’re not unappealing, perhaps they’re
appealing
,” he pressed, with mordant humor.

“Perhaps from an artist’s perspective,” she clarified firmly, and a little desperately. “They’re not
un
appealing.”

“And from a woman’s perspective?”

“I suppose it would depend upon the woman.”

He admired the dodging so thoroughly he laughed. Was she counting his gray hairs as well? There were only a few.
Dashing,
he’d been assured. His mirror assured him of the same thing. He still had nearly all of his hair. Most of it was black.

“I believe women generally find other aspects of my character more diverting, as the lines have not yet been mentioned to me in casual conversation. It must take the eye of an artist to notice them. And point them out. Your attention to detail is astonishing.”

He’d deftly complimented her into a corner yet again and she knew it.

He felt her ribs move in a sigh beneath his waltzing hand. He did smile.

She could try to discourage him. But he was luring her, a bit at a time, closer and closer to him. She was reluctantly intrigued and drawn to him and confused by why she was.

It’s because I’m a grown man, Miss Eversea. Not a boy.

He felt her draw in a quick, sharp breath; her rib cage moved beneath his hand. Her mouth went tight and white at the corners of her mouth, as though she was suppressing some pain.

She glanced across the room. That handsome Lady Millicent Blenkenship was dancing with Lord Harry Osborne. They were nearly the same height, and swept in circles in pleasing unison, two bright golden heads.

He decided to test a theory.

“As I said earlier today, though it’s unfortunate I’ve parted ways with Lady Abigail, I do hope to experience the same happiness in marriage your brother Colin knows.”

“Please.”

The pain in the word shocked him.

“Please,” she repeated more reasonably and carefully, as though she were correcting herself on the pronunciation of the word. “I shouldn’t like to discuss matrimony.”

Even her distress was dignified and contained. But it was real. Two hot spots of color sat high on her cheeks. He sensed that for her this amounted to an outburst. She was suffering greatly.

What could it be? Why?

She didn’t look directly at him. Breathing to settle herself. She looked at his third button, hidden beneath his cravat. He was peculiarly tempted to rest his cheek against her shiny head. To murmur things. He knew how to soothe. But the memory was distant and the instinct awkward from disuse.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

He didn’t. But it made her dart a suspicious, curious look up at him. And then widen her eyes in curious concern she quickly disguised.

Perhaps if he, too, implied he nursed a broken heart he’d garner sympathy. Because she was innately kind.

Suddenly he felt a bit like her gaoler. So be it. She was suffering the waltz with him when she’d rather fling herself into the arms of Harry Osborne or lurk in a corner, mooning about him and nursing whatever wound he’d inflicted upon her heart. Or her pride. Sometimes Moncrieffe wasn’t certain they were different organs, particularly when it came to himself.

He’d warrant whatever misery was associated with Lord Harry Osborne had something to do with that deliciously lush Lady Blenkenship. Lady of the Kittens.

Genevieve had gone quiet and inward again, and he had the sense she was counting the steps of the waltz in her head, that she knew precisely how many more notes remained to be played, and that she was eager to have it over and done.

He allowed it. He didn’t speak for the rest of it.

Oh, he’d warrant he could make the girl forget Lord Harry Osborne.

And after
that
, she’d need to spend the rest of her life forgetting the Duke of Falconbridge.

Chapter 8

T
he duke relinquished her with a bow when the waltz ended and Genevieve fled to the punch table. And thusly she managed to avoid a quadrille and a reel by availing herself of another cup of ratafia, sipping at it in an attempt to settle her nerves. But the inevitable could not be postponed.

For the first time in her life, she could find nothing to say to Harry when he came to claim his waltz with her.

“Shall we?” he said almost gently.

She couldn’t bear to be touched by him. And at the same time it was a relief to be touched by him, because it was so familiar and safe. Safe—a word she was drawn to and shied from. Because of course Harry wasn’t safe anymore. No one who rudely kicked the supports out from beneath her castles in the air could be considered safe.

Their hands settled in the familiar and correct places—hers nestled in his, his at her waist, and they began gliding in the familiar steps.

Speak to me, speak to me, speak to me.

She couldn’t ask the question. For all she knew, she was now dancing with an engaged man. Harry may have impulsively burst out with a proposal midway through the Sussex Waltz and Millicent was simply waiting for Harry to get his cursory waltz with Genevieve over with so she could share the news.

She’d heard, also courtesy of her brother Chase, the former soldier who’d been badly wounded at Waterloo, that when one was stabbed deeply one ought to leave the knife in the wound, and not yank it out, lest one bleed to death.

She wasn’t going to yank that question up out of the depths.

“So what do you think of the Duke of Falconbridge?” Harry began brightly.

“Ow,” he said, as she trod on his foot and they stumbled a little.

“Sorry,” she muttered insincerely. “He’s an interesting man.”

She was grateful for the invention of words like “interesting.” It neutrally described such a diverse range of feelings and emotions. The human race
was
occasionally clever that way.

“Did he say anything scandalous?” Harry was amused with her choice of word. “Was he rude? He was rude to Millicent. He walked away from her without a word of excuse earlier this evening, she says.”

It looks as though Mars is about to give her a pleasuring
.

It probably qualified as both scandalous
and
rude.

“Not particularly. We discussed art.” She wanted to answer monosyllabically. She did not want to engage in an actual conversation.

“Did you? I discussed art with Millicent, too. She’s learned there’s a nest of kittens in the barn and she aspires to sketch them in charcoal!”

That was it. The word “Millicent” had done it. She was out of conversation. Harry would need to do all of the talking. She would nod.

“I haven’t yet asked her to marry me,” he volunteered casually.

“Oh.”

The relief was nauseating. Her knees nearly gave way. Turning ’round and ’round in wide circles did unpleasant things to her stomach, and once again she couldn’t wait until the music was over.

Don’t talk anymore, Harry
.

“But the moment is likely to present itself very soon!” he reassured her cheerily.

She had long since ceased to be charmed by his obliviousness.

“I’ll be there to throw confetti,” she said bitterly.

He didn’t notice her tone. Or that she was now staring daggers at him.

“I’m so happy you’re happy with my decision.”

What ought she to say to
that
? Nothing, she decided. No human being should be required to tolerate this.

“I say,” he said suddenly, genuinely worried. “Are you unwell, Genevieve?”

He sounded concerned, and his concern was an affront that buffeted her again between tenderness and fury. She
could
tell him how she felt, she supposed. But the notion of witnessing his pity . . . well, she had very little faith that Harry would handle her revelation with tact.

He would mean well; he would also be blunt. And she was always the one who had salved over his bluntness, who had rescued and soothed him.

And God help her, no matter what, she didn’t want anything to mar his happiness.

“I fear I’ve a
mal de tête
, as they say. I drank three cups of ratafia.”

“Three whole
cups
!” Harry admonished with mock horror. “How very wicked! Genevieve Eversea, you know full well ratafia is the first step on the road to perdition.”

She ought to have laughed. Normally she would have, but nothing was normal anymore. She’d instead been captivated by one of the words.

Wicked.

Mars, the poor bastard, is sprawled looking as though she’s just had her way with him.
What did that mean? What precisely did Venus
do
to Mars?

What did the
duke
know about those sorts of things?

Clearly the road to perdition intrigued her. If only Harry was the one standing there at the crossroads to it, beckoning and saying compelling things about Venus and Mars.

And what on earth constituted a good “pleasuring”?

Harry noticed she was distracted.

“Were you terribly surprised to find the Duke of Falconbridge beneath your roof?”

“Terribly.”

“He seemed decent and pleasant enough today when we walked out to the ruins.”

“That’s because you talked of horses and barouches and Papa’s investments.”

“I suppose,” Harry allowed cheerily.

After that, he was mercifully quiet.

She looked up at him, encountered those familiar blue eyes and looked away. Then she decided she would look at the hairs in his nose. Something tiny was clinging to one of them.

“The duke seems quite taken with you,” he said suddenly.

Oh, no! Were others noticing, too? “Surely ‘taken’ is certainly an exaggeration. What makes you think so?”

Harry hesitated peculiarly. “I saw you smile when you danced with him.”

So
he’d
been watching her, too. But of course he would look out for her. He was her
dearest friend
.

“I often smile, Harry,” she said dismissively.
Or at least I did in days of yore
.

In other words, yesterday.

But she knew precisely what he meant. And yet he went on to explain it.

“But . . . I know the difference between your polite, I’m-dancing-with-you-because-I-must smile and . . . the other ones. The ones that are real.”

Her breath caught. The revelation was astonishingly painful to hear. Of course he knew the difference, because Harry knew her and cared for her better than almost anyone in the world.

Or so she’d once thought.

She had given so many of her real smiles to him. Suddenly, absurdly, her supply of smiles seemed finite. She had only one or two left to give. She was exhausted.

“He came as a surprise, I’ll admit. But he isn’t terrible. The duke. He has lovely manners.”

“ ‘Lovely manners’!” Harry thought this was amusing. “What effusive praise. He was rude to Millicent. Walked away from her without a word! And he’s your father’s age! Perhaps he can scarcely tolerate company anymore, in the way the aged get.”

“He’s not, you know. Not quite Father’s age.”

Harry hesitated again. “How do you know?”

“A very good guess.”

Harry let this lie. “I’ve heard he’s seeking a wife,” he confided. “Since he’s parted ways with Lady Abigail. They say he’s determined to get himself wed soon.”

“People
would
say that.”

The duke had said it again and again to her, of course, but he wasn’t the type to say it to anyone else, she knew that instinctively.

She suddenly hated the word
wife
. She would never be Harry’s
wife
. When he used the word, he would never refer to her.

It occurred to her that she had never considered the duke’s first wife when he’d begun speaking of Abigail this morning. Then again, she was uncertain of the etiquette of bringing up a dead wife with someone newly met.

“Most men who lack a wife eventually do seek one.” Speaking was exhausting and painful now.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, after a peculiar pause. “And of course I’d know.”

Her head
did
in truth hurt. All the shine—the gleaming floor, the sparkling chandeliers, the jewels winking on all of the people in the room—landed on her raw senses like hot sparks. She was dangerously close to crying. She hadn’t yet. It was bound to happen soon, and it had better not happen in the ballroom.

She drew in a shuddering breath.

Harry, garrulous Harry, who could usually find something witty to say, was having difficulty building a conversation. But then she wasn’t offering any conversational kindling.

Who would rescue
her
?

She allowed him to talk; she answered him monosyllabically; and she decided it was the last dance of the evening for her.

She would rescue
herself
.

She unapologetically left the ballroom for her bedroom after the dance with Harry.

S
he did cry.

She did it in a practical way. She slipped out of her dress and hung it up first; didn’t fling herself on the bed and crush the silk. She unpinned her hair. She lay down gingerly on her bed wearing just her shift, curled in on the pain in her gut, and waited.

The sobs came from somewhere shockingly deep. They wracked her. She choked as each one welled up, overtaking the one before. She let her pillow take her tears until it was hot and soaked. Her face was swollen and feverish feeling, her nose was running profusely. And suddenly she seemed to be done.

And then she turned her pillow over to the cool side and lay flat on it. Taking in shuddering breaths.

She felt a little better. But the moon was full, and because she hadn’t closed her curtains firmly enough, a determined beam worked its way into her bedroom and landed across her bed.

She resented it profoundly. She was too weary to drag herself from the bed and walk the unthinkable distance between it and the window to close the curtains again. She tried flinging an arm over her eyes. It didn’t work. She thrashed this way and that fitfully, as though she could dodge the beam.

She wondered whether Harry was fast asleep. She wondered whether Millicent had an inkling of what was about to happen to her.

She wondered whether Harry had lingered after the ball and lured Millicent out to the garden and knelt before her and . . .

She flung herself out of bed. She stopped to poke up the fire, stabbing at it with an excess of enthusiasm. Afraid to defy her, it blazed up eagerly.

And then she stalked across the room to the window to yank the curtains tightly closed. She gripped one of the soft curtains in her hand, and began to pull, and then froze.

Down below, pacing the garden . . . . was a man.

The short hairs stood up on the back of her neck.

She wouldn’t be surprised if the horror of the day was capped by discovering that the phantom of some long-dead Eversea roamed the garden at night.

But it was no phantom. He wore a long, dark greatcoat; the wind whipped it out behind him. He was walking swiftly. He didn’t seem to have a particular destination. But his stride was unnervingly familiar. And then he stopped and settled on the stone bench below and to the left of her bedroom window, his elbows resting on his knees. He turned his face up to the moon.

The moonlight glanced off silver at his temple and the perfect mirrored shine of a pair of Hessians.

It was the Duke of Falconbridge.

She stood motionless, breathless, watching through a parted inch of the curtains. Wondering if perhaps she was about to witness an assignation.

But after he’d drunk in the moonlight, he ducked his head. For quite some time. If he was another man, she might have thought he was praying. But his hands were thrust into his pockets for warmth. He was very still, but as usual his entire body seemed alert, ready to launch, defend, attack, move on.

And as if he was just as restless as she was, he stood again and continued walking, the wind whipping his coat out behind him. Eventually disappearing from view.

She glanced at the clock.

It was past midnight.