A Summer Seduction (41 page)

She scowled into the candles. The flames were creating little gold and black spots in her vision. It occurred to her how very peculiar she would look if anyone walked in. It was altogether silly—as if one could summon a proper husband just by kneeling and asking for one.

A door slammed, and Genevieve jumped, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. Her hand came up to cover her heart, as if to hold it down, and she rose slowly and slipped past the statue into the main part of the church.

A young blond-haired man pushed open the door from the vestibule and looked inside. Lord Dursbury.

“Ah, there you are,” he said cheerfully, and smiled. “Lady Rawdon sent me to find you. Did you find what you came for?”

Genevieve smiled back at him. “Yes. I believe I have.”

Six months later

The ball was in full
swing when they arrived, all the windows of the house shining with light. The orchestra had already started, and several couples were engaged in a cotillion on the large dance floor. People clustered in groups all around the edge of the dancers. Sir Myles Thorwood made his way to the ballroom and paused just inside the door, glancing from group to group until finally his eyes settled on the one he sought.

Lord Dursbury stood among his friends, watching the dancing as they chatted desultorily. Genevieve was beside him, as bright as a candle flame. Her silvery blond hair was swept up in a cascade of curls, a ribbon of the palest blue threaded through it. Pearls gleamed around her neck, and ribbons of the same ice-blue shade adorned her white satin dress. Tall and lithe, she stood out from everyone around her, perfection in every line.

Myles had long thought Genevieve the most beautiful woman of the
ton
. There were others, of course, whom he found quite alluring—Lady Dursbury, for instance, standing beside Genevieve, had a sensual attraction all her own. But next to Genevieve’s lissome form and finely modeled face, Dursbury’s stepmother looked a trifle overblown.

Not, of course, that he had ever acted upon his attraction. He had never thought—well, yes, if he was completely honest, he had a time or two
thought
about how Genevieve might feel in his arms. But he had never acted upon the impulse… well, except for that one small kiss in the library that time. But they had jumped apart,
shocked, and immediately agreed that it was a momentary aberration, never to be repeated, or, indeed, even spoken of again. She was, after all, Alec’s sister, and pursuing her was out of the question.

He stood for a long moment, studying her and thinking about that incident. It had been in Rawdon’s castle, several years ago, when he had walked into the room, calling for Rawdon, and startled Genevieve, who had been on the ladder, reaching for a book on a high shelf. She had jumped and made a misstep, nearly tumbling from the ladder, and he had reached out to keep her from falling. He remembered how she had felt in his arms, soft and warm, her pale blue eyes pulling him in. He had lifted her down, her long, limber body brushing against his.

Impulsively he had tasted her lips, wanting to feel them yield and part beneath his, her soft breath mingling with his. Genevieve had been pliant, her breasts pressed against his chest. For a moment, it had been everything a man could want, desire both sweet and sharp piercing through him. Until, of course, he remembered who and where they were. It was unthinkable to do anything but release her and apologize.

Myles had not been foolish enough to contemplate, even for a second, the possibility of marriage at the end of a proper courtship. No, to start down that path would have led to disaster. If nothing else, it seemed highly unlikely that he and Genevieve could manage to stay in the same room together without squabbling long enough to even have a courtship. It wasn’t that he did not enjoy their frequent battles of wit; truth be told, he often found himself looking forward to them. But as a constant diet, it would not do, of course.

Besides, Genevieve was quite beyond his touch. His name was unblemished, and his family was perfectly acceptable. His mother, after all, had been the daughter of an earl when she had
stubbornly insisted on marrying Myles’s father despite the fact that he was a mere baronet. And if his ancestors on his father’s side had been merchants rather than knights, it was far enough back that few would consider it an impediment.

But the Staffords would be one of those few. Staffords married not for love but for power, wealth, and name—and Genevieve was a Stafford through and through, with the same iron spine her grandmother possessed. She was not one to give in to such mawkish sentiments as love or desire. She would marry as she should. As, indeed, she was about to do.

The Earl of Dursbury was precisely the sort of man he would have guessed Genevieve would wed. Solid. Respected. Good family. And if Myles could not bring himself to like the man, well, he was not the one marrying him.

Looking at Genevieve, he could see that she was not chatting with any of those around her. Instead she stared off distantly, her face as calm and unreadable as ever. Myles wondered what she was thinking. He’d never been able to guess with Genevieve. It was bloody irritating.

He hesitated for an instant, then started across the floor toward her.

What Genevieve was thinking was
how very bored she was. Dursbury had taken her out for an obligatory twirl around the dance floor, and three of his friends and family had also asked her to dance. Since none of them was either good conversationalists or skillful dancers, she had found the experience lacking. Now she was stuck here between his stepmother and Miss Halford as they assured one another that the room was lovely, the music melodic, and the crowded room quite warm.

The unfortunate fact was that she found several of her fiancé’s
friends a trifle dull. His friend since their Oxford days, Paul Winston, was droning on about the carriage he was considering buying. Dursbury was nodding thoughtfully, too polite, Genevieve thought, to interrupt the discourse. It was his courtesy—and his loyalty to longtime friends, of course—that kept him from seeking more entertaining company. He was ever the perfect gentleman.

Genevieve suppressed a sigh, reminding herself that the drabness of the men’s conversation mattered little compared to their other sterling qualities. No doubt as she got to know them better, she would find her fiancé’s friends more interesting, as Dursbury seemed to. After all, the sort of social chatter one heard at parties was always rather shallow. Lady Dursbury probably had a number of interests besides gowns and hats, and Miss Halford must have some opinions… about something.

Genevieve sneaked a sideways peek at Iona Halford. The poor girl seemed nice enough, but it was often difficult to remember that she was there. Soft-spoken and rather shy, it seemed as though every utterance she made was an echo of Lady Dursbury’s. Genevieve had heard enough whisperings to gather that a number of Dursbury’s set thought Iona had hoped to catch the marital prize that was the Earl of Dursbury. As the old earl’s ward and his stepmother’s near constant companion, she had certainly had an edge on the competition.

Miss Halford had never given any outward sign that she resented Genevieve, but neither had she warmed to her despite their being thrown together time after time. Of course, proximity had not increased Genevieve’s friendship with her fiancé’s young stepmother either. But, Genevieve reminded herself, once she and Dursbury were married, surely they would not be spending so much time with the two women. It was only now, with all the necessary
chaperonage, that they were so constantly surrounded by others. It would be different in the future. When they were alone.

A hard little knot formed in Genevieve’s chest. She was not sure what it was, but the constriction made its presence known more and more often recently. She had not told her grandmother; she would not want to worry her, and Genevieve was sure it was nothing, really. Nor was it odd to be sleeping less these days, to find it hard to fall asleep and sadly easy to awaken.

Genevieve glanced toward her fiancé again. He was deep in conversation with Winston and Lord Brackton, something about politics. No doubt she was quite shallow, but Genevieve could not find any interest in politics. She glanced out across the dance floor and as she did so, she caught sight of Sir Myles walking toward her. A grin flashed across her face before she had the presence of mind to re-form it into a smaller, more appropriate smile. However annoying the man might be, his presence enlivened an evening. If nothing else, she could look forward to a dance with him.

It was, therefore, something of a disappointment when a man greeted Myles and he turned aside to chat with him.

“Ah, Lady Genevieve, look who is here,” Lady Dursbury said, interrupting her thoughts, and Genevieve turned to see that Foster Langdon had joined the two women.

“Mr. Langdon.” Genevieve suppressed a sigh and gave him a nod, carefully measured to provide him no encouragement. Foster Langdon had begun hanging about the past few weeks, professing his admiration and bemoaning his supposedly broken heart at the news of her engagement. Frankly, Genevieve could not remember his ever expressing any great interest in her before, but there seemed to be a certain type of man who preferred dangling after women whom they knew were safely married or engaged.

“You put the moon to blush for shame tonight,” Langdon told
Genevieve, taking her hand although she had not offered it to him and holding it a good deal longer than was appropriate.

“Indeed, you are too kind,” Genevieve said neutrally as she jerked her hand free.

He leaned closer, and Genevieve edged back, wrinkling her nose at the strong scent of wine that arose from him. The man was thoroughly foxed. As if to prove her point, he swayed a trifle and reached out to steady himself. Genevieve slid a few more inches away.

“Excu—” she began, and at that moment she heard Myles’s voice.

“Ladies. Langdon, I cannot allow you to keep the most beautiful women of the
ton
to yourself.”

With relief Genevieve turned toward Myles as he inserted himself between her and Mr. Langdon.

On the other side of her, Lady Dursbury preened and smiled at their new visitor, her dark, liquid eyes lambent with promise. “Sir Myles! I vow, we have not seen you in an age. You have been sorely missed. I was telling Miss Halford only yesterday that I believed you must be shunning our company.”

Genevieve bristled. Dursbury’s stepmother, a widow for a year now, was always flirtatious, but it was most annoying for her to throw herself at Sir Myles. He was too young for her, for one thing, and surely he had no interest in her. Genevieve could not deny that there was a certain lush, sensual appeal to the woman, but she was not the sort of female to whom Myles would be drawn. Or would he?

Myles looked at Genevieve, and his smile turned rakish. “Lady Genevieve. I trust you missed me as well.”

“La, sir, I fear I had not realized you were gone,” Genevieve replied, airily.

Miss Halford blinked at Genevieve’s insult, but Sir Myles responded with a laugh.

“My dear lady, I know that is a plumper.” When Genevieve raised her brows, he went on, “I believe you once told me I was like a small pebble that had gotten lodged in one’s shoe. And one is always aware when that vanishes.”

Genevieve’s laugh trilled at his words. Dursbury’s stepmother cast her a surprised glance, but quickly said, “I am sure Lady Genevieve did not mean to insult you.”

“I fear Sir Myles knows me too well to believe that,” Genevieve responded.

“Indeed,” Myles agreed. “I have known the lady since she was in pigtails, and she has always been the bane of my existence.”

“How unkind,” Genevieve retorted.

“If I am unkind, then perhaps you will allow me to atone for my sins by taking a turn around the dance floor with me,” Myles said.

“Of course. ’Twould be most unfeeling of me not to allow you your penance.”

Genevieve could feel Lady Dursbury’s eyes on her as they walked toward the dance floor, and she suspected that the woman was not watching her with kindness.

“I must thank you,” she told Myles lightly. “For taking me away.”

“Langdon bothering you?” he asked shrewdly.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just that he is always turning up and mouthing fulsome compliments.”

“Some ladies enjoy fulsome compliments,” he pointed out.

“Not I. And it is so difficult to get rid of him. I believe he’s a trifle thick.”

“I would say so if he has not realized your dislike of him. I could see it twenty feet away.”

“I am glad for that.” She glanced up at him. “Did I really tell you that you were like a pebble in one’s shoe?”

He laughed. “Indeed. ‘Insignificant yet infinitely annoying,’ I believe were your words.”

“My, I must have been quite irritated. What had you done?”

“I? Why must
I
have done something?”

“Because I find that you usually do.”

Genevieve grimaced at him as he swept her out onto the floor. It was both familiar and delightful to circle the floor in his arms, and Genevieve realized how long it had been since they had danced together.

“I see that Alec is enjoying his newly married state,” Myles mused.