Jo Beverly (15 page)

He sighed and held out a hand. “Come here.”

Her heart thumped. “Why?”

“To pay your forfeit.”

“I agreed to no forfeit.”

“Even so.”

She licked her lips, knowing she should ignore him, should rise and walk away, but it was as if she was snared—by the exhilaration of the fight, by the razor-edge of danger, by him. She knew she’d taunted him, hoping for something like this.

“You cannot force this, my lord.”

“No?”

“Very well, you
will
not. It would be the action of a knave.”

He was watching her in a way that would send a sensible woman screaming into the night. “I grant you a counterforfeit, then.”

“What?”

“You may choose something for which I must pay a forfeit in turn.”

“You
are
drunk.”

At last she stood, but too late. He caught her wrist and tugged her back down, closer on the seat. She
tried to pull free, but he tightened his grip. She didn’t fight very hard. Her blood was singing in mad delight.

“You’re cold,” he said, sounding surprised.

Of course the man who’d voluntarily ridden outside all day did not feel the cold like a normal person. He let her go and clasped her hands in wonderfully warm ones, gently massaging them. She suppressed a groan at the pleasure of it.

“Come, Genova,” he murmured, “I propose a game, no more. Christmas is time for games, and it will help us play our parts.”

“Your game seems more like a challenge to me.” But she was melting so much under his warm touch that she was surprised she wasn’t sliding off the seat into a puddle.

“An easy challenge.” He raised her hands to blow first into one palm, then into the other. “To avoid penalty, you have only to avoid giving me orders. And, of course, you have only to command me if you want a kiss.”

The confident glint in his eyes should have given her strength to resist, but instead it made her want this game more. “What if I make your forfeit for you kissing me?”

“Somewhat circular, but why not? What shall I pay? More kisses? A circle of delights. No, a spiral, like a whirlpool…”

Alarmed by that image, she pulled free. “Guineas.”

He stared, all humor wiped away. “I did not think you mercenary.”

She put distance and cool air between them. “I see no reason why I shouldn’t be, but as it happens, the guineas won’t be for me, but for the baby.”

She saw him react with sharp impatience, and her shiver was not of pleasure this time.

She raised her chin. “I may not be able to force you to admit your responsibility and provide for Charlie, my lord, but now I can compel you to provide the funds. Anytime I
must.
”

After a moment he laughed. “Very well, my Amazon.
A guinea a kiss. How many guineas, I wonder, are needed to support a child for life? A hundred? A thousand?” His voice mellowed into a seductive purr. “In how many days?”

Her mouth and throat dried.

No wonder he’d laughed.

“We have an agreement, Miss Smith?”

Kisses were only kisses. It rang hollow in her mind, but she would not, could not, back down. This would all be under her control.

She stirred moisture in her mouth and swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

He captured her hand again, sliding closer. “Then come let us start our account.”

Every scrap of sense screamed a warnings but the rest of Genova sank willingly into the whirlpool so that his last word was murmured against her lips and sealed them. Need for this had been building since their morning kiss, had been mounting to fiery heat during their debate, and was crowned by his mastery now.

His hands, clever hands, traveled over her, and hers were doing the same. She slid one beneath his jacket, savoring the hot, hard lines of ribs and hip and spine. Another cradled his head, holding him close, as if he might try to escape before she’d had her fill.

It had been so long, too long, since she’d kissed a man like this.

She’d never kissed a man like this.

Never a man like this…

His mouth was hot and skilled, with a taste still new, but remembered from the morning and already delicious. It stirred fires in her she’d never imagined. Soon her whole body burned for him, rubbed against him as if layers of clothing could melt away and bring them, as she scandalously longed to be, skin to searing skin….

It was he who broke the kiss, he who put space between them.

For pride’s sake, Genova stopped herself from pursuing.
At least he looked as wild as she felt, eyes dark, breaths deep. His disordered coat, hair, and cravat were, she knew, entirely her work.

She had to say something, something that would cover the way she felt. “I think that’s more than a guinea’s worth, my lord.”

“What’s the price for a night, then?”

After a devastated moment, she slapped him.

She surged to her feet to run, but he caught her to him. “I apologize. I apologize! I didn’t mean it like that.” Then he laughed. “Yes, I did, but I meant no slur. Lord,” he groaned, “I can’t even make sense.”

She pushed and he let her go. She gathered herself as best she could. “I accept the apology, my lord. I think we were both a little carried away.”

“A little…”

She had to conceal how strongly she’d been affected. If he knew, he’d pursue and she’d drown in the flames. Could one drown in flames…?

“There must be no more of this,” she said, proud of her flat voice.

“Must,” he repeated softly.

She put out a hand to hold him off, though he hadn’t made a move.

“Yet we must act the lovers for a day or two, Genova.”

“Not like that!”

“No, alas. Not like that.”

She was braced for attack and afraid she would succumb, but he turned and picked up something from the window seat. It was the pins and combs that had held her hair in place. She put up a hand and found it in wild disorder. It was thick and heavy and must look a tawdry mess.

She gathered it with shaking hands into a tight knot and took a proffered pin to skewer it in place. Then another, and another, reassembling Genova Smith, woman of sense. The combs were decorative, and she thrust them in last. Her hair could look nothing like
Regeanne’s skillful arrangement, but it would look vaguely as she was used to wearing it.

He was watching her, his face shadowed, for his back was to the light Could he hear her pounding heart? Could he smell her perfume as she smelled a spicy, subtle scent from him?

She tried to hold him off with words. “Remember, my lord, if you seduce me, I will hold you to the betrothal.”

After a moment, he nodded. “Then be strong for both of us, Genova Smith, for we will be dancing very close to the flames.”

He picked up her shawl, clearly intending to wrap it around her, but she grabbed it and backed toward the arch. “There’s no need to escort me, my lord.”

He stayed where he was, all cool, disordered, desirable elegance in the moonlight. “Perhaps I was hoping you knew the way back.”

“Back to where?”

“Ah, an interesting question. For we’re not where we were when you entered this room, are we?”

Breath caught by that, Genova turned and walked out of the gallery.

Ash watched the place where he’d last glimpsed Genova Smith, his body still hot with desire for her, with dangerous, irrational physical need.

The woman was magnificent, but terrifying. She seemed to accept no boundaries, and he did not want her hurt by whatever happened here. He wanted her, but that way would lead to a disastrous marriage. She was not the bride he needed.

He remembered his coarse, appalling words and groaned. When had he last said anything so clumsy?

Perhaps never.

Why? Why had those words escaped?

Because he’d been thinking them. Thinking them in his mind, in his blood, in his throbbing cock. Hades! She could inflame him like spark to tinder. He pushed
his hands against his temples. Once was enough. No other woman was going to rip his life apart with rich curves and wicked, knowing eyes.

His fingers touched his hair and he realized the destruction the woman had wrought. He pulled the loosened ribbon free, memory rippling through him. If Genova Smith had been insinuated into the great-aunts’ household with this in mind, Rothgar had chosen his weapon well.

He walked to confront his cousin’s austere portrait. “My bane, as always,” he said under his breath. “Are you behind Molly’s plot? Is Genova Smith your tool? This time you won’t win, not even with a siren on your side.”

A siren that didn’t sing but argued.

Havoc.

A good word. The ancient battle cry that swept away all rules of war and set free rape, slaughter, and destruction. “Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war.”

Dogs. A Persian gazelle hound that had been trained not to go after the quarry it had been bred to kill.

There hadn’t been a single word between him and Rothgar without meaning.

“
You should not let her ride and spur you.
”

Ash cursed at the portrait and strode out of the room.

Genova entered her bedchamber quietly. Three candles and firelight made it welcoming, but the bed-curtains were open and the bed was empty. For a moment her overwrought nerves threw up wild scenarios of murder or kidnapping.

By the next breath she knew what had happened. Thalia had rested a little, then realized that a game of whist was possible and that had been enough.

Regeanne helped Genova out of her gown, hoops, and stays, but then Genova said she would do the rest herself. She wasn’t used to a lady’s maid.

She washed and put on her nightgown, which was warm from hanging before the fire. The bed would be cozy, too, for the handles of two warming pans stuck out of the covers. She moved one over to Thalia’s side, drew the heavy curtains all around, then settled into the haven.

Warmth, however, did not soothe unwelcome heat.

Was it truly unwelcome?

How was it even possible that she feel this way? She and the marquess were strangers in every way.

She might as well protest that rock cannot burn. She’d seen lava flow, as hot and molten as the desire that had erupted between her a stranger on a moonlit window seat.

S
 leep came slowly, so that exhaustion caused Genova to wake later than usual. When she emerged from the bed in the morning, the fire was well established and the room warm. The gilded clock said nearly nine, but Thalia was still asleep, each breath a soft whistle, her frilly bed cap over one eye.

With a smile, Genova quietly redrew the bed-curtains, then added another piece of wood to the fire. She tenderly rearranged some of the figures in the
presepe.
It was Christmas Eve—both her birthday and the beginning of her favorite season. She wouldn’t let other events steal that from her.

Here, at last, she would experience a true English Christmas.

On ships and in ports around the world, English people tried to re-create Christmas, but it was never quite right. Hot climates did not suit the food, and the mounding snow of Canada or the Baltic seemed too lush. Last Christmas had been shadowed by grief.

Traveling here, she’d realized the truth. An English Christmas needed cold but a starker setting and the afternoon death of the light.

She went to the window and looked through frost feathers at the right sort of setting. The frosted grass of the park became in the distance black fields streaked with white. Old trees made crooked skeletons against a steely sky.

In this setting rich foods and evergreens would be carols of hope, and the Yule log would promise the return of long sunny days.

Contrasts and necessities. Winter darkness could make fire precious. Starvation made a dry crust taste like
pandolce.

Pandolcetta mia
…

Her stomach rumbled.

Genova laughed, glad that her wanton body still paid attention to honest hungers.

So, clothes. If Christmas traditions were followed here, today was for gathering greenery to bring into the house. Warm clothes, then.

Genova tapped on the closet door, then opened it, but Regeanne wasn’t there. She could dress herself in her simplest gowns and did so. She chose a plain closed dress of fawn-colored wool, adding warm woolen stockings and an extra flannel petticoat.

She gathered her hair into a simple knot, pushing aside the memory of last night, of Ashart holding pins in his beautiful hand. Of the touch of that hand…

Perish the man!

She fixed the knot, then pinned a small cap on top, thrusting one pin so hard she pricked herself. Tears threatened, and they weren’t from the pain.

Her stomach rumbled again. Hunger explained her weakness. How did she obtain breakfast in this house?

She eyed the bellpull, but she wasn’t familiar with that modern convenience. Besides, if she ordered breakfast here, she’d wake Thalia. She was reluctant to venture out into the strange house, but food must be available somewhere, and she would not be a timid mouse.

She wrapped her warm everyday shawl around her shoulders and left the room. If she didn’t find breakfast, she’d seek out the kitchens. She was close to a servant, after all, and bread and cheese would do.

She turned left. To her delight she remembered the way and soon arrived at the main staircase. The house seemed quiet, but she thought she could smell food somewhere and hear faint voices and rattles.

She went downstairs, fighting the feeling of being an intruder, wincing when her skirts brushed the banisters
and stirred the tiny bells. She couldn’t help thinking of a cat being belled to stop it from pouncing on unwary birds.

At the bottom she looked around and noticed a powdered, liveried footman outside a door. He bowed. “Breakfast is served in here, mistress.”

She walked toward him, noticing that he wore gloves and a thick, quilted waistcoat. Lord Rothgar was a considerate master.

The footman opened the door at just the right moment so she could enter without much warm air escaping. A modest table was laid, and one man sat there, cup in hand, reading a magazine. The Marquess of Rothgar.