Jo Beverly (21 page)

“It’s quite enlivening to be thought a wicked woman,” she said to correct things, “when I’ve spent my life enshrined in virtue.”

“A saint doesn’t kiss as you do, Genova.”

“Not even if married?”

“You’re a widow?”

She heard shock and was tempted to let him think that. It wouldn’t do. “I was engaged to marry.”

He stopped her again, gently, looking truly compassionate. “He died?”

She turned her head away, staring blindly at a gnarled and leafless tree. Look what she’d done now. She didn’t want to talk about Walsingham.

“He lives. I broke it off.” Then the words tumbled out. “And thus I broke his heart. You see what a wicked woman I am.” She had never before admitted the shame she felt at having treated Walsingham so cruelly.

“Why did you end it?”

Why couldn’t she rebuff his quiet question?

“Because I didn’t love him,” she said with a sigh.

“Because I believed that marriage should be made for love.”

“Believed?”

“Believe,” she corrected, compelled to turn and face him, because she did still believe, despite everything.

“Remarkable. I suppose your parents were idyllically besotted.”

She raised her chin at his tone. “They were in love. It’s not so unusual a situation.”

“No?”

“Lord Rothgar and Lady Arradale are in love.”

She expected flippancy, but he said, “Perhaps.”

“And Lord and Lady Bryght.”

“And I would have thought him as cynical a bastard as I am. I grant you your point. The same goes for Walgrave as best I can tell, and he and I used to hunt in the same pack.”

“And consider Thalia. In love after sixty years.”

“Maybe,” he said.

“You can doubt that?”

“Doesn’t love have to be tested by reality and time, or else isn’t it only a dream?”

She blinked at him. “You’re right.”

“I am, occasionally. And for the most part, love fails under the test.”

“You’re not right about that. I gather your parents were not devoted.”

“Oh, intensely, but not to each other.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and they headed toward the others, who were now a dangerous distance ahead. “My father was devoted to wine and dice—an unfortunate combination, you must admit. My mother loved another but was compelled to marry my father. Upon his death, she married her true love and moved abroad.”

“A sorry tale, but she did love.”

“But pity the poor child who perhaps hoped he was loved, too.” He stopped. “Though devil alone knows
why it should matter. I hardly ever saw her before my father died.”

A loud crash rocked the earth beneath their feet.

“Alack and alas,” he said, “they’ve conquered the Yule log without my vigor. Will the house of Rothgar fall with an equally earth-shaking crack? Come, before we miss the drama.”

He grabbed her gloved hand and pulled her toward the trees at a run. She picked up her skirts and went, still dazed by his words. They were true, painful, and perhaps words he had never spoken to another.

He probably wished them unsaid, but for all those reasons and many others, Genova was storing them in her heart and her mind like a precious treasure.

They ran into the woodland and she almost tripped on a branch. He put an arm around her, sweeping her along, up over a rotting boll, down under a low branch.

“Stop!” she cried, gasping.

He swept her into his arms and carried her. “What have you been doing with your vigor, Genova, my sweet?”

She laughed into his shoulder, still having to suck in breaths. It was that or cry. It was as if the earth had cracked and they’d fallen into another, deeper world.

His wicked earring twinkled before her eyes. His fine jaw, slightly darkened, was close enough to touch, close enough to kiss. His smell could already make her head swim.

He looked down at her, then stilled, reflecting, surely, her bewildered thoughts. The world receded and Genova trembled, with fear as much as anything. She did not want to feel like this. Not about this man. Not when nothing connected them but artificial threads.

But was that true?

He looked away and strode forward.

“At last!”

Genova turned her head and saw they’d entered a clearing where everyone was observing them with an
amused expression. Except Damaris Myddleton, of course.

It had been Lord Rothgar who’d spoken. To Genova’s astonishment, he was stripped down to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and his wife was playing the servant by carrying his outer clothes.

Some other men were in the same casual state, and other women were loaded with clothing. Despite the crisp air, some of the men had taken off their cravats, as well, so that their shirts stood open. One had rolled up his shirtsleeves.

The gentlemen were playing woodsmen for the day. The real woodsmen, fully dressed in rougher clothing and heavy boots, observed the games with good humor. It would be a treat for them to have the lords doing the work.

A tree trunk two or more feet in diameter lay across the space. It was cut roughly at one end, but more neatly at the other, and without side branches. Even Genova’s inexpert eye could tell that this tree was long dead and had been carefully prepared for the ceremonial felling.

Ash slid Genova to her feet in a way that caused a ripple of shock, and not just in her. She pushed him away in reproof, and he fell back farther than she pushed.

Despite his smile, the wolf was back. She knew it was recoil because of what he had revealed, but she frowned at him anyway. It was the only appropriate response.

“I hope you have enough vigor left for the sawing,” Lord Rothgar said, indicating the big two-handed saw. Two guests—Lord Theo Dacre and Mr. Thomas Malloren, Genova thought—picked it up and set to, pushing and pulling the big saw so it bit into the wood.

Ash shrugged out of his coat with a slight air of disdain and held it out to Genova. She took it, resisting a need to snuggle it close and inhale his scent.

“I suspect I can play the maid more easily than you can play the carpenter, my lord.”

“
Play
the maid?” He unpinned his cravat and unwrapped the length of soft, lace-trimmed cloth. He draped it around Genova’s neck and fixed the jeweled pin through the ends, his fingers brushing against her throat. “I thought you claimed to be pure,” he murmured, his eyes coldly rakish.

She ignored his comment.

“Carpenter is a noble calling, though,” he said. “Even saintly.”

He unfastened the placket of his shirt, then undid his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, exposing long, strong muscles. It was as if he had her snared. She couldn’t look away from arms, throat, and the chest she could envision all too well.

“I daren’t attempt saintly,” he said, “but I’m adept at noble.”

Genova broke the entrancement and saw Miss Myddleton across the clearing, burdened with Lieutenant Ormsby’s scarlet and watching Ash with a hungry frown.
Beware!
Genova wanted to call out to her.
Beware the wolf who will eat you whole.

When she looked back, Ash was strolling over to the log. One of the men there said something, grinning. Ash laughed and replied in kind.

Genova hugged his jacket to her, fearful that they were laughing at her, though she knew they would not be so coarse. Not where she could hear it, at least.

She struggled to show nothing, wishing she was half the actor he was. Wishing she wasn’t tumbling in love with an impossible man.

G
 enova saw Miss Myddleton approaching and groaned.
Not now.

“I see you love him,” Miss Myddleton said.

Genova defended by instinct. “That would be normal when two people plan to marry.”

“Would it?” Miss Myddleton turned to watch the sawing. “People marry for practical purposes all the time.”

“Which you plan to?”

“I plan to marry Ashart.”

Genova wanted to shake her. “You can’t marry a man without his cooperation.”

The heiress’s eyes were fixed on her quarry. “No?”

Genova wasn’t sure if she was impelled by concern for Ashart or the young woman, but she had to warn. “Miss Myddleton, it wouldn’t be wise to marry a man who is not willing. It could naturally incline him to be unpleasant.”

Damaris Myddleton frowned. Was she hearing and understanding? “Men can be very stupid.”

“Certainly, but so can women. Consider Lady Booth Carew.”

The cat’s eyes flickered to her. “A vain lackwit.”

“Precisely, because forcing a marriage with Ashart, if it could be achieved, would be like locking oneself in a cage with a hungry wolf.”

Those eyes widened, but not, perhaps, entirely with alarm. Unfortunately, Genova understood. Sanity said to keep as far from Ash as possible, but very little of her seemed ruled by sanity these days.

The first pair of men stepped back sweating and offered the saw to others. Ash immediately took one end. Genova saw Lieutenant Ormsby move to take the other, and Lord Rothgar stop him and take the place.

“What about the untapped vigor?” Ash asked.

“Mere rank must lend us strength.”

The two men set to work, pushing and pulling so the saw ate into the wood. Given the family strife, it should have been a competition, but that was impossible. To achieve anything, they had to work in harmony.

Genova prayed that Ash take the lesson, but doubted it. Neglected by feckless parents, raised by a bitter grandmother, spoiled by rank and wealth, he might be exactly the sort to revel in chaos.

Lieutenant Ormsby demanded his turn, his look at Damaris Myddleton showing that he wanted to impress her. He was a fine figure of a man, but his cause was hopeless. He was as good as invisible in Ash’s bright light.

Breathing deeply, looking glorious, Ash was returning. Genova unpinned his cravat and wiped his sweaty brow with it, aware of the ancient instinct to both cherish and claim. She could tell herself she was trying to deter Miss Myddleton from folly, but she was simply succumbing to a force as natural and irresistible as a hurricane or tidal wave.

He responded with a wicked smile that weakened her knees, even though she knew it was artifice. He draped the cravat around his neck, drew her to him with one arm, and paid her with a kiss.

It took all Genova’s will not to cinch him close and demand the sort of kiss she hungered for.

“I believe that’s eight guineas you owe.”

“Still far short of your needs, though, isn’t it?”

He strolled away to help use ropes and pulleys to load the log into a waiting cart. She watched, not caring what others saw. The beauty of their false betrothal was that she was allowed to drink in the sight
of his muscular body stretching and applying force like a magnificent animal.

For sanity’s sake she glanced away and saw the grinning woodsmen. They were enjoying the occasion, but there was nothing malicious there. The Bible said that you could judge a tree by the fruit it bears, something she’d always thought sound. In the navy, you could always judge a captain by his ship. Judged by his land, his servants, and his tenants, the Marquess of Rothgar was a good lord.

What of the Marquess of Ashart?

Once the log was on the cart, a long-necked jug of something went the rounds of the sweating gentlemen. Ash drank deep, his head thrown back, his strong neck rippling.

The jug ended with the woodsmen, who took hearty swigs and called, “God bless ye, merry gentlemen at Christmastide!” They took it with them as they climbed up on the cart and traveled off with the log toward the house.

The men began to reclaim clothing. When Ash strolled back to her side, Genova gave up his coat and gloves, and posed the question that concerned her. “Shouldn’t you be at your own estate for Christmas?”

“My grandmother takes care of everything there.”

“That isn’t an answer to my question.”

His look was all marquess. “Your question was impertinent.”

“Tell me anyway.”

He shook his head, looking astonished. Genova wasn’t daunted. In their new world, he wasn’t a marquess. He was a man, no different from the young naval officers who’d been her friends.

“My grandmother thrives on the work. She’d sink into a decline if I interfered.”

“But how did that come about?”

With an air of one humoring a lunatic, he said, “She married my grandfather sixty years ago, Miss Smith. Cheynings has been her life ever since. Grandfather
apparently had little interest in estate management. He was a soldier and courtier. My uncle and father cared nothing for their properties beyond the income they provided.”

“Your grandmother had the raising of her sons. She could have trained them to their tasks.”

“Do you never respect boundaries?”

She didn’t flinch. “Not with friends.”

Something—a frown?—flickered across his face and he looked away. “We’re being armed with weapons and baskets.”

Conscious of having said more than she’d intended, Genova went to pick up one of the baskets. When she turned, Ash was close beside her, a sheathed pruning knife in his hand.

“I don’t know how my uncle was raised,” he said, “but my father was never expected to inherit the title. His career was the army.” After a moment, he added, “I was only eight when my father died. It was as well that my grandmother was skilled at managing my properties.”

But the Dowager Lady Ashart hadn’t raised Ash to supplant her any more than she’d raised her sons to do so.

Genova phrased a careful question. “Does she not tire of the work? She must be Thalia’s age.”

“She thrives on it. What impossible thing are you thinking now, Genova Smith?”

She had to give him the truth. “That it’s time for you to relieve her of her labors.”

She was braced for dismissal, even for anger, but instead he looked away and she heard him say softly, “What if it’s like stealing her breath?”

Her understanding of him shifted deeper, as it had been shifting all afternoon. She wanted to take him in her arms. She wanted to sit and talk about these things until everything was resolved. She wanted…

Lady Arradale cut into her thoughts like a blade through silk. “And now for greenery!”