Jo Beverly (26 page)

“Why not sail in search of Venus, Ash? What’s to stop you?”

“Some would say I seek out Venus far too often.”

“Be serious.”

He nuzzled her neck. “I’m always serious about such matters.”

She smiled but waited.

“Duty, then. That’s what ties me. My duty to manage my estates, to make laws, to shape a nation.”

She understood. “Your marquessate is your ship. No one else can captain it.”

“My ship is likely to sink for lack of tar, or whatever it is keeps ships afloat. I have to marry, Genova, and I have to marry money.”

She knew, she thought she knew, why he was telling her that. It hurt, but it hurt less because he was honest. “If you must, you must. Only promise me that you’ll be a good captain.”

He drew her into his arms, into an embrace more tender than any they’d shared. Her head rested perfectly on his broad shoulder.

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “I know it’s time to take over my properties from my grandmother. I would have done it already if not for other problems.”

“Molly Carew.” She was relishing the hard heat of his body and a steady strength she wouldn’t have expected to find in him just a few days before. Inhaling his scent, she said, “Can you tell me about that? I’m not easily embarrassed.”

His hands moved on her back slightly, in a tender touch that might even have been unconscious. “It’s a ridiculous tale.”

She moved back to look at him. “Ridiculous?”

His smile was rueful. “Isn’t that what we all fear the most, to be ridiculous? Are you too cold to stay out here for a sorry saga?”

“No.”

He drew her close again, sliding her arms around him beneath his coat, and tucking her shawl securely. “Listen, then. Last February I attended Lady Knatchbull’s masquerade. It is not noted for taste and sobriety. I went as an Indian brave, largely naked….”

Genova hummed with approval against his chest and felt his chuckle.

“Molly Carew went as Salome, in seven extremely transparent veils. I am not a saint.”

“I think I noticed that.”

“Not shocked yet?”

“No, impatient to get to the point.”

“I might as well confess all my sins. I had been Molly’s lover in the past, when Booth Carew was still alive.”

He paused, obviously expecting comment.

“That’s
all
your sins?” she asked.

He laughed again. “No.”

“I didn’t think so. Go on. I’m anxious to know how you can be so sure that Charlie is not your son.” She made certain that no hint of doubt lingered in her words.

He let out a breath. “To edit drastically, then, I left the masquerade with Molly, not attempting to be discreet, but I never did that for which
amor
is not the right word.”

It was her turn to chuckle. “I told you I knew them all, but
swived
will do.”

“Rather too matrimonial, but if you wish, I did not swive Molly Carew.”

She moved slightly so she could look at him. “If you are about to confess to being a eunuch, I will be much surprised.”

He rubbed his cheek against hers. “You have only to explore,
pandolcetta mia
, to correct that impression.”

She stirred, sensing the truth despite layers of skirts. A deep ache trembled, but she said, “So why?”

“Because I realized she was trying to hook me. It was just a sense, an instinct, but as we traveled to my house in my coach, and she pleasured me in ways she knows well, I knew. I remembered that she was a widow who might have different intentions from when she’d been a wife, so though I returned the pleasure,
it was not in the way that might create a child. And then I took her to her home.”

“But then….” Genova said. “She made it all up?”

“Not entirely. I assume she was already pregnant, but not by a man who could marry her, or perhaps not a man she wanted to marry. It’s typical of her boldness that she pursued her plan anyway. Perhaps she thought I was too drunk to know.”

“Were you?”

“No.”

His tone was a friendly rebuke and she said, “Sorry,” knowing her smile would sound in her voice.

It was a scandalous tale, but she loved that he was telling it to her, and that he was somewhat uncomfortable about it.

This was the man, not the marquess.

They were friends.

“
T
 he devil of it was,” he said, “that when I denied it no one believed me. Was I supposed to protest and plead? I certainly couldn’t prove my account. I ignored the woman, assuming she would give up. She never did.”

“Even to abandoning another man’s baby on you. Perhaps she’s the Loki in this tale.”

He brushed his lips against hers. “You are a remarkable woman.”

“Because I’m not shocked by your tale? Some of the younger officers were like brothers to me, and because we’d been on ships together, the barriers were down. They often came to me with tales of woe, and most of them were to do with women.” She shook her head. “It must all have been infuriating.”

“Especially as one cannot prove a negative. I need to, though. I need to force Molly to tell the truth, or…”

“Or?” she asked, freeing a hand to touch his face, to guide it so he looked at her.

“Or force Rothgar to use his influence with the king. His Majesty would probably believe him, especially as our enmity is well known.”

She flexed her hand against his warm skin, feeling the slight roughness of his beard. “That wasn’t the whole truth.”

“You’re a terrifying woman.”

“Tell me.”

He moved slightly against her hand. She thought it
was a shake of the head, but then he said, “I have long assumed that Rothgar was behind this plan, and that Molly was his puppet. The plan had a suitably devious design. If I succumbed, then I would end up married to a woman I had come to dislike, accepting as my child, possibly my heir, a baby who wasn’t mine. If I resisted, I would offend the king, perhaps even to the point of being cast into the darkness, from where I could trouble Rothgar no more. I came here prepared to force him to right the wrong.”

“With what?”

“That, Genova, you do not want to know.”

“The mistletoe bough?” she asked, wishing he’d tell her. When he stayed silent, she said, “And if he had nothing to do with it?”

“Then I need to get my hands on Molly Carew.”

“Until then?”

He touched his nose to hers. “Enjoy Christmas. Try to understand my cousin more. Test the air. Be betrothed to you…. So, Genova Smith, what do you think of me now?”

She cradled his head in both hands. “I think you are an honest man, Ash, and there is nothing more noble than that.”

She kissed him, turning her head to find just the right angle, exploring and tasting as if for the first time. The passion was there, the passion that had burned from the first, but their new closeness was more powerful than showy flames and sparks. It glowed in the deeps, under control.

Then denying that belief, her whole body clenched, a shaft of need piercing her. He murmured, “Genova,” and pressed closer, a hand claiming a breast through cloth and stays.

She teetered, trembling, then found strength to put a hand to his chest and push. “No, Ash, don’t. Please….” He stilled, and she added, “It’s not because I don’t want it.”

He laughed shakily. “I know that, love.”

He straightened, restoring her shawl, breathing as deeply as she. His hands lingered near her breasts as he gathered the shawl together there.

They had talked at length and in depth, and he had revealed himself to her as to no other woman, she was sure, but he had been honest about everything, including his belief that he could not marry her.

Whatever she did about that, she needed to end this encounter. “I’m cold,” she lied. “Time to go inside.”

He didn’t protest, but opened the door for her.

The once chilly hall seemed hot in a way the glowing Yule log couldn’t explain. Brandy, spices, and oranges played games with Genova’s senses, and merry music spilled out from the magical ballroom.

He took her hand and led her across the hall and up to the doors. “The night is young,” he said softly. “We can dance.”

Through the doors, Genova saw illusion. Cottages with cozily lit windows nestled among trees at the base of glittering mountains. Couples danced and laughed beneath the great chandelier. If she stepped in there, she knew, she was lost.

“I’m ready for bed.”

Wrong words! Wrong words!

She saw him register them and let them pass, but he raised her left hand and kissed her knuckles by the ring.

She pulled free. “I wish you hadn’t given me this.”

“It seemed a necessary part of the play.”

“It’s wrong.”

“Cast away scruples. There’s no reverence attached. That ring was my mother’s. She wore it under protest and abandoned it when she left. When you reject me, you can keep it. In fact, why not put it to the baby’s care.”

She saw the implications of that. “No more kisses?”

“It seems safer. Remember, Genova, I’m not a saint.” He kissed her hand. “Good night, my dear, and may Christmas bring you joy.”

Genova looked down at the quiet hall, where the
Yule log burned steadily and the
presepe
sat beside it, in pride of place as it was meant to be. She hadn’t made her wish on the
presepe
, or on the Christmas Star.

There were many things she could wish for, but one spilled out and would not be denied.
Let this man find peace and joy, and strength to be the man he’s meant to be
.

She looked at him once more, then hurried upstairs and away.

Without Genova, the ballroom held no appeal. Ash returned to his room and found Fitz lounging at his ease, enjoying Rothgar’s brandy.

“Ah, the answer to all puzzles arrives!”

“Where?” Ash asked, pouring for himself. “It certainly isn’t me.”

“So how did you end up in the devil’s lair? Your archenemy seems remarkably untouched.”

“You can’t have expected us to fall to blows like Italian braggadocios. We are being perfectly civil while circling for the kill.”

Ash listened to himself prating the sort of words he’d spoken all his life, trained like a parrot.

“I’m working toward peace,” he corrected, and took a mouthful of brandy. “This is superb. Clear evidence of my cousin’s wealth.”

“Peace,” Fitz reminded him. “I certainly approve.”

“You probably started the rot.”

“Then my life is worthwhile.”

Ash studied him. “It’s true, you know. You don’t say what I want to hear like all the toadeaters. You’ve been a mirror of sorts, exposing folly. But my grandmother won’t approve.”

“Let the bounteous Miss Smith deal with her.”

Ash drank more brandy. “It’s nothing to do with her.”

“Your future bride?”

“It’s all sham. You must have realized that.”

“It did seem rather sudden. When I received your
note asking me to collect the ring from Cheynings, I assumed it would be for Miss Myddleton. When I encountered her here, I was sure of it.”

“It probably will be, in time.”

“You can’t give her that ring now.”

“I never planned to. I suspect it’s cursed.”

“A shame to put it on Miss Smith’s finger, then.”

Ash considered that with disquiet. “It’s only for a couple of days. I’ve told her that when she rejects me she can keep it.”

Fitz whistled.

Ash sat wearily in the other chair. “She’s insisting that someone has to support Molly Carew’s brat. Since it can’t be me directly, it’s a way out of that mess.”

“It’ll make him a little gentleman.”

“His mother is superficially a lady, and as you say, Damaris Myddleton will never wear it now.”

“You could have it recut.”

“It’s Genova’s to do with as she wishes. It will preserve her from harm, as well as the baby.”

Fitz pulled a thoughtful face, but said, “Miss Myddleton is not best pleased with you, you know.”

“Of course I know.”

“So what are you going to do there? You need to marry, and soon.”

“Dammit, I know. It’s only been three days since this exploded, Fitz! And things have become…complicated.”

From the way Fitz looked, Ash suspected his friend knew the complication he meant. “Look, draw off Damaris Myddleton for a few days. She’s stalking me like a lynx, and if I give in to my irritation, it won’t pave the way to a good marriage.”

“If she has any spirit, it won’t pave the way to marriage at all. Which might be a good thing.”

“Title for wealth is a fair trade. I mean her no harm.”

Fitz shook his head. “Go to bed. You must have been having a trying time. It will look different in the morning.”

Ash drained his glass. “I’m not sure that would be a blessing.”

He was weary, however, he who sometimes danced or gamed through the night. He rose and began to undress.

“By the way,” said Fitz, “what happened to Molly’s baby?”

“Oh, it’s here. In the Malloren nurseries. We’re all one big happy family.”

Fitz slid lower in his chair, laughing.

G
 enova spent long hours of the night reliving kisses and trying to think of ways to sort out Ash’s problems. She tried to be objective, but monkeylike, her mind took its own ways, throwing up scenarios in which the solution was to marry him.

She woke, poorly rested, trying to remember the folly of locking herself in a cage with a wolf. He wasn’t unwilling, though—that was the frustrating part.

He believed he needed to marry money to carry out his duties. How true was that? She lay there, going round and round this. The reality was that poverty bred poverty, and wealth bred wealth. But hard work and talents succeeded, too.

Did she have any talents to put against a fortune? She still winced at the memory of talking about sheep’s eyes.

She thought at first that the noise was a dream. Then she realized there really was loud singing and bell ringing outside the window.

“What…?”

Grumbling, she climbed out of bed, thankful that Thalia was a little deaf and hadn’t been disturbed. She pulled her robe around her and peered around the edge of the window curtains. Countrypeople, some in strange costumes, seemed to be marching around the house in a long procession, ringing bells and singing. As she made but the words, she realized they were wishing the household a merry Christmas—and begging for pennies.