Jo Beverly (35 page)

He swept plums off his face. “Genova—”

She scooped out soft butter and threw. “Canker!” Cream. “Dunghill cock!” A jug of ale. “Strutting capon!”

“Capon!” he roared and threw himself at her so they tumbled squishily to the floor in the doorway.

She wriggled free because of a lucky elbow to the nose and pulled off the ring. As he scrambled up, she hurled it at him. “Gilded popinjay. Take back your vile diamond!”

They certainly had a fine audience, and despite a broken heart, Genova was enjoying herself.

She ran into the hall and saw an almost empty dish of sugarplums. She tossed the contents, frosting him with sugar. Then she grabbed a basket of walnuts and pelted him with them, one after another as he kept coming after her, undeterred.

When she ran out of nuts she looked for more missiles and realized she’d made a tactical error. He had her trapped near the fire and the
presepe
. When he lunged and grabbed her, she couldn’t escape.

She tried to wrench free back in the direction of food, but he cinched her to him unbreakably, her back to him. “Damn you, woman, I love you! Only you!”

“To hell with that!”

“To hell together, then.” Close to her ear, he hissed, “Break up over Damaris, dammit, and I’ll have to marry her!”

That fueled true fury. Genova bent forward, then swung back hard, connecting with his jaw. He cursed and his grip loosened. She ripped free and ran for the food. She turned back swinging a large ham bone.

He went down on one knee, stained, messy, and gorgeous, holding out the diamond ring. “Sweet Genni, forgiving Genni, redoubtable Genni. Marry me? Don’t hold my stupid words against me. It’s not really my fault if you turn me into a gibbering idiot.”

It was like running aground on hidden rocks. Distantly, Genova heard the dowager cry, “
Ashart
!” and Miss Myddleton shouting something.

Genova’s attention was all on him. “What?”

“I love you, Genni, I adore you, and I want to marry you. I need to marry you. You’re my sanity, my anchor, my balance on the edge. I was trying to find the right words earlier when my grandmother arrived.”

Genova looked around at the shocked but entertained guests.

Damaris Myddleton, seething, was locked in Mr. Fitzroger’s arms, presumably to stop her joining the fray. The Dowager Lady Ashart stood stock-still, glaring as if she wished she were the Gorgon and could turn Genova to stone.

It was also as if she was daring Genova to say yes.

Genova turned back to Ash, happiness bursting out in a laugh of delight. “Yes, Ash, beloved, I’ll marry you. But please, not that ring!”

“No!” cried Miss Myddleton. “He’s
mine
!”

Genova didn’t take her eyes off Ash’s brilliant, joyful face. He rose, pocketing the ring. “You see, you’re my wisdom, too. But,” he said, taking her into his arms, “I am
not
a capon.”

She smothered laughter in his sugary shoulder. “I know that.” She wove her arms around his neck, and they kissed slowly, gently, a sweet promise of a lifetime of heady delights.

But then a voice spoke, mildly but firmly. “Ashart.”

With a wry expression, Ash turned to his grandmother. Perhaps governed by tact, their audience was dispersing, chattering. Genova couldn’t see Damaris Myddleton. She felt rather sorry for her rival, for Damaris had not only lost, but mortified herself before everyone.

Only Rothgar remained.

Ash kept Genova’s hand in his as they walked over to the apparently calm old woman. Her eyes were not calm at all, however, unless ice is calm.

“A word with you, Ashart. Rothgar, provide us with a room.”

“Follow me, Grandmother.”

Genova saw the old lady’s face pinch as if she’d like to disavow the relationship, but she turned and marched after him. Genova and Ash followed.

This would not be pleasant. Lady Ashart intended to fight. Genova would give as good as she got. She would not let the old tyrant cause Ash any more pain.

Rothgar opened the door to a room Genova hadn’t previously seen. It was of modest size, and gloomy for lack of windows, though one wall hung with heavy curtains.

“This is the Garden Room,” Rothgar said. “The curtains conceal doors leading to a conservatory. Pleasant in summer, chilly in winter, even with the fire.”

He touched a taper to the fire and lit candles, making the room brighter, though nothing could brighten the atmosphere.

He left and the dowager sat like a queen on a throne, still in her hat and rich, blue cloak. “Only you, Ashart, could have three women fighting over you.”

“Three?”

“Lady Booth Carew. You denied ruining her, too.”

“I did not get her with child, Grandy. The proof of that is on the premises, if you doubt my word.”

The dowager’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t challenge him. “You won’t get an admission of guilt from her. She’s gone abroad.”

“What?”

“She’s married an Irishman called Lemoyne who has business in the West Indies, and gone there with him. I heard the story from Lady Dreyport in London en route here.”

Ash and Genova shared a look. The final piece. Somewhere late in her venture, Molly Carew had met a rich man who would marry her and even take her away from the scandal she’d brought on herself. But she’d needed to get rid of the baby, and had done it as a final, spiteful slash without a thought to Sheena and her child.

Genova hoped Molly Carew got what she deserved in life.

“Which leaves you,” the dowager said, as if Genova wasn’t present, “free to marry Miss Myddleton. I see that you care for another, but it will not do. I gather she has nothing.”

“She has herself.”

“Feeble nonsense, and Miss Myddleton has a prior claim.”

“If you made promises on my behalf, you had no authority to do so. I intend to marry Genova.”

He spoke calmly, but Genova felt the tension in him.

The dowager stiffened. “Against my wishes?”

“If necessary, yes.”

It was as if all stood still. Genova was astonished to hear a clock daring to tick.

“Then I will leave your house and never speak to you again.”

Genova felt Ash’s hand clench on hers, but nothing in his voice betrayed him when he said, “That is neither my wish nor Genova’s, Grandy, but we cannot stop you.”

The old mouth tightened. Then tears glistened.

Genova went to her knees beside the dowager. “Oh, my lady, don’t. Ash doesn’t need to marry money. He can put food on the table and coals in the hearth. We can build. Together we can build fortune and family.”

“With
what
?” the dowager spat. “You can hardly be a credit to him at court!”

“There is more to the world than court!”

Ash raised Genova, perhaps moving her out of range. “Grandy, Genova’s right. I intend to build up the estates in many ways. There are fortunes to be made through trade.”

“
Trade
!” It was a snarl of outrage.

“Even the Duke of Bridgewater is repairing his fortunes with canals to ship his coal. Rothgar has given me advice, and Bryght Malloren—”

The old woman surged to her feet. “
What?
Never! Do you want to drive me into my grave?”

Genova thought it was a dangerous possibility and welcomed a knock on the door. When had Ash sought
this advice from Rothgar? It had to have been this morning, and she realized, happiness blooming from bud to perfect flower, it had been part of his decision to marry her, long before things exploded.

Mr. Fitzroger came in, carefully expressionless, though he surprised Genova by winking at her. He had Lady Augusta’s journal, and he gave it to Ash, then left.

Ash coaxed his grandmother back into her chair and put the book on her lap. “That’s Aunt Augusta’s journal, written during her marriage. I’ve read it. It leaves no doubt in my mind that whatever drove her to murder, it wasn’t the Mallorens.”

“Forgery!” she snapped, but she gripped the book written by her youngest child.

“Book, writing, and style match the earlier journals at Cheynings.”

“And it paints a picture of an idyllic marriage?” The curl of the dowager’s lip showed that she knew better.

“It paints a picture of a girl too young to be married, too young to be a mother. Perhaps in time she would have been ready, but she wasn’t when she wrote that.”

“You’re speaking of a person you never knew. She was sweet, innocent, unspoiled.”

Ash didn’t contradict her.

“It was the perfect match!” the dowager protested. “He was handsome and good-humored, and would be a marquess. She wanted it.”

Again Ash didn’t speak, and Genova gripped her hands to force her own silence. She recognized that the dowager would listen to no one but might come to express the truth herself.

“Are you saying I was wrong to arrange it?” the old woman demanded, lines seeming deeper in her face. “How could I have known how it would be? I married at seventeen…”

“Perhaps you couldn’t have known,” Ash said gently, “but she did write pleas for help.”

So he’d read the letters.

“Megrims and moods. The next letter, she’d be like a lark.”

“Perhaps you read into her words what you wanted to.”

The dowager’s jaw set and she glared at him. “It is all my fault, then? Everyone else is a saint?”

He went down on one knee and took a clenched hand. “No one was a saint, but no one was a devil, either. Cry peace, my dear, and as Genova says, let us build.”

My dear
. Only the worst families have no happy memories, and this was not the worst family. There must have been many happy times.

“You expect me to turn my gown and dig potatoes?” the dowager grumbled.

“An unlikely picture,” he said, laughter in his voice, “though you are equal to it. As I said, I have the offer of help and advice from the Mallorens, and I intend to take it. I intend to claim the rights of kinship.”

Genova winced at the ruthlessness of that, and the dowager’s nostrils flared. One hand formed a claw on the arm of her chair.

Perhaps she mellowed, or perhaps she recognized a will even stronger than her own, but she snapped, “I’m old! I’ve rattled through the night in our second-best carriage. I want hot tea and a warm bed!”

Ash looked up. “Genova?”

Grateful for escape, Genova left the room, wondering how a suitable room could be found in this full house, and what would happen next. She didn’t believe that the dowager would give up the fight so easily, and there were true grievances on the other side. The old woman had done her best to hurt the Mallorens.

Genova found Rothgar and Lady Arradale in the hall.

Hovering, one might even say.

“It’s going to be all right, I think,” Genova said, rather breathlessly. Reaction and bliss were taking their toll. She realized that she was also damp, sticky, and smelling of spiced plums.

She brushed at her bodice, but then gave up. “She
wants tea and a bed. The dowager, I mean. I think she intends to stay!”

Instead of looking shocked, they both smiled. The old lady was Lord Rothgar’s grandmother, but all the same, he and Lady Arradale showed noble forgiveness.

“She can have my room,” Lady Arradale said. “I’ll suffer in the cause and sleep with my husband.”

The look she shared with Lord Rothgar before hurrying away indicated that one or the other bed was often empty anyway.

Genova blew out a breath and looked around. “I’m sorry. We made rather a mess, and it’s the servants’ holiday.”

“If we were saints, we’d clean it up. As it is, I intend to leave it until tomorrow.”

Genova suspected that plums might damage the wood if left that long, and resolved to deal with it. She wouldn’t bother him with it, however. It wasn’t his mess.

“What happened to Miss Myddleton?” she asked.

“After Fitzroger prevented her from trying to tear you from Ashart’s arms? She fell into a fit, and is now lying down with a vinegar cloth on her head, recovering from a momentary dementia brought on by greensickness.”

“That won’t work, will it? So many heard her.”

“All Mallorens. They will be discreet.”

“I feel a little sorry for her. I think the dowager did tell her she was to be his bride.”

“I’m sure of it.”

“I’m surprised Miss Myddleton doesn’t want to flee the house.”

“She did. I persuaded her otherwise.”

She frowned at him. “Is that kind?”

“It’s necessary. When she appears composed, and accepts your betrothal, people will adjust their memory. However, Uncle Henry and Aunt Jane can’t be pleasant guardians. It’s not surprising if Miss Myddleton is desperate to marry. Matters must be better arranged.”

She gave him a look. “Ensuring that the world turns smoothly, my lord?”

He smiled. “It’s a fatal obsession, Miss Smith. You are warned. Which reminds me, I must go among my guests and make sure the gossip is already growing in the right direction.”

Genova watched him go upstairs, presumably to the drawing room, then turned her mind to cleaning. The nursery and schoolroom were deserted, and they would have the necessaries. She hurried up there and returned victorious with a bucket and cloths, having filled the bucket with her own used washing water.

Ingenuity could solve most problems.

She had to duck out of the way before descending the last stairs, however, because Ash was escorting his grandmother up them.

The dowager looked fierce and unhappy, but even so, her love for Ash was obvious, and Genova loved him even more for his kindness to the old dragon.

Once they’d passed, she hurried down and cleaned up the mess she’d created, grinning at the memories. Without the happy result, the fight would still be a memory she’d cherish. How could she have known how much fun it would be? How could she find an excuse to do it again?

She turned with the bucket to see Ash staring at her. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning up the mess we made.”

“There are servants…. No, not in this madhouse, of course. But really, Genni!”

She put down her bucket, eying him. “Am I not suited to be a marchioness, then?”

He came toward her. “You won’t trap me that way.”

She danced backward. “I was hoping for another fight.”