The Marrying Season (30 page)

Penelope was well aware that when she came into Genevieve’s bedroom each morning, Genevieve lay in her bed alone. Penelope would have heard the gossip in the servants’ dining room of the awkward conversations between the Thorwoods each night at supper or the way Myles had for a time rushed out of the house each morning to avoid breakfasting with his wife. Did they talk, too, of the more recent days, when Myles had taken up flirting and teasing her?
Had they seen the shockingly intimate manner in which he sometimes stroked her arm or shoulder or the way he would look at her while they talked, his gaze a heated caress?

“You look lovely tonight, my dear,” Myles said now, strolling over to stand behind her. Putting his hand on her shoulder, he met her eyes in the mirror. His mouth softened and his eyes darkened as he moved his hand across her shoulder and slid it ever so slowly down, edging under the lapel of her dressing gown. His skin was hot against hers, awakening each nerve as he glided over her. He held her gaze in the mirror as his fingertips curved over the soft top of her breast, and he smiled faintly, as if he knew how she was suddenly damp and throbbing, swelling in a fevered hunger for his touch.

Genevieve popped to her feet, turning away from him. “I can hardly look anything. I haven’t even dressed yet.”

His chuckle was low and breathy. “I noticed.”

Genevieve’s cheeks colored. “Oh, Myles, do go away. I have to get ready for the party.”

“Whatever you say, my dear.” His eyes danced as he bent to plant a soft kiss on her forehead. “I must get ready as well.”

He brushed another kiss on her lips. Suddenly his mouth returned, seeking and hot, his hands digging into her shoulders. Genevieve melted into him, letting the sweet taste of his lips overtake her, pulling her into that honeyed, shadowy world where nothing existed but him and the thrum of desire. He kissed her until she was trembling, desire pulsing deep inside her.

Myles lifted his head, gazing down into her face, his eyes dark and hungry. For an instant, they hung there, poised on the razor’s edge of desire. Then he tore his gaze away and stepped back and said hoarsely, “I had best go change or we shall be late.”

He strode out of the room, and Genevieve sank back onto her chair, her knees too weak for her to stand.

The Hemphursts’ home was ablaze
with lights as Genevieve and Myles stepped down from their carriage. Genevieve’s breath hitched a little as they started forward. It had never been easy for her to walk into a room full of people, but it had lately become an ordeal. Her marriage might not be smooth, but she was grateful to have Myles by her side, as he had been each time they went out. It was easier to brave the curious stares with his arm firm beneath her hand.

She was not surprised to find the whispers and stares more plentiful tonight. No doubt most of them had read about her scandalous run through the streets of the city the other day, and even if they had not, someone who had read it would have spread the word to them. It was too delicious a bit of gossip to pass up.

Genevieve kept her head high as they greeted their hostess, then made their way across the room, pausing now and then to chat so they would not appear to be doing exactly what they were: escaping to the dance floor. They moved out onto the floor as the strains of a waltz started, and Genevieve relaxed in the familiar circle of
Myles’s arms. She smiled, recalling exactly why she had always loved to dance with him. The strain between them vanished as they swept around the room, and when the dance ended, Genevieve scarcely noticed the whispers that followed them as they made their way through the crowd to where Genevieve’s grandmother and Damaris sat, Alec standing like a watchdog beside his wife.

Damaris popped up to greet them warmly, though Alec frowned pointedly at Genevieve.

“Damaris. Alec.” Genevieve nodded hello and launched into her rehearsed speech. “I apologize for my thoughtless behavior the other day. I should have thought before I pulled Damaris into such a venture.”

Damaris immediately began to protest, and even Alec relaxed into a smile. “No doubt, but if I know my wife, it was more likely she who pulled you into the venture, not the other way around.”

“Actually, I think we should put all the blame on Thea, as she is not here to contradict us,” Damaris said, grinning.

“You are all three very naughty young women,” their grandmother said, settling the matter. “But there is no irreparable harm. Now sit down, Genevieve, I am tired of craning my neck to speak to you.”

Genevieve obediently sat beside her grandmother as Alec took his wife out onto the dance floor. “Oh, drat!” Lady Rawdon muttered. “Here she is again. I vow, she must have been watching for you.”

Genevieve looked up and saw Lady Dursbury bearing
down upon them, smiling, towing an obviously reluctant Miss Halford with her.

“I cannot understand that woman’s obsession with you. I never saw any evidence of her peculiar affection for you when you were engaged to her stepson.”

“Her obsession is on another, I suspect,” Genevieve said caustically as Elora smiled dazzlingly at Myles.

“That neckline is perilously low,” the countess went on. “Though I have to admit the gold is lovely with her hair.”

“Yes,” Genevieve agreed. Elora’s full breasts swelled above her gown, quivering with every step she took, drawing the eye of every man she passed. “She has excellent taste.”

In both clothes and men.

Elora swooped up, bending down to greet the seated countess. Genevieve noted cynically that she stayed in that position far longer than necessary, allowing Myles an excellent view down the front of her dress. Genevieve could not bring herself to look over to see whether he was taking advantage of the pose.

“Dear Countess,” Elora was effusing. “You remember my ward and friend, Miss Halford, don’t you? Say hello to the countess, Iona.”

The young woman made a creditable curtsy to Genevieve’s grandmother. With her mouse-brown hair and gray eyes, she was not the sort to ever draw the eye, but next to Elora’s colorful good looks, she faded almost into invisibility. Genevieve felt a pang of pity for the girl until Iona sent Genevieve a distinctly hostile glance.

“And Lady Genevieve.” Elora sat down on the other side of Genevieve, edging herself into the space between Genevieve and Myles so that he had to move over to allow her to sit. “Everyone is making such a to-do over that article in
The Onlooker
. As if that scandal sheet were of any importance. When Lady Hoddington told me it said you had been running through the streets, I told her straight out that it was utter nonsense. Didn’t I, Iona?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Iona responded coolly.

“I could not persuade her, of course.” Elora waved her hand as if casting that memory aside. “People will believe what they want to. So many seem to love to gloat over one’s mistakes. But it will pass, you needn’t worry, Genevieve.”

“I am not worried,” Genevieve replied calmly.

“I hope you were not bothered by the article, Sir Myles.” Elora looked up coquettishly at him.

“I pay no attention to such things,” Myles said. “I have complete confidence in my wife’s character.”

“How charming!” Elora clasped her hands together at her bosom, a movement that shoved her breasts together and up so that they seemed in imminent danger of spilling out. “That is so like you, sir. I vow, Genevieve, you are the envy of every lady in London.”

“No doubt,” Genevieve responded drily.

Elora went on, “I was so pleased when I saw you. I had been afraid you would let the rumors keep you away.”

“Why would I? Like my husband, I pay no attention to the scandal sheets.”

“You are so advanced in your thinking,” Elora marveled. “I fear most ladies do not possess your . . . courage.”

“Is it cowardice to have a care for one’s good name?” Iona asked.

“Iona, dear, be a love and fetch my wrap, would you?” Elora watched her companion leave, then turned back to Genevieve with a smile. “You must not mind Iona, dear. I fear the poor thing always had a bit of a
tendre
for Lord Dursbury, and of course her hopes were dashed when he proposed to you. Oh, dear.” Elora made a little shocked face, pressing her hand to her lips. “I should not speak of such things in front of Sir Myles.” She cast a sly glance up at Myles.

When she got no response from that quarter, Lady Dursbury went on without missing a beat. She launched into how excellent the orchestra played and how much she loved to dance, sighing over Sir Myles’s skill as a dance partner and giving other such broad hints until at last Myles succumbed to the pressure and asked Elora to dance.

“She is even worse than I remember,” Genevieve’s grandmother said. “I would have thought that was impossible.”

“I suppose she felt she had to be more polite because I was engaged to her stepson,” Genevieve said, watching as Myles guided the attractive woman around the floor. His face was attentive, his smile charming, and Genevieve could not help but wonder if he looked any different when he danced with her. Did every woman who
danced with him feel he gave her his undivided attention? Did his eyes light with warmth and laughter, his smile quirk up at whatever amusing thing she said? Worse, did he enjoy holding Elora in his arms more than he enjoyed Genevieve?

A cold fist clutched her heart. She tried to look at them objectively. They made a lovely couple, Genevieve had to admit. And Elora would be a soft, desirable armful—all curves and admiring smiles. Myles had never seemed particularly interested in the woman, but Genevieve knew she was no expert in such matters. She had, after all, believed that Myles had desired her as much as she desired him, that he, too, had been swept away when they made love.

But then it turned out that he found her cold, selfish, and proud.

Genevieve turned to talk to her grandmother, ignoring the dancers. But when the music stopped, she could not keep from sneaking a glance back at the floor. Bright pain shot through her as she watched Myles walking with Lady Dursbury in the opposite direction.

“Thank goodness,” her grandmother said in heartfelt relief. “Sir Myles has the good sense to escort that woman to some other spot than here. I think I would have had to leave if he brought her back to us.”

Perhaps that really was what he was doing—making sure that Elora would not again intrude on Genevieve and her grandmother. Still, Genevieve could not help but wonder if his real reason had simply been that he
preferred the other woman’s company to his wife’s. And though she did her best not to acknowledge it, relief rippled through her a few moments later when she saw Myles strolling back toward her.

At the beginning of the next waltz, he took her out on the floor again. Genevieve protested, “Really, Myles, this isn’t necessary. We have already waltzed.”

“It may surprise you to learn that I don’t dance with you out of necessity,” he retorted, taking her into his arms. “And I can waltz with you as often as I like now that I am your husband.” He looked down at her quizzically. “Do you not enjoy it?”

“I always enjoy dancing.”

“Ah, but do you enjoy dancing with me?”

“Are you fishing for compliments? You know you are an excellent dancer.”

“The question was not how well I danced, but whether you liked to dance with me.”

“Don’t be absurd. Of course I do.”

“Good.” His hand tightened on her waist, pulling her a little closer. “Because I like to dance with you.” He gazed down into her eyes warmly and intently. “I like holding you in my arms, warm and soft and yielding. Looking at you, so elegant and beautiful, knowing every man in the room envies me.”

“Really, Myles . . .” She glanced around, as if someone in the whirling crowd might overhear his words.

“I remember how it feels to remove your dress,” he went on, ignoring her protest. “Revealing you inch by
inch. How sweet it is to untie your ribbons and peel off your stockings, anticipating the moment when you are finally naked before me.”

“Myles!” Treacherous longing stirred in her. She was suddenly breathless and far warmer than she should be, and she suspected that her face was flaming. “This is hardly appropriate conversation for the dance floor.”

“I know.” He grinned. “I like that, as well. And I love knowing exactly how you look beneath that dress. The white perfection of your skin, the dark rose of your nipples. Those long, luscious legs and the treasure that waits for me between them.” The heat in his eyes made her tremble. “I think about the way you close your eyes in pleasure when I thrust into you, the little moan that you cannot quite hold back. The pink flush that blooms on your chest when you reach your peak.”

If her face had not been red before, she was certain it was now, though she was not entirely sure whether it was from embarrassment or arousal. A sweet ache was deep within her, a hunger brought to pulsing life by his words.

He leaned closer, murmuring, “And I also enjoying watching the blush that comes to your cheeks when I talk of making love to you.”

No adequate response came to Genevieve’s mind. The only thought she had, it seemed, was a lustful desire to pull him into some secluded room and wrap herself around him. How could he talk this way? Look at her as if he hungered for her, when just the other afternoon he had stormed at her for her cold nature? She knew she
could not trust his words. He was toying with her, using her desire to bring her to heel. The awful thing was, she was afraid he might succeed.

They did not stay long after that, and as they rode home, Genevieve struggled to bring her wayward nerves back under control, a difficult task with Myles’s eyes on her the whole trip. She could not read his expression in the dim light of the hackney, but it wasn’t difficult to guess that he was thinking the same sort of thoughts he had expressed during the dance. She had an ache within her that could be eased only by him. Lowering as it was to admit, she felt an almost desperate yearning for his touch. His kiss. His powerful body surging within her.

He took her hand to help her down from the carriage, and he kept it, lacing his fingers through hers as they walked up the steps into the house. When the footman opened the door, he let go of her hand, but only to slide his arm about her waist. It was inappropriate in front of the servants, but Genevieve made no protest. His hand was light against her side, drifting slowly upward as they climbed the stairs, until his fingers were almost touching the underside of her breast.