The Marrying Season (34 page)

As they ate, she flirted lightly with her husband, seizing any opportunity to lightly touch his arm or hand. She could see the signs of desire soften his features and darken his eyes, and though he did not respond to her subtle overtures, she was confident he was not immune to them. Her suspicion was confirmed when after supper, Myles immediately bolted to his club.

The next morning, wearing her dressing gown and with her hair hanging loose down her back, she intercepted Myles on his way to breakfast. His eyes flew to her hair, then to the neckline of her dressing gown, where the lapels joined, revealing the white cotton of her nightgown above it.

“I had Bouldin set up a breakfast room in here,” she told Myles cheerfully, taking his arm and sweeping him into the anteroom off the dining room. “ ’Tis so much cozier.”

She indicated the small room, now furnished with a round table set for two and a sideboard on which chafing dishes of food were lined up. “I hope you do not mind that I did not dress yet. It seemed all right since it would be just the two of us. I told Bouldin we would simply serve ourselves.”

He sank down into his chair without replying. Genevieve
fussed around him, laying his napkin across his lap, pouring his tea, then insisting on taking his plate and filling it with food. Setting the plate down in front of him, she leaned over, letting the loosely tied dressing gown gape open a bit, revealing a further glimpse of her nightgown and the shadowy valley between her breasts.

Myles remained unusually quiet throughout the meal, but Genevieve took up the slack, chatting away about her grandmother’s plans to marshal her forces over the next few days, calling on all her old friends and decrying the horrible wrong that had been done to “poor Genevieve.”

“I am so relieved that she feels I should not make calls just yet. It will give us plenty of time to keep watch over that newspaper. And this afternoon, I am going by the linen drapers to pick up some lawn and lace to have some nightshirts and chemises made. I scarcely had time to buy a trousseau before our wedding, you know.”

A glazed look came into Myles’s eyes, which Genevieve pretended not to notice, just as she made no comment when her leg accidentally brushed his beneath the small table, although she did have to look down to hide a little smile when he shifted restlessly in his chair for the third time that morning. Taking a final sip of her tea, she popped up and came around the table to lean down and kiss his temple lightly.

“Pray excuse me. I must run and dress so that we can go to
The Onlooker
.” She paused and turned back at the
door. “I quite like this room, don’t you? I think we should breakfast here every morning. So much more . . . intimate.”

Genevieve continued her bombardment of Myles’s defenses when they rode to the shop where
The Onlooker
was printed. In the close confines of the carriage, it was difficult for Myles to avoid looking at her, and the scent of her perfume subtly twined around him.

When the carriage came to a stop, Genevieve leaned across him to look out the window. “Which one is it?”

“That one with the gray door.” Myles edged closer to the wall of the carriage. “You can see they have the sheets posted on the window.”

“Oh, yes, I see it.” Genevieve casually put her hand on his thigh to balance herself. She felt his leg twitch beneath her hand, and a moment later he moved to the opposite side of the vehicle, leaving her the seat for herself. “You needn’t leave, Myles. There is plenty of room here.” She smiled at him, casually twining a lock of her hair around her finger.

“I am fine here,” he responded somewhat grimly. “I know how much you like to be alone.”

“Not always.” Genevieve gave him a long, slow smile before she turned away to watch the door across the street.

They stayed until close to noon, but no one they recognized came in or out. Finally Myles, who had been fidgeting on his seat off and on throughout their stay and had even once gotten out to take a brief walk, said, “I fear we are accomplishing little here. We might as well leave.”

“No doubt you’re right,” Genevieve replied agreeably. “Perhaps we’ll see something tomorrow.”

“Genevieve . . . I think this is a futile effort.”

“Still, we should give it a few more times. We’ve little else to go on. Do say you will come again.”

With something close to a groan, Myles nodded. “Yes, very well. We shall come again tomorrow.”

For the rest of the
week, Genevieve and Myles kept watch on the newspaper’s office. A few people went in and out, but no one of any interest appeared, and while the close confines of the carriage provided a wealth of opportunities to seduce Myles, Genevieve was beginning to think that she was tempting herself more than her husband.

She had altered her clothes and had new seductive undergarments made. But seductive nightgowns and chemises were useless if Myles never saw her in them. She had flirted with Myles shamelessly at every meal, letting no opportunity pass to lean in close or touch his arm or straighten his lapel. But though his skin might heat or his nostrils might flare at the scent of her perfume, he did not sweep her into his arms and carry her into the bedroom.

The man seemed to have a will of iron. Or perhaps—lowering thought—she simply did not appeal enough to him to lure him from his purpose. Worse, her conduct seemed to have caused Myles to avoid spending time at home. He bolted to his club every morning and did not return until it was time to dress for supper,
leaving Genevieve with far too much time to idle about the house alone. She recognized the irony that she, so intent on having a bedroom where she could be alone, now had the entire house to herself—and was miserable with it.

Late one afternoon, Genevieve drifted down the stairs, restless and bored. Myles was at his club, of course, and she had several hours to pass before the Dumbarton soiree, a social occasion so dull and sparsely attended that Genevieve’s grandmother had declared that Genevieve could go to it without stirring up controversy.

Boredom finally caused her to go in search of a book to pass the time, but as she started down the hall toward the library, her attention was caught by the sound of raised voices at the rear of the house. She turned back down the hall, and as she neared the butler’s pantry, she saw Bouldin in a heated conversation with a dour-looking, whipcord-thin man. The stranger was dressed in gentleman’s clothing, but he had a look about him that spoke of neither servant nor gentleman.

“Bouldin?” Genevieve said.

“My lady!” Bouldin pivoted toward her, his usually expressionless face filled with chagrin. “I beg your pardon. I told this fellow that Sir Myles was not at home, but he was most insistent. I suggested he leave a note for him.”

“Haven’t got a note with me, now do I?” the other man sneered. “And I know Thorwood will want to hear what I have to say, soon as possible.”

“Then why don’t you tell me what you have to say, and
I will inform my husband,” Genevieve suggested crisply. When the man stared at her suspiciously, she added, “You might start by telling me your name.”

“It’s Parker, ma’am. I was doing some work for your husband.”

“Parker!” Genevieve straightened. That was the name of the Bow Street runner Myles had employed. “Why don’t you come into Sir Myles’s study and tell me your news? You are right; he will wish to hear it straightaway.” As the man followed her down the hallway to the study, Genevieve added, “I believe you are acquainted with my brother, as well. Lord Rawdon.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve done a bit of work for him; he’s a fine gentleman.”

“I agree.” Genevieve sat down behind Myles’s desk and gestured toward Parker to take a seat across from her. “Now, do you have word of Mr. Langdon?”

As she had hoped, the mention of her brother and her knowledge of Myles’s business had put the runner’s mind at ease, for he said now, “I have Langdon himself.”

“What? Here? In London?”

“Yes, ma’am. I found him in Bath. Took me a bit of time ’cause I went to Brighton first, but when I couldn’t find him there, I tried Bath and there he was in the pump room, talking flummery to a couple of old ladies. I reckoned he’d be gone by the time I got word to you, and since Sir Myles wanted to question him, I thought I might as well bring him with me.”

“How very efficient of you.” She could understand
why her brother relied on the man. “Where is Mr. Langdon now?”

“In a mews not far from here. My cousin is head groom and he let me use a spare tack room. Won’t nobody notice him.”

“Good. I want you to take me to him.”

Parker shifted in his seat uneasily. “Now, ma’am, I don’t know as I ought to do that. Sir Myles might not like it.”

“I see little difference between a mews in London and the stables at Castle Cleyre, which I have been in any number of times. Is your cousin likely to accost me? Or allow his men to?”

“No!” Parker exclaimed indignantly.

“I assume the mews belongs to a respectable household.”

“Yes, of course, it’s not far from here. It’s just . . . well, if some harm should come to you . . .”

“You will be there to protect me from Mr. Langdon, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And I assume you must have him tied up or secured in some way or else he would escape.” Parker nodded. “Very well. I cannot see how I could possibly come to harm. I shall send a note round to my husband to meet us there, if you will but give me the address.”

She pulled a piece of notepaper from Myles’s desk and picked up a pen to write, and Parker gave in, telling her the address. Genevieve made short work of the note, giving Myles the news tersely, then rang for a footman, instructing him to track down Myles at his club.

“If he is not there, then you must hunt him down,” she added. “Now.” She turned to Parker. “Take me to Mr. Langdon.”

“Myles? Are you listening?”

“What?” Myles looked over Gabriel blankly. “Oh. I beg your pardon. No.” Gabriel rolled his eyes, and Myles sighed. “Devil take it. I fear I am no fit company today.”

“Today?” Gabriel asked, amusement bubbling in his voice. “My dear fellow, you have not been fit company for the better part of a week. Nay, longer than that—since you returned to London.”

It was true. Myles was distracted and fuzzy-headed, irritable and jumpy, prone to snap at everyone. It had reached the point where no one was willing to spar with him anymore. He caught the look of sympathy in Gabriel’s eyes and had to bite his tongue to keep from growling at him. He knew what Gabriel thought—that Myles was regretting his hasty marriage, that Genevieve was so shrewish and cold she was making him miserable, and Myles wanted to lash out at his friend for misjudging Genevieve.

Of course, he reminded himself gloomily, it
was
Genevieve’s fault . . . not that he could explain that to his friends. The bloody woman had declared war on him. There was no other word for it. For the past few days, she had seized every opportunity possible to tease and torment his senses. He was beginning to think that she hoped to drive him mad.

At the breakfast table, he found himself mesmerized, watching her bite into her toast, her teeth sinking into the golden-brown bread, and when she paused to lick a bit of marmalade from her fingers, it was all he could do not to grab her wrist and pull her over into his lap. She had made it even more unbearable by enclosing the two of them in that little breakfast room, without even a servant to distract them. But his torment extended far beyond meals. Whenever he was around her, her lavender perfume teased at his nostrils. He was aware of every movement she made, each rustle of her clothes. If he sat at a desk, she would lean down to talk to him, bracing her arm on the desk, so that he had a perfect view of her firm breasts. She had come down to the library last night to look for a book, wearing nothing but her nightgown. She had stood there, the lamplight behind her, outlining her body, and he had thought he would choke with lust for her.

Suddenly her clothes all seemed . . . barer. Her dresses fell more softly about her body, as though she wore fewer petticoats beneath them. The tiny cap sleeves barely covered her shoulders, and if she threw a light shawl around her, it soon slipped lower, exposing her arms bit by bit, until he could not tear his eyes away from its progress. The luscious curve of her breasts swelled provocatively above the neckline. It was nothing more, of course, than what one saw on practically every other woman of the
ton,
and it was, indeed, a lovely sight.

Unless, of course, one was determined not to seek out her bed. Then it was ten kinds of hell.

It was his own fault for starting the whole thing. At the time, it had seemed a good idea, the perfect way to lure Genevieve into admitting her feelings for him. He wanted her to agree that theirs was no pale, bloodless relationship, no courteous union where each enjoyed one’s bed partner now and then and the rest of the time went one’s separate way. If he was being perfectly honest, he would admit that his pride—and perhaps more than that—had been hurt when she had declared she could easily forgo his bed. Surely there was nothing wrong with wanting one’s wife to actually be his wife. To be one with him.

He had known that his efforts to tempt her would push his own desire to the limits, but he had not been prepared for how deeply his hunger for her would gnaw at him. Nor had he foreseen that Genevieve, rather than quickly yielding, would turn the tables on him, stoking his fires with temptations of her own. It was becoming more and more difficult to remember what his original goal was. As the tension had built up explosively inside him, he could no longer maintain the importance of his position. All that kept him on his course, he suspected, was sheer bloody-mindedness.

Unfortunately, Genevieve possessed the same trait in equal measure. Perhaps more. The Staffords had, he recalled broodingly, always had been a remorseless lot.

“Sir Myles.”

He glanced up from his reverie and was startled to find one of his own footmen standing hesitantly behind the
club’s servant. Myles jumped to his feet, his pulse speeding up and his mind going immediately to Genevieve.