The Unthinkable (25 page)

The answer how had come to her as she searched the ball for Fanny, seeking an explanation for her enigmatic comment about Lizzie. Fanny had vanished, but the remembrance of her unexpected anger had not. Anger that gave her the kernel of an idea.

Genie moved the single flame of the small lamp from her bedside table to her desk and sat down to write. The damning words flowed with surprising ease from her pen. When she’d finished her letter she climbed into bed and forced her eyes closed.

The fractured dreams of a simple country girl had finally been put to rest. There would be no fairy-tale ending for Eugenia Prescott. It was up to her to squeeze whatever she could from a deplorable situation. Huntingdon had made himself her only choice, so she’d take what she could before it was gone.

This time when the images assailed her she no longer tried to separate the emotions. Love. Hate. In this case, they were hopelessly entwined.

“Ooh, Mother,” the young woman whispered none-too-softly to her companion as they swept through the narrow entrance of Madame Devy’s modiste shop on Bond Street. “Look, it’s her! The one who’s to marry the duke. Just wait until I tell Sophie, she’ll be positively green with envy.”

Genie, the object of such rude consideration, had to stifle a giggle as she watched the two women navigate their enormous ostrich plumed turbans through the treacherously low doorway. If the appalling manners had not given the girl away, Genie thought, the slightly garish ensemble pegged her as part of the rich new merchant class—the nouveau riche.

Genie winced at her own snobbery. Obviously, she’d been around the nobility for too long, she was beginning to think like one of them. It had only taken her a quick glance to recognize the subtle distinctions that branded the newcomers as of the merchant class: one too many accessories, jewelry better suited to the evening, gowns too bold in color and style. A little
too
everything.

It was the difference between arrogance of birth and arrogance of fortune. In America it had been different. Very different. Though she’d admired the way a man could improve himself irrespective of the class to which he was born, she’d missed the inherent protections offered by gentle birth and station. In Boston it had been what you know, not who you know, and Genie had suffered for it.

“Hush,” quieted the second woman in an even louder voice. “She’ll hear you.”

As she’d done hundreds of times that past week, Genie pretended not to notice the unabashed attention her appearance aroused. She couldn’t go anywhere without speculative whispers and sly glances following her every move.

The small, inconspicuous announcement in the
Times
had not escaped the eagle eyes of the ton, or the middle class for that matter. Indeed, those who still remained in town for the little season could hardly speak of anything else. The betrothal of the relatively unknown Mrs. Preston to the Duke of Huntingdon—one of the highest-ranking bachelors in the land—rather than to the Earl of Hawkesbury as everyone had supposed, had even the most disciplined tongues wagging.

Speculation about her origins abounded. Genie had (mostly) turned a deaf ear to the rumors, but she knew it was only a matter of time before she was identified as Miss Eugenia Prescott from Thornbury. A girl who’d disappeared years ago under suspicious circumstances. Admittedly, after fearing discovery for so long, all the attention made her uneasy. If it wasn’t for having to face the Duchess of Huntingdon, she might almost be relieved to be leaving for the country in a few days.

The prospect of marriage to the Duke of Huntingdon, and subsequent connection to the Duchess of Huntingdon, had become no more palatable one week later than it had been the day the ultimatum was issued. Genie still didn’t know how she would handle seeing the woman who’d stolen so much from her.

Eager to escape the latest set of boldly prying eyes, she returned her attention to the fabric. Genie quickly made a decision, choosing the black braid rather than the gold. The selection of trim for her new riding habit completed her last-minute trousseau, such as it was. Before he’d left for Donnington, Huntingdon had opened accounts for her up and down Bond Street, insisting that she purchase at least a few gowns befitting a soon-to-be duchess. Always fond of fashion, Genie had hardly objected. She’d take her pleasure where she could. Running her fingers along the plush velvet of the outrageously expensive gown, the beginnings of a naughty smile curved her lips. For forcing her into this marriage, he’d be lucky if she didn’t beggar him before she was done with him.

Genie suddenly frowned. Huntingdon had intruded on her thoughts far too often this week. She couldn’t forget how he’d made her blood pound with desire. How his lips had felt on hers. How his hands had felt across her body. Nor could she forget his cruel ultimatum.

She had not yet set her plans in motion. The letter was tucked away in a safe place only waiting until the vows had been performed. But was that all that was holding her back? At times she wondered whether she was doing the right thing. She had much to lose. But then she remembered his reaction to her scandalous past, and her resolve strengthened. Enough remained of the boy who had abandoned her in the face of society’s censure.

Straightening her back, Genie ignored the continued whispering behind her. Her companion, however, did not. Lady Hawkesbury’s mild annoyance when the ladies entered the shop quickly turned to fury at their continued rudeness. With a regal turn of her head, she bestowed a withering glare upon the gossiping women that immediately halted all conversation.

As the ladies cautiously approached, Lady Hawkesbury turned her back in a direct cut and said firmly, “I think we’re finished here.” To Madame Devy she said, “We shall take the blue silk with us. Please have the rest sent to Hawkesbury House in the morning.” Two choking sounds of horror emitted from the turbaned women as they realized the identity of the important woman whom they’d offended. Lady Hawkesbury continued as if she had not heard, but Genie noticed a small, satisfied smile turn her lips. “Will that be sufficient time, Madame?”

The tiny Frenchwoman flashed a shrewd look of understanding to Lady Hawkesbury. “Of course, my lady,” Madame Devy assured her, her heavy French accent adding to her cache as one of the most fashionable modistes in town. “The other gowns are ready; Cosette will begin the trim for the habit immediately.”

“Cosette” was no more French than she, Genie thought with amusement. Though she’d spoken only a few words, Genie had detected a trace of Yorkshire in the blond, pink-cheeked girl’s speech. But despite the war with Napoleon, there was still a bias toward French-made fashion.

“Then we will take our leave. Thank you, Madame,” Lady Hawkesbury said graciously. She motioned to Genie as if shuffling her under her protective wing, “Come along, dearest.”

Genie allowed herself to be ushered to the door. Lady Hawkesbury’s continued defense of Genie moved her greatly, especially in light of the recent turn of events. Disappointed but hardly surprised by the news of Genie’s engagement to Huntingdon, more than anything, Lady Hawkesbury had voiced her deep concern. She seemed to truly want Genie to be happy. Perhaps due to her own experience, she sensed that all was not right between Genie and Huntingdon and it worried her. With good reason.

Telling Edmund had been far worse. A chill shivered along her spine with the memory. He hadn’t argued, but listened to her explanation with a dreadfully blank expression on his face. It had been a terrifying side of him that she’d never before witnessed. It was the face of a man stripped of the social conventions that kept him civilized. Like an avenging warrior without the mantle of honor that kept him in check, he was left with the cold, dangerous fury of hatred and the urge to kill. In fact, he’d meant to. To prevent him from riding out to challenge Huntingdon, she’d been forced to remind him of his own foul play in this farcical drama playing out among them.

She winced. The guilt that had replaced the fury on his face had not been pleasant, but it had achieved the objective of cooling his anger.

Genie knew that she’d hurt him. Yet surprisingly, he too seemed to almost have expected it. True to his honorable form, Edmund did not abandon her, insisting on traveling with her to Donnington in case she needed him or changed her mind. And in the end it was Edmund who suggested that Lady Hawkesbury stay on as Genie’s chaperone. They would all make the trip to Donnington together.

Breezing past the two chastened magpies, they were about to exit when two more ladies entered the already crowded shop. Crammed together in the tiny vestibule there was no way to avoid a greeting.

The first woman was perhaps in her fiftieth year and quite rotund. In stark contrast to her well-lined face, her hair was tinted a rather unnatural shade of auburn and curled girlishly at the temples from under a wide gypsy bonnet. Unfortunately, her significant girth blocked Genie’s view of her companion. Genie didn’t know her, but the woman’s eyes lit with excitement as she caught sight of the countess.

“Lady Hawkesbury, how good to see you.”

Lady Hawkesbury visibly relaxed and returned the enthusiastic greeting in kind. “Lady Castleton, I had no idea you’d returned to town. I’d thought you were visiting your son at his estate in Scotland.”

“We’ve only just returned,” Lady Castleton explained. “I insisted that my new daughter accompany me to town.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “It’s not good for a young woman to be rusticating in the wilds of Scotland for too long. Heaven knows what might happen.” Continuing in a louder voice she asked, “Do you recall my son’s wife, the Viscountess Castleton?”

“Of course,” Lady Hawkesbury said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, my dear.”

The younger woman stepped forward and curtsied. “Lady Hawkesbury, how kind of you to remember our previous meeting.”

It was the melodious sing-song of the voice that immediately gave her away. Genie gasped with sudden recognition.

The younger woman turned at the strangled sound and their eyes met.

Caro’s hand went to her mouth, dumbfounded. “Genie?” she whispered hollowly. “Eugenia Prescott?” she repeated a little louder. “Is it really you?”

Before Genie had a chance to say anything, she found herself the recipient of a most exuberant embrace that cut off her ability to form a reply.

“But how?” Caro asked, bewildered. “When did you return?” She broke the bear hug and extended her arms, holding Genie away from her, staring as if she could not believe her to be real. “What happened to you? Where did you go?” Her lips pursed. “And why did you not write?”

Apparently taking note of the enthralled audience of two watching the reunion with blatant interest, Lady Hawkesbury interceded. “I see you are acquainted with Mrs. Preston, Lady Castleton?”

“Mrs. Preston?” Caro echoed, even more awestruck. Before Genie could alert her to hold her tongue, Caro blurted, “The Mrs. Preston who is to marry the Duke of Huntingdon?”

With a quick glance to the turbaned pair—who were still watching shamelessly—Genie wobbled a smile and nodded. She knew her time for anonymity had just run out. The news of her identity would be all over town before nightfall. The connection with her past had been made. Now the only question was whether the wall of lies she’d built would be strong enough to protect her? At least until she was married.

Caro finally noticed the furtive glances Genie took at the other occupants of the store and halted her steady barrage of questions.

Lady Hawkesbury took control of the situation. “Why don’t you join us for tea at Hawkesbury House and we can discuss all that has transpired since you two lost touch? Shall we say four o’clock?”

Her explanation to Caro would have to wait, but Genie knew the damage was already done. The connection with Huntingdon and her disappearance from Thornbury would be made. And this time, she was not to blame.

Dawn broke just over the horizon. Taking a jump across the ha-ha that bordered his estate, Huntingdon reined in his mount and paused, savoring the quiet beauty of the soft morning light cascading across the lands held by his family for centuries. Donnington Park, the country seat of the Duke of Huntingdon, loomed in the distance like a majestic fortress rising high above a grass-covered moat. The castle that had once stood on the same spot now faded into the mists of distant memory.

This picturesque approach from the south was his favorite. A magnificent stone arch marked the beginning of a long path that meandered through gracious woodlands, over a stone temple bridge, and up the rolling grass-covered hills of the broad carriage sweep. More than three hundred acres of gardens and parklands had been meticulously designed in the later half of the last century by Capability Brown to appear as nature—were it as talented as Mr. Brown—indubitably intended.

When his gaze turned back toward the house, his chest swelled with not a small amount of pride. With the renovations finally completed, Donnington Park was breathtaking. Of classical design and equal proportions, the house comprised the best of Burlington’s and Kent’s Palladianism. The clean lines of the limestone walls that flanked a large central portico formed a gracious façade interspersed with scores of large Venetian windows, pediments, and columns.

Most of the structural improvements were to the interior, but the crowning glory of the project was the domed conservatory opposite the south hall. It was an architectural masterpiece that complemented the existing building to stunning perfection. By any standard, Donnington was a grandiose estate fit for a king.

Satisfaction must have shown on his face.

“The house looks magnificent, lad. And the estate has never been more productive—or profitable.”

Huntingdon turned to Mr. Stewart, his estate manager and his father’s before him. He grinned sheepishly, feeling like he’d been caught admiring himself in a mirror. “Aye, it’s magnificent,” he agreed, lapsing into the comfortable vernacular of his boyhood. His father had shown a marked prejudice for hiring Scots. So much so that sometimes Huntingdon felt he had been raised in the wilds of the Highlands. Enabling him, at the very least, to turn a decent brogue.