The Unthinkable (26 page)

“You’ve every right to be proud. I doubt the house looked this good even when it was first built. It was an enormous project to begin with and being forced into it in the middle… well, you proved your mettle in more ways than one. Not many about these parts thought you could do it.” It was the old man’s turn to look sheepish. “Myself included,” he admitted ruefully. “But you surprised me and I’m glad of it. Your father would be proud of you,” he added gruffly.

Coming from the taciturn Scot, this was high praise indeed.

At his father’s death, in addition to management of his other lands, Huntingdon had assumed management of the massive improvements at Donnington. Undertaking the huge responsibility was a major turning point in his life. The drive to prove himself after his mistake with Genie had forced him to face the difficulties of unexpectedly inheriting a dukedom rather than delegating the responsibility away. He was all too conscious of failing again. He’d let Genie down horribly. He would not soon forget the feeling of self-disgust that went along with knowing you failed someone who had relied upon you.

Genie. His thoughts never strayed far from his soon-to-be bride. He couldn’t help but wonder whether she would approve of her new home. And even more perplexing was the realization that her approval mattered. More than he wanted it to.

Nevertheless, right now, the old man’s comments pleased him. Greatly. To cover his embarrassment at the uncharacteristic praise, Huntingdon joked, “I’d begun to wonder whether we should build a new wing just to house all the workmen. Now that they’ve gone—I can’t believe I’m saying this—it seems almost too quiet.”

“Enjoy it while you can, laddie. Once you and that bonny lass of yours start filling this place with a screeching brood of bairns, you’ll long for a day of quiet.”

Children. The thought struck Huntingdon cold. Of course, children were a natural consequence of marriage—especially for a duke. But after the discovery of the child they’d already lost, Huntingdon had avoided any consideration of a family. With four younger brothers and two younger sisters, he already had enough young people to worry about. The thought of a child of his own was far too painful and reminded him of just how profound were the consequences of his mistakes.

“It will be quiet for some time yet,” Huntingdon evaded.

Stewart nodded in apparent understanding, though he had it all wrong. “You’ll want to have some time alone. But bairns have a way of sneaking up on you. Like the plague,” he murmured the last under his breath.

Huntingdon chuckled. “Said by the man with twelve—”

“Thirteen,” Stewart corrected with his broad chest puffed out like a pigeon.

“Forgive me,” Huntingdon bowed his head mockingly. “
Thirteen
children. With such a large number it’s difficult to keep them all straight,” he jested, though Stewart’s brood was as familiar to him as his own siblings.

“Don’t wait too long, lad. By the time I was your age I already had three strapping lads and a couple of lassies nipping at my heels.”

“You sound like my mother,” Huntingdon said, shaking his head. “Or I should say, like my mother
used to
sound.”

Stewart frowned. He hadn’t missed the bitterness in Huntingdon’s voice.

Not waiting for a reply, Huntingdon dismounted. His feet sunk in the spongy grass, the ground still saturated from the heavy rains of the past few days. He took a deep breath, taking in the clean, fresh scent of summer falling all around him. “I think I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

Handing the reins of his mount to a young groom who had accompanied them on their rounds of the estate, Huntingdon started toward the stream.

Not so easily dismissed, Stewart trotted up next to him on his horse. “Your mother is expecting you. With the guests arriving in a few days, and her so long from society, well… she’d never admit it, but she’s a mite uneasy.”

“My mother can wait.”

At Stewart’s sharp look of reproach, Huntingdon sighed. “I won’t be long.”

“She’s a stubborn woman, but your mother will come around, lad.”

Would she? Actually, his mother had taken the news of his upcoming marriage with surprising equanimity. Her comments on his upcoming nuptials happily brief. “So the pert chit has finally grasped her brass ring. Humph. I’d begun to wonder whether I’d judged her incorrectly.” He wondered what she meant by that but didn’t follow up. Her only comment thereafter was the sweet sound of silence. But perhaps that said the most of all.

“It matters not,” he said dismissively. The Duchess of Huntingdon’s opinion had long ago ceased to be relevant. Huntingdon had learned in the years since Genie’s ill-fated departure to make his own decisions—and more important, to hold to them. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that in this instance he’d made an ill-advised one. One that he couldn’t explain, even to himself.

Scandal, or the potential for scandal, was not an insignificant consideration to a man in his position. And his place as one of the highest-ranking peers in the realm had surprisingly—considering his irresponsible youth—become important to him. It wasn’t until he’d undertaken the responsibilities of Donnington and his six other estates that he’d fully understood what was required of him. He had a responsibility to his heirs and to the people who depended on him for their livelihood, to ensure the prosperity of the ducal lands for future generations.

Walking across the bridge, he began the long walk up the carriage sweep—doing his best to ignore the annoying clop of Stewart’s horse a few paces behind him. His mother was not the only stubborn person at Donnington.

He stopped short and spun around. “Don’t you have something to attend to?”

Stewart smiled, completely nonplussed. “Nothing that can’t wait, Your Grace.”

His brow jumped at that one. “Your Grace? Not lad or laddie? Since when do I merit ‘Your Grace’?”

Stewart looked properly offended. “Humph,” he grumbled. “With the house party and your new bride, I thought I’d do my best to make a good impression.”

Huntingdon threw his head back and laughed. “You don’t have a deferential bone in that mountainous body of yours. I thought men descended from kings didn’t bow to any other man—especially
English
men?”

“You’ll not mock the Bonnie Prince, lad,” Stewart said in hollowed tones.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You’ll have to explain to me someday how a good Tory like my father ever hooked up with a Jacobite Catholic Scot—second cousin twice removed from the ‘Bonny Prince’.”

Stewart shrugged. “We didn’t discuss politics.”

Huntingdon nodded. “Wise decision.”

Nothing could ruin a friendship faster than politics. That’s why the moderate position that he’d chosen to take was so precarious. He didn’t fit neatly into one camp—so neither side completely trusted him. Nominally a Tory, nevertheless Huntingdon was sympathetic to many of the republican causes. He’d worked hard over the past few years to earn the respect of both Tory and Whig members of the Lords and Commons. He didn’t want to lose it.

His own interests were varied. The increasing taxes to fund the war with Napoleon were an enormous burden to large landowners. Huntingdon had recognized the need to diversify his interests, to become less dependent on one source of income. So he’d begun to explore other alternatives to supplement his rental incomes. Mills, factories, and mines were the future. But recently there had been some unrest from workers in Nottinghamshire that concerned him. He nearly chuckled again, thinking about what his mother’s reaction to his plans might be. News of his intention to go into “the trade” might be sufficiently alarming to distract his mother from the blow of marrying so far beneath him.

“Your father was never the politician that you are. He hadn’t the stomach for it.”

“I’m not sure I do either,” Huntingdon admitted ruefully.

“You have an easygoing charm that he never had. People like you. It will serve you well.” He paused, glancing at Huntingdon’s broad grin. “Wipe that smirk off your face, lad. I didn’t say that
I
think you’re charming. I know you too well.”

Huntingdon placed his hand over his chest. “You wound me.”

Stewart scoffed and muttered something under his breath that sounded remarkably like “conceited fool” before he continued. “Mark my words, lad. You’ll go as high as you dare climb. The only limit is your own ambition.”

Right now, all Huntingdon wanted was a cabinet post. A position in Prime Minister Spencer Perceval’s government would help ensure the future prosperity of his estates. And it was nearly his. But even the smallest whiff of scandal could crush his hopes.

So why Genie? His position demanded caution in his choice of a wife. Why risk his future? He didn’t know why—just that he had to. Despite the risks. He knew that the ton would discover that Genie was the same girl he’d courted all those years ago—at some point someone was bound to recognize her. He supposed it was too much to hope that his choice of bride would not be remarked upon.

But he’d make damn sure that the rest of Genie’s past remain where it was, or his own ambitions, the future prosperity of his lands, the duty he owed to his heirs, could well be placed in jeopardy.

Ties he’d been fostering for years would be cut without thought.

It wasn’t just his political future at stake. Truth be told, he rather liked his place in society and didn’t relish living as an outcast—even if it was within the luxurious walls of Donnington Park. Walls that they were now approaching.

At last Stewart rode off toward the stables, leaving Huntingdon alone to face his mother. Bloody coward, he thought with disgust. Removing his hat and gloves, he started up the stairs. A line of liveried footmen suddenly appeared out of nowhere to greet him. A skill that never ceased to amaze him. As a boy he’d tried to surprise them, but the servants had a mysterious system that he’d never been able to unlock.

There was no mystery he’d rather unlock right now than the one of Genie. He’d gone over their conversation countless times in his head and knew he was missing something important. Genie had never really answered him about why she was residing in a brothel. Once they were married, he’d have the truth from her about what happened in America and do whatever was necessary to make sure all trace of her stay was erased. His own feelings on the matter, he would sort out later.

He wasn’t proud of his conduct in forcing marriage upon her, but he didn’t have time to find a more delicate alternative. The wisest course would have been to step aside and allow her to marry Edmund. For an instant, when Edmund had told him where he’d found her, Huntingdon had thought about it. But something—shame? guilt? remorse? passion?—prevented him from heeding his voice of caution. He’d searched for her for so long hoping for a chance to remove the stain upon his honor, that giving up had become unthinkable.

He’d just do his damnedest to ensure that the truth about her “husband” and her temporary residence in a brothel—whore or not—were never discovered.

Or Huntingdon would find himself ruined right alongside his reluctant bride.

Nothing like the intrusion of a little reality to shatter the perfection of a peaceful morning. He flipped his gloves to a footman and stomped into the house, barely heeding the trail of muddy footprints quickly mopped up behind him.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” his mother rebuked the instant Huntingdon entered the blue drawing room. “I’ve just received a most informative correspondence from Lady Davenport.”

The Duchess of Huntingdon stared at him expectantly, but Huntingdon didn’t bite. Seated at a small writing desk, gowned head to toe in her usual black, his mother appeared very old and very frail. He ignored the unwelcome twinge of sympathy and poured himself a cup of strong coffee from the sideboard. He wouldn’t feel sorry for his mother. Not after what she had done to Genie. To him. To their child. So pointedly, he took a seat on a small sofa with his back angled rudely away from her.

“Well, don’t you want to hear what it said?”

Huntingdon shrugged, indifferent. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

She made a small sound of annoyance. “Apparently the whole city knows of your plans to marry.”

“I did post an announcement in the
Times,
Mother.”

He heard the unmistakable rustle of silk skirts as she rose and walked toward him, placing herself in his direct line of sight.

“That’s not all.”

He took a long draw of the soothing black elixir, knowing very well that she was waiting. He forced himself to look at her. “I assumed it wasn’t.”

“Hyacinth writes that she cannot believe you did not tell her, but that she will hear the whole story from you when they arrive at Donnington for the house party.”

Puzzled, he met her gaze. She had his attention now.

“It appears that everyone knows that Mrs. Preston is none other than the girl you have been searching for, Miss Eugenia Prescott, formerly of Thornbury.”

“Damn,” he cursed, dropping the cup on the saucer; it landed with a sharp clatter. He’d hoped to have some time, some peace before that particular connection was uncovered.

Nonetheless, he brushed aside the momentary displeasure. “It was to be expected. Genie is still an incredibly beautiful woman and someone was bound to remember her.”

His mother stared at him, her eyes hard. “Yes, but the question is whether Mrs. Preston is ready with an explanation for why she left and why she did not return until recently. An explanation that you have not yet thought to give me.”

“You know the answer to the first and didn’t ask as to the latter.”

The duchess looked pained. “I must admit I was reluctant to broach the subject.”

“As well you should be. It is none of your business. Genie does not owe you—or anyone else for that matter—an explanation.”

“I’ve apologized a thousand times for sending her away. I thought I was doing what was best. I was trying to prevent you from making an ill-advised match. I didn’t realize…” Her voice dropped. “Will you ever forgive me?”

“I sincerely doubt that possible,” he said harshly.