The Unthinkable (27 page)

The duchess flinched and something that looked remarkably like tears filled her eyes. Impossible. His mother never showed such pedestrian emotion. She waited a moment, seeming to collect herself, before saying anything else. “Perhaps, I do not deserve your forgiveness. The connection was obviously stronger than I realized. Maybe someday when you have a son of your own, you will understand that I was only doing what I thought best. What any mother in my position would do.”
I might have had a son of my own
. When he did not respond, she continued. “Mrs. Preston might not owe anyone an explanation, but that will not stop the ton from demanding one. I realize that I am the last person that could possibly dissuade you from this marriage; I only ask that you have care. If there is anything in the girl’s past, bury it well. Or it may well bury all of us—including your Mrs. Preston.”

He held his mother’s stare for a long moment and nodded. Despite her faults, the duchess was a shrewd woman. As the rest of the ton was bound to do, his mother had guessed that there was a mystery to uncover. A very destructive mystery. He wondered how the current duchess would react if she knew that his future duchess had spent time in a brothel?

He studied the sharp, patrician features of his mother. She’d probably be as horrified as he’d been. The realization annoyed him. He didn’t like acknowledging any similarities to his mother, especially one that reeked of judgment and closed-mindedness.

But the duchess’s point was well taken, bringing to a head the very issue that he’d been trying to ignore. Scandal would prove disastrous, and not just to his own interests. Genie would suffer, perhaps more so. An image of Percy’s sneering face swam before him, multiplying, until there were hundreds of similar sneering faces joyously relishing the downfall of one of the most preeminent peers in the land.

Uncertainty had wormed its way into the snaking tunnels of his conscience. Once again, Huntingdon questioned his decision to marry her. Was he doing the right thing, knowing that in doing so it was bound to bring up the inevitable inquiries? Did he have any right to drag Genie through the gossip? To hurt her all over again? To destroy the newfound strength that he so admired, but which he sensed stood on a shaky foundation?

And for what? All for reasons that he couldn’t articulate beyond the simple explanation that he wanted her. Because every bone in his body cried out to have her no matter what the cost. Trite, he acknowledged, but nonetheless true. Was it justification enough to risk so much?

He rose from his seat with a start, accidentally knocking the table with his knee. The mostly undrunk coffee sloshed over the side of the saucer and formed a large puddle on the tabletop. A footman quickly appeared to wipe away his mess. Would that all of his messes could be so easily cleaned up.

He didn’t want to think about this. He was a duke, damn it, he could do what he wanted. Selfishly, he wanted to ignore the quandary of whether the determined duke used to getting what he wanted could jibe with the honorable man he strove to be.

Frustration at the untenable situation gnawed at him. He just wanted to make everything right, to right the wrong he’d committed all those years ago. Was that so wrong?

The answer reverberated in his head.

As if she guessed the torment she’d unleashed within him, the duchess quietly let herself out of the room, leaving Huntingdon alone to silence the nagging voices of his demons.

Three days later, it wasn’t guilt, but a very different demon that tormented him.

It was approaching midnight two days before he was to be married, and he was alone with his mother in the marble salon. The duchess peered up from her needlework, the soft glow from the fire pleasantly warming the ghostly gray of her complexion. She smiled, blissfully unaware of his agony. “I’ve never seen you so edgy. Wearing a path in the carpet won’t make them arrive any sooner.”

“I know that,” Huntingdon snapped, then controlled his emotion.
She doesn’t know,
he reminded himself. With uncharacteristic concern for his mother’s feelings, he’d not told her just how late they really were. “I’m well aware of the delays imposed by traveling on wet roads.”
And of the perils
.

That was what terrified him. To the point where he could no longer completely hide his disquiet. He scoffed. Disquiet, it was more like barely constrained panic.

The situation was laughable really. The cold, reserved duke brought to his knees by the simple delay of a carriage. But it was a very important carriage, with a very important occupant.

Anxiety, irrational or not, had swallowed him whole. He felt trapped, unable to concentrate on anything else.

The clock struck twelve. Like some wretched omen. Twelve long ominous booms, tolling each hour of delay with horrifying finality.

His heart raced and he felt his hands and forehead grow damp. He turned from his mother’s prying eyes and resumed the only occupation he could handle at the moment, pacing.

Where are they
? The Davenports had arrived this morning, the other guests yesterday afternoon. But Genie and the Hawkesburys were nearly twelve hours late. Twelve agonizing hours. They’d traveled most of the one hundred and fifteen miles from London yesterday. After a night at an inn, they had been due to arrive at noon. As the afternoon hours passed into night, he’d grown steadily more frantic, his mind letting loose with all sorts of unspeakable horrors. From an attack on the road, to an accident, to wondering if she’d changed her mind. But it was the image of a carriage accident that struck him cold, recalling with poignant similarity the deaths of his father and brother.

“Didn’t you say that they might stop for the night?” the duchess asked. “I thought you’d decided to retire for the evening.”

As if he could sleep when Genie might be out there on the road, lying twisted in a bloody, muddy heap. Dear God, the grisly images would drive him mad. But he couldn’t allow his mother to see how disturbed he truly was for fear that it would recall her own demons. So he’d lied.

For good reason. The death of his father and brother had nearly killed her. For the first time in recent memory, Huntingdon felt true compassion for his mother.

He forced himself to act nonchalant. “I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d come down to find a book.”

“In the salon?” she asked with disbelief.

He shrugged. “I heard something and came to investigate. I didn’t expect you to be up this late.”

“Sleep is not as restful as it used to be,” she answered. Again he felt a shock of sympathy. He’d lost a father and a brother, yes. But his mother had lost even more—he was only beginning to realize how much more. She studied his face and seemed to come to a realization. “You know, Huntingdon, you’re not the first man to get married.” The duchess dropped her embroidery ring in her lap and sunk back against the velvet cushions of her chair. “As I recall, your father was a bit nervous before our wedding.”

Jitters. She thought he was suffering from something as benign as wedding jitters. The idea was so preposterous he could laugh outright if the reality wasn’t so painful. Better that she thought he was a nervous groom than to have her relive the agony of their family tragedy: the seemingly inconsequential delay in arrival, the rain, the waiting, the increasing horror as time crept slowly by.

The roads were treacherous, carriage accidents common. But not twice, it couldn’t happen twice in one family. But where were they? Why had they not sent word? He’d sent a couple of grooms out hours ago. They should have returned by now.

He forced himself to take a deep breath and managed to feign embarrassment. “I just want to make sure that everything is perfect for the wedding.”

“You’ve thought of everything, what could possibly go wrong?”

Cold fear strangled his throat.
So many things,
he thought, but could not give voice to his greatest fear—that there would not be a bride.

The sound of footsteps approaching the salon drew his immediate attention to the door. The groomsmen? He froze, holding his breath in a moment of helpless purgatory as he waited to see who approached. Did the footsteps seemingly hesitate and falter, or were his ears playing tricks on him? Desperately, he craved news, but just as desperately he didn’t.

He couldn’t lose her again.

The solemn face of Grimes appeared in the doorway. “The Hawkesbury carriage has been spotted in town, Your Grace,” he said matter-of-factly, not realizing the significance of his words, or how heavily Huntingdon weighed upon them.

Huntingdon exhaled long and hard. Relief washed over him like a torrential downpour. Hope. There was hope.

He tore from the room.

“Huntingdon, wherever do you think you’re going at this hour?” his mother called after him.

But he didn’t bother answering, already calling for his mount.

The tinkle of her amused laughter trailed behind him as he dove out into the night. But his mother’s amusement at his supposed jitters didn’t bother him. Fear had done what nothing else could—shattering the illusion of indifference. He cared all right. And it terrified him how much.

Condensation fogged the window of the Hawkesbury carriage, Genie wiped at it furiously with the side of her hand. The cold dampness instantly seeped through the thin leather of her glove, turning the brown leather black. Anxiety, however, overrode discomfort. She barely noticed the added chill to her already frozen fingers. Their journey was near its end.

“Here, use this,” Edmund said, pulling a handkerchief from his waistcoat and handing it to her. “But I don’t expect that you’ll be able to see much of anything this late.”

Genie smiled her gratitude and attacked the persistent fog again, this time with the square of ivory linen. The window finally cleared, she peered into the darkness. High on a hill, still some distance before them, a shape began to take form.

No, it couldn’t be.

But the truth dropped like a stone in her stomach.

“Is that it?” she asked Edmund hesitantly, pointing to the hazy patch of white nestled amongst the stars, floating above a blanket of shadowed treetops.

Edmund leaned forward to take a perfunctory look out the window and plopped back in his seat across from her. “That’s it. Donnington Park in all of its regal splendor.”

Genie tried to swallow, a knot of alarm closing her throat. “Regal” was right. The place looked to be the size of a small palace. Of a small kingdom for that matter.

And in a matter of days,
she
would be responsible for the smooth running of that kingdom.

She would be a duchess.

Genie knew a long moment of panic. The great divide between the household of a duke and that of a country parson widened considerably with the first glimpse of her new home. Reality in this case had surely overreached her ambition. How would she ever manage such a place?

Yet wasn’t this exactly what she wanted: wealth, position, security. Why did she suddenly feel so overwhelmed when she’d achieved more than she’d ever dreamed possible? Why did she feel like such a fraud? Like perhaps the duchess had been right all those years ago: She and Huntingdon were from different worlds and entirely unsuitable. Uncertainty twisted her insides. Was she equipped to preside over a duchy?

Fighting sudden queasiness, though unable to look away from the source, Genie kept her eyes glued out the window. Occasionally, she’d lose sight of the house as the carriage wound along the road, but slowly the blurred shape began to take solid form. With each passing minute her trepidation intensified. She’d never imagined anything so grand, so imposing…

So beautiful.

She hadn’t realized just how much she would be forsaking. Or just how much Huntingdon had to lose.

Edmund patted her hand. “You’ll be fine. It’s just a house.”

She made a dainty snorting sound of disbelief. And Versailles was just a small French country manor.

“Edmund’s right,” Lady Hawkesbury interjected. “Managing a household is much the same be it small or large. The duchess will be able to instruct you in all the particulars.”

Genie stiffened at the mention of the duchess and straightened against the plush velvet cushions, which at the beginning of their journey had been comfortable.

The Duchess of Huntingdon no longer intimidated her. She’s survived much worse. Heartbreak, the death of her child, poverty, near starvation, the vicious attack of a vile man.

One cruel, haughty duchess would not stand in her way.

Edmund and Lady Hawkesbury were right. She could do this. For a short time anyway. This was what she’d fought for. With the help of a solicitor she’d already found a property in Gloucestershire just outside of Thornbury. She only needed to get through the ceremony and it would be hers. Nothing and no one would ever be able to take it from her—no matter what happened or what secrets were revealed in the future. Security had been ripped from her fingers before, this time she held a firm grip on her future.

“Oh look, dearest,” Lady Hawkesbury said, pointing out the window. “Your bridegroom rides out to greet us. And at this late hour!”

Genie’s pulse raced. Fighting the urge to look, she pinned her shoulders back against the cushions. Dear God, she was excited to see him. Like some lovesick fool.

Lady Hawkesbury squinted into the darkness. “My, he’s riding fast.” She turned to give Genie a sly wink. “I guess you’re not the only one who is anxious.” Her brow wrinkled. “Hmm. Perhaps we should have sent someone ahead explaining our delay? It took so much longer than we expected. Well, I do hope the dear boy hasn’t been worried.”

Ha! Genie thought contemptuously. The uncaring beast probably hadn’t spared her a thought for weeks.

The dark silhouette of a rider appeared on the opposite side of the carriage, and Genie didn’t need a torch to see that Lady Hawkesbury had identified the horseman correctly. The broad shoulders and muscular physique were unmistakable.

“Ho there.” The familiar voice rang with authority. “Stop your horses, man.”