The Unthinkable (3 page)

Genie studied him. He’d changed so much she was surprised that she recognized him. There was nothing left of the lean young man she remembered. His shoulders were unfashionably broad and muscular; his legs thick and powerful. Unusually tall, perhaps standing four inches above six feet, his frame with the added bulk seemed infinitely larger. He looked more like a blacksmith or common laborer than a vaunted peer of the realm. Even his elegant court attire did nothing to civilize his appearance.

Undeniably he was still incredibly handsome, but he’d changed more than just from the passage of time. There was a hard edge to his face that had not been there before. As if chiseled from stone, his once softly sculpted features had sharpened from those of a boy to a man. The wide, arrogant mouth she recognized, but now it sat atop a cynical jaw that was both square and uncompromising. Where before there had been only dimples, now she noticed tiny cruel lines around his mouth. His hair was darker—no longer blond but golden brown—and longer, but still thick and straight with a slight wave that framed his face. His striking blue eyes shone as hard as glass, no longer sparkling like the sun upon the sea.

Though changed, it was still the face that had launched hundreds of hours of tears and regret. Yes, she thought with relief, she could finally feel regret behind all the bitterness and recriminations. Behind the cold dull edge of hatred. Regret for the suffering, regret for the anger. But most of all, regret for the loss of love.

When she looked at him and saw how changed he was, she felt something that she had not anticipated: a poignant longing for the innocence of youth.

An innocence that he had taken from her.

She was connected to this man by a past that should no longer matter. But it did. Perhaps it always would. He’d taken something from her that could never be returned. He’d forced her to open her eyes to the real world, where people are imperfect, where people break your heart and your trust.

He’d once meant so much to her. Yet, oddly, Genie felt detached. She was not that same young ignorant country girl. He did not have the power to affect her any longer. That part of her life was gone forever. Seeing him again had finally solidified it.

She might grieve for the innocence of youth, but she would never forget what had come after her cruel disillusionment. She would never forget what this man did to her.

Lord Fitzwilliam Hastings.

The man who’d nearly destroyed her.

She’d given him her soul and he’d sent her into hell. Alone.

The echo of her childhood ringing in her ears, Genie remembered. How he’d failed her. For refusing to do the unthinkable…

Thornbury, Gloucestershire, July 1806

“Genie!” Lizzie Prescott shrieked as she raced up the oak staircase, her slipper-clad feet pounding as loud as a coach-and-four across a ballroom. “It’s true, it’s true.”

Genie lifted her head from the letter that she’d been composing and wondered what all the ruckus was about this time. Probably something to do with a young man, Genie thought. At sixteen years of age, Lizzie could barely think of anything else. She grinned. At only two years her senior, Genie hadn’t quite outgrown the fascination herself.

She turned her head in the direction of the clamor just in time to see her younger sister appear at the entry to her bedchamber, dramatically framed in the doorway, white-blond ringlets bobbing against flushed cheeks, her large bosom heaving from the short burst of exercise.

Genie slowly put down her quill, giving her sister a chance to compose herself. “What’s true, dearest?” Genie asked calmly.

Lizzie hardly took a breath before blurting out, “I’ve just heard it from Susan, who heard it from Jane, whose mother heard it from Lady Buckingham directly.” She clapped her hands together excitedly. “The Duke of Huntingdon has let Peyton Park.”

The arrival of a peer of such distinction was exciting news to be sure in the provincial village of Thornbury, but Genie could tell from Lizzie’s near-bursting-with-excitement expression that there was more. She quirked her brow. “And?” she asked patiently.

Lizzie lowered her voice, her luminous deep blue eyes wide and shining. “And the duke intends to stay until the spring.”

She paused, a broad self-satisfied smile spread across her cherubic face, clearly eager to impart the final coup de grâce.

Genie knew what was required of her. “And?” she asked dutifully.

“And he intends to bring his two eldest sons with him.” Lizzie folded her arms across her buxom chest, enormously pleased to be able to pass on the latest on-dit to her
older
sister.

Genie feigned indifference. She picked up her quill and turned back to her letter. “Oh, that is very interesting.”

“Oh, that is very interesting?” Lizzie echoed incredulously. “Is that all you have to say. How can you be so calm, how can you go back to your letter as if—”

Genie’s smothered gurgle of laughter stopped her.

Lizzie stomped her tiny foot. “Eugenia Prescott, how dare you tease me like that! For a horrible moment I thought you were serious.”

Their eyes met and both girls broke out into fresh peals of laughter. Genie enjoyed gossip—especially concerning young eligible gentlemen—nearly as much as her sister. When their laughter died down, Genie patted the small bench next to her chair. “Come. Sit down and tell me the rest. What else did Jane say?”

Lizzie took the proffered seat and bent toward Genie, a conspirator in arms. “It was Susan who told me, Jane told her—”

“And Jane heard it from her mother who heard it from Lady Buckingham,” Genie finished.

Lizzie beamed. “Precisely. And the Marchioness of Buckingham is reportedly great friends with the Duchess of Huntingdon so it must be true. Susan didn’t know too many details; just that the duke has let the place while the family seat, Donnington Park, in Leicestershire is undergoing some improvements.” In a clearly reverent voice she added, “Mr. Capability Brown himself is said to have designed the gardens. The family will stay at Peyton Park through the hunting season until the beginning of the London season. None of the daughters are out yet, but there are two older sons.” Lizzie gasped, as if the most astonishing thing had just occurred to her. “Genie, do you think they might attend your coming-out ball?” Her words tumbled out even faster. “Maybe they’ll ask you to dance. Maybe they’ll both fall in love with you and they’ll fight a duel to decide who can win your hand. Maybe—”

“Hold on, hold on. I think I may have told you one too many romantic tales.” Genie laughed, knowing that she was responsible for putting all those silly notions into Lizzie’s head with her stories. But Lizzie’s enthusiasm was definitely contagious. As much to rein in her own burgeoning excitement, Genie said cautiously, “I’m sure our annual ball is not grand enough for a duke’s family, Lizzie.”

Lizzie frowned, taking umbrage at the suggestion that there was anything lacking in one of the great country traditions of Thornbury. The harvest festival race-week ball had come from the old Lammas Day feast, which the village had been celebrating for hundreds of years. “The Marquess and Marchioness of Buckingham always attend. It’s grand enough for them.”

“We are fortunate; Lord and Lady Buckingham have always been most gracious to the local gentry.” Gracious, but aloof. They’ve never invited anyone, including her parents, to dine at Thornbury Castle, but Genie kept that thought to herself. “Lizzie, you must realize that country society is vastly different from the circles of a duke.”

“Well, they’ll have to do something for entertainment for the next few months,” Lizzie said stubbornly. “And the annual ball is the best that Thornbury has to offer.”

Lizzie was right. Perhaps they
would
come. “Even if the duke’s sons do attend, it’s highly unlikely they’d be fighting duels over a parson’s daughter with less than five hundred pounds.”

“Why, you’re the sweetest, most beautiful girl in Gloucestershire,” Lizzie dismissed with a short wave of her hand. “What’s not to fall in love with?”

“I think you are hardly the most objective critic, my sweet, as you and I look more like twins than sisters separated by two years.”

Lizzie shrugged, grinning. “After you break his heart, perhaps the loser of the duel will console himself with your younger sister.”

“Naughty scamp!” Genie laughed, swatting Lizzie’s hand playfully with her feather quill. “Better not let mother hear you say such things. You still have two years before your coming-out. Besides, we know nothing about the duke’s sons. Perhaps they are more frog than prince?”

“Oh, balderdash. A duke’s sons are invariably handsome.”

Genie quirked her brow. “I think you’ve been listening to Susan for too long.” It was no secret that Mrs. Andrews would do anything to secure a title for her precious daughter. And with her fifty thousand pounds courtesy of the family shipping business, the pretty Susan just might grant her mother’s wish.

Lizzie ignored her, caught up in her own reverie. “Once you are married, you’ll go to your spectacular townhouse in Mayfair for the season. Of course you’ll invite your beloved younger sister to share in your good fortune, and I’ll have a real season with the most beautiful gowns…”

Genie shook her head, listening to the fanciful ramblings. Lizzie’s imagination, once freed, was impossible to harness. So rather than try to stop her, Genie just sat back and allowed herself to be swept along for the ride.

A duke’s son. A sharp thrill shot through her. To wed the son of a duke was almost like marrying a prince—with a coronet instead of a crown. What a wonderful story it would make, to be whisked away into the privileged, exciting world of the beau monde. Was such a thing possible?

Hardly. She grinned. It was about as likely as Lizzie sitting still long enough to finish her sampler.

But it was certainly fun to dream about.

After months of preparation, not to mention countless trips to her mother’s mantua maker, the eagerly anticipated day had finally dawned. The week-long horse races held at Thornbury’s prized racetrack were over, and tonight, Genie and three other girls, including her dearest friend Miss Caroline Howard, would be presented to society tonight at the ball held in the town’s hall on High Street.

The town was abuzz with excitement. And not just on account of the annual harvest festival race-week ball. The Duke of Huntingdon and his family had arrived at Peyton Park a few days ago, though no one seemed to be sure whether they would attend the ball tonight. After four weeks of Lizzie’s outrageous imaginings, Genie hoped they would show if only to put an end to all the speculation.

Genie had been giddy with excitement all day—all week for that matter. She’d begun her preparations for the ball hours ago and was finding it difficult to sit still while Patty, her mother’s lady’s maid, put the finishing touches on her elegant coiffure.

Genie couldn’t believe the difference in her appearance. The elegant woman reflected in the mirror was in sharp contrast to the excited young girl twittering inside.

The pearl encrusted bandeaux that matched the delicate pearl earrings, necklace, and bracelet borrowed from her mother, had been secured on the crown of her flaxen head. Her long hair was bound up in the back into a high cascade of ringlets. More silken curls had been artfully arranged along her temples. What in the end was meant to appear simple and uncomplicated had thus far taken over an hour and a half to arrange. All that was left was to weave fresh pink flowers through the bandeaux to match the satin trim of her gown..

“Sally,” her mother called anxiously to one of the harried chambermaids darting in and out of the room. “Where is the pink satin ribbon? Did you find the flowers for the bandeaux? Oh, where is my cashmere shawl? And find someone to help Miss Prescott get these kid gloves on.”

“I have the ribbon and the flowers right here, ma’am. Your shawl is on the bed. I’ll send Kitty right up to help with the gloves.” The poor girl was barely coping with the frenzied demands of her nervous mistress.

It seemed that all four of the female servants had been in her room at some point today. Indeed, the entire household of Kington House, from her father down to the daily scullery maid, had been on edge all week long.

Expectations ran high. Despite her rather insignificant dowry, Genie knew that her family hoped that her “angelic beauty and sweetness of character” would enable her to make a good match. The entire family would benefit. The son of a wealthy squire or perhaps even the son of a nearby baronet could aid her eldest brother, Charles, in securing a good parish and help advance William and John with more desirable commissions.

Critically, Genie studied her reflection as Patty began to weave the tiny flowers through the bandeaux. Her father called her and Lizzie his “two little Rubens cherubs.” Genie supposed it was an apt description with their pale, baby-soft blond hair, tiny turned-up noses, round pink cheeks, red bow lips and big blue eyes. Both girls also enjoyed their sweet cakes and tended toward a curvaceous figure. Pleasing enough, Genie supposed, but the big question was whether she would prove popular tonight.

She dearly hoped so. What girl didn’t dream of having a swarm of handsome beaux to choose from at her first ball? And maybe from those beaux she would find her one true love. Like Lizzie, at her heart Genie was a romantic, though she was a tad more sensible than her oft impulsive sister.

Genie yearned to be swept away by love and happiness like that which her parents had found. A husband whom she loved, a comfortable home, and a dozen children were everything Genie could wish for.

But she’d yet to meet a man who came close to fitting her dreams. With only a few thousand people in the parish, she was already acquainted with most of the eligible young men in Thornbury. But tonight, many of the gentry from the surrounding countryside would join in the celebration. Perhaps her true love would be amongst them?

The last flower secured in place, Genie stood to view the culmination of months of planning. Otherwise unadorned, the white crepe gown was trimmed at her high waistline with a thin pink satin ribbon to match the delicate pink satin petticoat. A moderate train, which would be pinned later for dancing, fell in small gathers down the length of her back. A rounded neck, tight bodice, and short sleeves completed the fashionable Grecian-style gown. Genie and Lizzie had pored over the latest sketches from their aunts in London to achieve just the right design. Thrilled with the result, she twirled before the looking glass.