A Wedding In Springtime(78)

“You cannot mean that,” whispered Genie.

“But I do.” Grant pulled back. “I don’t want to lose you. Come away from all this stupidity of society busybodies, and be with me. Leave your critical aunt and the gossiping hordes, and simply be with me. We could live in the country together.”

“What are you asking?”

“I could take care of you, protect you, and it could start tonight. You would have the best of everything. No lady would ever have been pampered the way I would lavish decadence upon you!”

Genie had an odd sensation of being both hot and cold at the same time. “You wish me to be your mistress.”

“I wish you to stay my friend. Come home with me tonight. I don’t care about the consequences.”

“That is perhaps because those consequences are not as grave for you as they are for me.” Genie stepped back toward the door, her heart beating painfully. She did not want to say good-bye and swallowed the disappointment that he had offered her everything except what she really needed—his name.

Grant closed his eyes, then opened them again, his eyes dark in the pale light. “If you loved me the way I love you, it would not matter.”

Everything slowed to a stop. Not a sound could be heard, not a whisper of wind could be felt, nothing made a noise. She could not speak. She could not blink. She could not breathe. Had he said love?

A scullery maid opened the door with a bundle of trash in hand. She stopped short, surprised to see guests, bobbed a curtsy, and continued on.

“Get back to your aunt,” said Grant as he swayed. “Do not listen to me. Drunk. Vile liquor. Bad for you I am.” Grant wandered down the alley in the general direction of the line of coaches.

Genie stared after him, still too stunned to move. He loved her. Yes, he was drunk, but the emotions he shared were real, honest. She could not say how she knew, but she did. And yet, he had not offered marriage.

She took a large breath and wondered how long she had been holding it. The damp night air filled her lungs, restoring her perspective. She liked Grant. Liked him quite a bit. Maybe even—but no. That line of thinking would do her no good. What she needed was a husband, and Grant, for all his charm, for all his self-declared love, offered her everything she wanted but nothing she needed.





Twenty-six





Genie awoke with the same fluttery sensation in her stomach with which she had gone to sleep the night before. A decision lay before her. A proposal. She needed to give an answer to Mr. Blakely. Could she marry him? Sleep in his bed? Give him children? The thought left her… flat.

Could she reject him? Her aunt would have a severe case of the vapors, probably toss Genie from the house, and she would return to her mother in shame.

What about Grant?

She tried to forget about him. His proposal was indecent. It was one she could not accept. And yet… the sensation of his lips on hers rushed through her with a hot flush. Could she see herself sleeping in his bed? Giving him children? The thought had her reaching for a fan. Yes, she could picture it; she could almost feel his hands running down her back and up her thighs.

Genie coughed and flung off the coverlet, standing up in the cold morning. She welcomed the cold shock of reality. She needed to get control of herself, get dressed, drink some stalwart English tea to steady herself, and then make a decision about Mr. Blakely. Mr. Grant could not enter into consideration. What would her mama say? It was too awful to contemplate.

An hour later, Genie was dressed and looking respectable, even if her meditations kept slipping into forbidden territory. She must stop thinking of Grant. Blakely would be a perfect antidote to being consumed with mad, passionate, lustful thoughts. The contemplation of him brought none of these strange sensations. He was as an Englishman should be. Predictable. Steady. Dull—that is dependable! She meant dependable, which is quite a nice compliment when you think about it.

Halfway through her eggs, one of the maids handed her a twist of a note. Since no one else had yet risen, she read it at the table.

In the garden. Come with all haste.

She knew his writing. She left the table immediately and went into the garden.

“George! Whatever are you doing in Lady Bremerton’s garden? The staff will think me quite naughty going to meet you like this.”

“I am sorry.” Her brother stumbled forward into the pale morning light and she could see he was not well.

“Whatever has happened? You look a wreck!”