The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(90)

Amanda leaned down. “I’m mad for you.”

Genevieve smiled, looking up. Amanda could feel her breath against her lips, warm and sweet.

“Good,” Genevieve breathed.

Their lips met. Genevieve dropped her hand, but only so she could bring her arms around her. And all Amanda’s last fears came to a thundering, crashing, delicious halt.

“Good,” Genevieve murmured against her lips once again. “I’m mad for you, too.”

THE CARRIAGE ROBERT HAD HIRED from the station pulled up to a stop in front of Free’s parents’ house.

“Well then,” Robert said. “Shall I wait here?”

It was ridiculous. Free was a grown woman. She ran her own business, managed fourteen full-time employees and many more writers. And right now, she wanted nothing more than to go home and curl up in her mother’s arms.

But now was not the time for that. She turned to Robert. “Come in,” she said simply. “And thank you for last night and this morning. I feel…”

Not better, not by a long ways. But she felt more at peace.

Robert and Minnie had given her a long explanation of how they spent their time. Minnie had stayed awake with her until one in the morning. Minnie had her own set of difficulties: She felt anxious in crowds and being a duchess hadn’t cured that. So they’d adapted. They had made it work.

Free didn’t want to be a viscountess, but it was rather too late for that now, though. The only questions were what sort of viscountess she wanted to be…and how she would get on with her viscount.

Robert was watching her, wondering how she would end her sentence.

“I feel more important,” she said.

He turned his head away and smiled—a shy smile, as if he were actually embarrassed by her gratitude. “You’re welcome, Your Fierceness.”

For a second, she wondered if he would mind if she hugged him. Then he shifted in his seat, looking down at his hands, and she was fairly certain he wouldn’t.

She slid across the seat and put her arms around him. “Thank you,” she said again. “For being my brother when I needed one.”

He brought his hand up to pat her back. When she pulled away, he coughed into his hand. “Of course,” he said. But his voice was just a little too rough. “Of course.”

“Come in,” she said. “My parents will be happy to see you.”

He sat up straight. “I don’t know… That is… It’s a little more complicated than that. I don’t want to impose, and given the rather odd history between our two families…”

“Come on,” Free said, with a roll of her eyes. “If you’re not by my side, I’ll burst into tears when I see my mother, and that will be very embarrassing. After all that I’ve been through in the last few days, you can’t subject me to that.”

He looked at her for one second. Oh, the man definitely did not have younger siblings if he actually believed a word of that. He was far too susceptible to a touch of guilt.

“Oh, very well,” he said in a put-upon voice. “If you insist.”

But he didn’t look put upon. He looked pleased. He handed her down from the carriage, unhitched the horses, and tied them up. When that was all taken care of, he offered her his arm and conducted her up the path to the house.

It occurred to her, as she knocked on the door, that something was amiss. In all the time they’d been dawdling on the road, somebody ought to have seen them. But neither her father nor her mother had appeared.

Too late to wonder. She heard a noise inside, and then her mother opened the door.

Free’s heart stopped. Her mother—oh, God, her mother. Her eyes were dark. Her face was lined. Free hadn’t seen her look like that since Aunt Freddy passed away years before. It had taken her mother a few months to lose that look about her, that grief-stricken look that said the world had betrayed her. Now it was back, and the only thing that Free could think was that something awful had happened. She gasped.

“Oh, thank God,” her mother said.

“Oh, no.” Free spoke atop her. “What on earth is wrong? Is it Laura and her baby?”

Her mother gasped and put one hand over her heart. “What’s the matter with Laura?”

“It isn’t Laura? Then…”

There was a moment while they stared at each other in confusion. Another moment, when her mother let out a breath. “Free. I was worried about you.”/

“Me.” Free looked around. “Why me? I’m…” Perfectly fine, she had been about to say. But she wasn’t. She didn’t know what she felt any longer.

And then her mother put her arms around Free, pulling her close. It was utterly ridiculous. Free had made her own way for years. She was far too old to bury her head in her mother’s apron and bawl. But somehow, when her mother held her, the sound of her breath, the feel of her shoulders, the distinctive smell of her soap… They all combined to mean something like comfort. Comfort had been in short supply in recent times.

And then her mother whispered in her ear. “I don’t care what your father says. Say the word, and I will walk back into the kitchen and stick a knife in his back.”

Free pulled back. That sense of comfort withdrew, leaving her uncertain. “Who are you planning to kill?”