“I’ll go anywhere as long as it’s not England.”
Rory nodded. He’d felt the same at one point. Now he wondered what he had been thinking. Why had he left Frances and his home at Lilacfall Abbey? Why hadn’t he ever bothered to try to spend time with his daughter? He didn’t need to wonder at the answer to that question. Seeing Frances had meant seeing Harriet. But after her death, he should have been the one to take Frances in, to comfort her in her grief, to make her feel safe. No doubt the Dowlings had done their best, but Rory hadn’t known Harriet’s father’s health would so quickly decline.
Rory hated regrets because, for the most part, nothing could be done to change the past. But he could change the future, and he could be the father his daughter needed. He would start now by giving her a mother.
Chapter Thirteen
Genevieve had justchecked on Frances and found the child asleep and Mary sewing by firelight when she heard the wheels of a carriage on the gravel drive. Her heart immediately jumped into her throat.
He was home.
She’d expected him earlier in the day, and when he hadn’t arrived by dinner, she assumed he had stayed in London an extra day to attend to whatever business he might have. But he was home now, and if he had the license, he would want to marry her.
Would he demand she marry him tonight? Genevieve rather doubted that, but she knew she had no more time to think things over. Not that it would have mattered. She’d come to no conclusions. There were as many reasons to say no as to say yes.
Perhaps he hadn’t been able to procure the license. Perhaps she had fretted and paced for naught. She considered retiring to her chamber and pretending to be asleep so as to avoid the topic tonight, but she was no coward. She clenched her hands and forced her feet down the steps to join the other servants in the foyer. She’d barely taken her place beside the housekeeper when the door opened, and Lord Emory strode in.
Genevieve felt her breath whoosh away.
She hadn’t forgotten that he was handsome, but remembering his brandy-colored eyes, his thick, wavy hair, andthe seductive curve of his mouth was not at all the same experience as seeing it as a whole right in front of her.
The wind whipped behind him, sending his greatcoat swirling as he stood so his valet might attend him. Once the coat was removed, he offered his hat and gloves. She saw his head turn and knew he was looking for her. As soon as their eyes met, she felt her knees give way. Mrs. Mann gave her a sharp look, but Genevieve managed to regain her balance. She looked away from Lord Emory, hoping, without any hope, he would save their conversation for the morning.
“Miss Brooking,” he said.
She curtseyed even as she winced at her name.
“Might I speak with you in the library?”
“Of course, my lord.”
He strode away, and she supposed she was expected to follow. She lifted her skirts and trudged after him. As she neared the library, she saw he stood in the doorway, waiting for her. He bowed and extended a hand for her to pass. As soon as she was inside, he closed the door.
The library was cold and dark. He hadn’t been expected back, and the fire hadn’t been lit in the hearth. She saw the spark from the tinderbox, and the lamp glowed yellow.
“How was your journey, my lord?”
“Awful. This morning one of the horses went lame three miles from the posting house, and we had to send a man back for a replacement. Then when we were only five miles from Lilacfall Abbey, one of the wheels came loose. Fortunately, my men repaired it, but it took time.” He looked at her. “I was impatient to return.”
“No need to be, my lord. Frances is well and has been the model of good behavior. She has asked about you, and I am certain she will be pleased to see you in the morning.”
“That’s good to know, but Frances wasn’t why I was impatient to return.”
He reached into his coat, and as soon as Genevieve saw the paper, her knees went weak again. She put out a hand to grasp the back of a chair. “Is that…”
“The special license? Yes.”
“May I see?”
He handed it over, and she took it with shaking hands. Strange to see her name—herfullname, Genevieve Albina Brooking—written there next to his, Emory Louis Gabriel Lumlee. Strange but also…thrilling. What would it mean to be this man’s wife? To share his bed and his life? She’d become so accustomed to the idea that she would never marry, but was that what she wanted, or had she simply resigned herself?
“I had to part with thirty pounds and suffer an endless lecture to obtain that, so I’d appreciate it if you held it further from the lamp.”
“Thirty pounds?” Genevieve gaped at him. “That’s a fortune.”
“I’d have given the archbishop twice that if he had spared me the lecture. Now, I see no reason to wait. I can have the vicar here tomorrow morning. Say, ten o’clock?”
Genevieve handed the paper back to him, but as she withdrew her hand, he caught it. His hand was large and warm, and it closed over her cold, trembling one. “You’re shaking like a leaf before a storm. What’s the matter?”
