*
The next morning,Genevieve put on a brave face for Frances as well. The little girl was so excited to be allowed to accompany her papa and Mama Genevieve that she woke them both at four in the morning, already dressed and ready to go. Rory put a pillow over his head and groaned, and Genevieve wished she could do the same.
But soon they were packed into the coach and on their way. Frances wore her spectacles and delighted in pointing out every cow, horse, or church they passed. Rory eyed Genevieve with a look that begged for rescue, and she assured him the child’s excitement would wane.
But a week and a half into the journey, Frances had not lost her enthusiasm, despite lumpy beds at small village inns and tasteless food at posting house public rooms. Genevieve had never been so far north, and she was intrigued by the landscape and almost as eager as Frances to peer out the windows. Rory seemed to grow more anxious with every passing day, and no matter how many times she took his hand or smiled at him with all the reassurance she could muster, he still lookedtight as a bowstring. Fortunately, his impatience with Frances’s chattering had faded, and now the child seemed a godsend—both distracting him and entertaining him.
Finally, the coachman announced they would be at Carlisle Keep, the ancestral home of the Dukes of Carlisle, within the hour, and Genevieve scrambled to make herself and Frances presentable. By the time the coach came within sight of the keep, their hair was combed and their dresses free of crumbs. Genevieve peered up at the crumbling keep and gave Rory a warning look. “Tell me we are not sleeping there.”
“I want to sleep there!” Frances said. “Princesses live in castles.”
“Not that one,” Rory said. Then to Genevieve he said, “Henry and his duchess live in the guardhouse, which I’m told is just around this bend. Apparently, it has been the ducal residence for centuries after some duchess or other complained about the living quarters in the keep itself. It’s far smaller than the keep, but we’ll only be here a night or two.”
Genevieve watched as they turned around a curve in the road, and a house at the base of the hill leading to the keep came into view. She supposed it might have once been called a guardhouse. The low stone structure was a perfectly charming mix of old and new architecture. She could see where additions had been made on the first floor. It seemed a second floor had been added as well, boasting several windows Genevieve imagined gave views of the craggy and rough countryside surrounding them. Vines, now bare, as it was well into fall, climbed up the stone walls and over the door. They undoubtedly bloomed with flowers in the spring and summer.
“The border with Scotland is only a mile or so. On a clear day, it’s probably visible.” This day was overcast and drizzling, and she’d seen no one about except a few sheep grazing, seemingly oblivious to the rain. Now Genevieve saw smoke puffing fromthe chimney of the guardhouse and the fresh tracks of another carriage at the drive.
The coachman slowed the conveyance, and a lad, who was twenty if a day, came out of the house to open the door and put down the steps. Behind him a woman with a white bun and a starched apron stood by the door, smiling. Rory exited first, holding out his arms for Frances, who loved to jump into them, and then offering a hand to Genevieve.
“My lord. My lady. Welcome,” the woman said. “I am Mrs. Yeatman, the housekeeper. The others are in the drawing room. Ebenezer will show you.”
“If you will follow me,” the lad said.
Genevieve reached for Rory’s hand, her nerves making her shake with apprehension and excitement. She couldn’t believe she was to finally meet the mythical Henry and King. She’d heard so much about them. Rory squeezed her hand, and they followed the footman into the house, Rory ducking his head so as not to bang it on the lintel. Genevieve could hear voices as soon as she entered, and at the sound of a child’s voice, Frances gasped and peered up at her.
“Maybe you’ll have some other children to play with,” she said, then looked at Rory. “Do the duke and duchess have children?”
“No. They married just a month or so before we did. I believe those are King’s brothers-in-law. I forget their names, but—”
“Boys?” Frances’s face fell. “Harriet and I don’t want to play with boys.” She tucked her doll under her arm protectively.
“Let’s hope that never changes,” Rory murmured, then straightened as the doors to the drawing room were pushed open and a wall of joyous exclamation greeted the sight of them. Rory was immediately swept away from her, engulfed in embraces from two men. One was taller, with stylish brown hair and green eyes. The other was the shortest of the three, butstill half a foot taller than Genevieve. He had a mop of brown hair that needed a trim, blue or gray eyes, and a wide smile. From what she remembered of Rory’s descriptions of their personalities, she pegged the taller one as the former Marquess of Kingston, whom everyone called King. He was stylish and almost as handsome as Rory. The other man must be Henry, the Duke of Carlisle. Rory said he was amiable and friendly, and his smile immediately put her at ease.
A woman with brown hair, lovely brown eyes with lush eyelashes, and a port-wine stain birthmark on one side of her face navigated the boisterous reunion and curtseyed to Genevieve. “You must be Lady Emory. I am Katherine, Duchess of Carlisle. Forgive me for introducing myself. I think our husbands are otherwise occupied.”
Genevieve curtseyed. “Please call me Genevieve. And this is Miss Frances Lumlee, my stepdaughter.”
“Call me Katie, all of my friends do. Good afternoon, Frances. You must be hungry after your journey. There are biscuits and cakes on that table with the boys. Shall I introduce you to Joshua and George?”
Frances peered past the duchess to study the boys. “Only if Mama Genevieve comes with me.”
“Of course I will.”
By now, another woman, a petite, dark-haired lady with dark blue eyes, approached. She was very pretty but looked as uncomfortable as Genevieve felt.
“Allow me to introduce Violet, the Marchioness of Kingston,” Katie said.
The marchioness waved a hand. “Just Violet will do.” She had a lower-class accent. “King isn’t a marquess any longer, and we try not to remind him of that fact.” She leaned close and whispered, “He thinks highly enough of himself without the title.”
Genevieve bit her lip to hide a smile. “I’m Genevieve. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Violet. This is my stepdaughter, Miss Frances Lumlee.”
“And who’s this?” Violet asked, indicating the doll.
“Harriet,” Frances said, holding her doll out for Violet’s approval.
“You take very good care of her,” Violet said, brushing a hand over the doll’s blonde curls and her satin dress. Genevieve noticed her hands were red and callused. Not the hands of a lady, which made sense, considering King was living in Seven Dials.
“Thank you. I have another doll, too—well, she is Mama Genevieve’s doll. Her name is Marcella. I left her in the coach.”
