Genie cast yet another glance over her shoulder at Marchford and Louisa.
"Surely you are not wishing to return?"
"Oh no," breathed Genie. "I only wished to see if perhaps they would initiate conversation after we left."
"It appears that Lady Louisa is not much of a conversationalist."
"Oh, but she can be. We have had lovely talks. She has been very kind to me, even when my aunt, well, you know how I have been a disappointment."
"Not to me."
Genie looked up at him, her blue eyes and blond curls framed by her bonnet. "Thank you."
Grant had the sudden urge to kiss her. Her full, rosy lips drew him toward her. How could he possibly resist? Her eyes widened and her lips parted. He leaned closer and … realized what he was doing.
He pulled back and found that they had stopped in the path, Genie looking up at him wide eyed. He must have lost his mind. She was a debutante, the marrying kind, not his type at all. "Pardon me, your bonnet, who made this lovely creation?"
"I did. Do you like it? I thought, compared to the beautiful bonnets I've seen in London, this might seem a bit shabby. I did put on fresh ribbons."
"Quite right, very nicely done," said Grant, only now taking notice of the bonnet. Miss Talbot was right; it was a shabby thing. "Shall we press on?"
"Yes, let's. I have a guidebook here in my reticule." To his horror, she pulled out a red bound volume of The Picture of London: A Correct Guide to All Curiosities, Amusements, Exhibitions, Public Establishments, and Remarkable Objects in and near London.
"How … helpful." If anyone saw him leading around a debutante holding a guidebook, his reputation would be in tatters. "No need for that, though. I can serve as guide. Here now, put that thing away. You have me to guide you."
Genie complied, but after receiving inadequate answers to her questions about the park, its management, the notable sights, she whipped out the handy guide once more. "It says the ordnance is decorated with several Egyptian devices and is ‘done in great taste.'"
Fortunately, the uncertain weather kept many Londoners away and Grant was grateful not to meet any intimates along the path. They walked along the canal lined with lime trees until they reached the ordnance, where Genie was properly impressed, then ventured into the trees of the wooded park.
"This is lovely. I am glad to see it!" Genie strolled about, her eyes shining with delight.
"It is lovely indeed." But Grant was looking only at Genie.
"Oh dear." Genie looked up at the darkening sky. "I do believe it is starting to rain."
"Let us hurry back to the coach." Grant offered his arm and walked back at a faster pace, with an eye to his polished Hessian boots. His enjoyment of Genie's company did not extend to a disregard of his boots. If he returned with them ruined, his valet might weep, poor man.
The weather was indeed unstable, and the few raindrops were soon joined by others, until throngs of raindrops plagued them from above. The rain turned into a deluge, and Grant found it necessary to seek shelter or face death by drowning. He took Genie's hand, and they both ran along the path. He expected complaint, as he would get from any finely bred London female, but Genie had been raised in the country and was made of sterner stuff. She merely smiled and ran along with him.
Finding a large willow tree, he ducked under the branches, pulling Genie next to him. The space was crowded with multiple branches, forcing Grant to pull her close. This was a disaster, stuck with a debutante under a tree in the torrential rain with his boots surely ruined.
Far from seeing the horror of the situation, Genie's eyes were dancing. She screwed up her mouth, trying not to smile.
"My boots are ruined," said Grant, stating his most pressing concern.
Genie began to laugh.
"I see you have no regard for my boots!"
"I do apologize!" said Genie between giggles. "But here we are stuck under a tree and all you can think of is your boots?"
"You would too if you knew how much they cost."
"Yes, indeed. I did not realize they were so dear. I am sure my bonnet is quite ruined too."
It was no great loss, but Grant said nothing. Despite the chill, he was suddenly quite warm. Genie stood next to him, close, inches away. He could touch her merely by shifting his feet. He would not, of course, but he wanted to. When was the last time he had been so attracted to a debutante of all things? When had he last been attracted to anyone this way?
Genie started to shiver, standing still in the cold. He guessed her long pelisse was borrowed from Louisa, since it was fashionable in style, but it was also made of muslin and not intended for inclement weather.
Grant put his hands on her delicate shoulders and gave them a gentle rub. "You are soaked, poor thing. Here, take my coat."
"No, no, I couldn't. You would be too cold."
No, he wouldn't. He was not cold at all. He was practically sweating he was so hot. He unbuttoned his coat, but Genie shook her head.
"Here, we can both be warm." He opened his coat and wrapped it around her, drawing her to him.
"I do not think … is this proper?" Genie put her hands against his chest but leaned close to allow him to wrap his coat around her.
"No, not proper I fear," confessed Grant. He was truthful, even if he was a cad. Genie felt delicious. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her closer, reveling in her small frame, her gentle curves. She laid her cheek on his chest and he had to stifle a sigh. This was what he wanted. He wished he could stay under the tree forever, boots be damned.
His arms around her rubbed her back. He wished to reach further down but dared not; he could not let this get out of control. Yet in plain truth, it was already out of control. Genie sighed and melted into him. There was no other word for it. She fit with him-warm, soft, perfect.
Genie looked up at him, her blue eyes deep and inviting. "I am quite warm now, thank you."
Grant was beyond warm. He prided himself on his ability to avoid complications with the gentler sex, but with Genie, he was a stupid schoolboy.
"I think it is letting up a bit. Perhaps we should try again to make it to the carriage?" Her voice was airy, her breathing fast, and he could feel every time she inhaled, pressing her bosom against him.
"Perhaps," murmured Grant. He did not care about the carriage or his reputation or anything except the blue of her eyes and the rose pink of her lips. He leaned down closer, slowly. This was the time she should pull away, but instead, she tipped her head up to him. This could not happen; it must not. He stopped moving and yet still drew closer. As if moving of their own accord, their lips met. For one beautiful moment, he pressed his lips to hers and a tingling shock coursed through his body, energizing, waking parts of him, stinging him to life.
He pulled back slowly, taking a gulp of cool, moist air. What was he thinking? "I should not have done that."
Genie pulled back from his embrace and turned from him so her ugly bonnet hid her face. "I do apologize." She ducked under the branches out of the protection of the tree.
"No, it was entirely my fault," said Grant, though he did not wish to apologize for doing something he enjoyed, something he felt must be done. He followed her out from under the tree, where he was greeted by brisk winds and more rain. She would not look at him, keeping the brim of her bonnet down to hide her face.
He offered his arm and they walked briskly down the path, yet something sick and uncomfortable turned in his stomach. He stopped short, holding her hand. Still she did not look at him.
"It may not have been the right thing to do, but I will never regret having done it," said Grant.
Genie turned to face him, her eyes liquid blue. "Me neither."
He smiled at her.
She smiled at him.
And they both scampered to the carriage.
Fourteen
"You must understand that the code needs to be kept safe," said Mr. Neville.
What the Duke of Marchford understood was that government agent Edmund Neville was terribly dull and fatally repetitive. Perhaps that was his training-drone on until his victim conceded just to make him go away.
"The document is safe, Mr. Neville."
"But where is it? I must know!"
"The admiral has asked me to keep it safe and so I shall."
"Is it in this study?" Mr. Neville glanced around at the mahogany paneled walls and scarlet brocade curtains until his eyes came to rest on the large mahogany desk. "At least assure me that it is kept locked."
Marchford sighed. The man would never let him be until he got the information he wanted. He was irritated, but he understood the concern. The stakes were high, Napoleon was on the move, and so far he appeared unstoppable. Information about their enemies' movements and plans could make the difference between success and defeat.