Wedding In Springtime(39)

"What if I don't want to?" Grant set his jaw like a pouty boy. It was not his best look.

"I did not ask what you would like. Come now." Genie stood and offered a  hand. Grant took it and pulled himself up, using a bit more force than  she expected. She stumbled forward as he stood, ending up in his arms.

Neither said a word. Neither moved away. Grant leaned down closer, and  in his eyes, she saw a glimpse of sorrow. She reached up and put a hand  on his cheek. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. He bent down closer  so that Genie thought he meant to kiss her, but instead he laid his head  on her shoulder. Instinctively, she put her arms around him, as if to  comfort him, though from what grief she did not know.

"Will you not tell me what is wrong?" asked Genie.

As if wakened from a trance, Grant stepped back, his eyes shuttered once  more. "I see what you are about. Trying to seduce me at Almack's and  compromise me to force a proposal."

"Mr. Grant. You are speaking nonsense!"

"Am I?" he said with confidence and swagger, only to have his shoulders  sag the next moment. "I am, aren't I? Apologize. Never take up the  bottle. Makes you stupid."

"It certainly does!"

"I need to go home," said Grant, stumbling off in the wrong direction.

"No, no, you are going the wrong way." Genie sighed and took his hand.  "Here, let us find a back way out. You are not fit to be seen by  anyone."

"Not fit, nit fot," slurred Grant.

"Try not speaking," suggested Genie. She wandered her way through the  back passages, the places that only a servant would go. She found a  servants' entrance and exited onto a side street. But here, Grant  stopped her.

"No, no, I can find my carriage from here. Go back to the dance. Can't  be seen leaving out the back door with Mr. Grant, that would never do."

"Still worried I am trying to compromise you?"

"I am a horse's arse, Miss Talbot."

"Will you not tell me what is wrong, Mr. Grant?"

"Lost a friend tonight." Grant looked up into the dark night. Pale stars  were barely visible in the small ribbon of sky visible between the  buildings.

"I am so sorry. Is it someone I know?"

Grant looked back at her and smiled even as the sadness returned to his eyes. "You will marry and never again speak to me."

"We can still be friends," said Genie, but she knew the instant she  spoke, the words were not true. Her feelings for Grant stretched long  past friendship. When she was married, she would need to distance  herself, which would not be difficult if she married Blakely, since she  would leave for the country. Her friendship with Mr. Grant would end.

Neither said anything, the realization of their loss becoming real. This  could be the last time she would ever speak to him alone. Genie tried  to think of what she wanted to say. She wished to tell him how she felt,  but considering she was about to accept another man's proposal of  marriage, the declaration seemed rather inappropriate.

"I will miss our conversations, Mr. Grant," said Genie, wishing she could say more.

"I will miss your kisses," said Grant.

And there it was. The truth she was afraid to say. She would miss them  too. "Perhaps we should give each other one for good-bye?"

Grant raised an eyebrow. "That is supposed to be my line." He stepped  closer, and Genie's heart raced. He stood before her for a moment, then  reached up to touch her arms, tracing down from her shoulders to the  skin below her short, lace sleeves to the edge of her long, white  gloves. He slowly pulled off her gloves, first one, then the other.  Tingles shot from her fingers to her toes at being so undressed. He  lifted each hand to his lips, kissing first the back, then the palm.  Shivers of energy pulsed through her at his touch.

He slowly encircled his arms around her and she returned the favor,  floating in his embrace. She breathed deep and snuggled into him. This  is where she had wanted to be, wrapped in his arms.

Slowly, he bent down and pressed his cheek to hers, then kissed along  her jaw until he finally reached her lips. His lips were soft and warm,  and she parted her lips to him. He was wet and warm and tasted of  whiskey. She relaxed into his kiss, pressing closer and getting a full  response in return as he deepened the kiss. She closed her eyes and was  weightless and dizzy. Her knees buckled, but he held her fast.         

     



 

"Run away with me," breathed Grant into her ear.

"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!"