But then George II had keeled over on his close-stool one morning, and his grandson George III had ascended to the throne. The new king was young, shy, stiff, and ruled by his mother and the smooth Earl of Bute. He was also an admirer of the Marquess of Rothgar, who had been cultivating him for years.
Rothgar was no saint, but he was discreet, which Ash had never bothered to be. There’d been no hope of changing his reputation in a day, so the Trayce family were in the shadows, and the Mallorens basked close to the sun.
Now, at last, he had a new chance. Not to destroy, but to compete with the Mallorens in power, wealth, and prosperity. To gather the remnants of his family and build on that. To improve his land, to take his place in shaping the country’s laws and systems.
But it required marriage and money. It required someone like Damaris Myddleton, whom he did not, could not—could never, he suspected—love.
“What I desire, my lord, is a husband. A true husband, a loving home, a safe, secure world into which to bring legitimate children.”
Breath painful in his throat, Ash pushed that vision away. Duty must come before desire.
He couldn’t face company. He returned to his room and found it pristine, all trace of love removed.
Chapter Forty-three
Boxing Day.
Genova opened her eyes and knew it must be late. She’d danced until the dancing stopped. Danced with every man in the house, she felt. Except Ash.
She’d not seen him again.
She’d kissed until the mistletoe boughs were stripped of power, and drunk to hold the numbness that let her dance and kiss. When she’d eventually staggered to her bed, she’d collapsed into sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
And here she was, awake to a miserable new day.
She felt smothered by too much sleep and the remnants of drink, but memory, alas, lived on. What a wonderful gift it would be to be able to scrub away painful memories as if scrubbing a spot off a wall.
Thalia was fast asleep and snoring. Genova ran her hands over her body, remembering. Despite the follies and dangers, their lovemaking could have been wonderful if she hadn’t been so stupid. Now she had to face him again.
No sooner than she had to.
She climbed out of bed and went to summon Regeanne, but then remembered being told that at Rothgar Abbey, Boxing Day was the servants’ holiday. As much as possible, people were to manage without.
Someone had lit the fire and left washing water by it to keep warm, so she used it, then dressed, choosing a simple, dark green gown. There must be breakfast laid out, but she was reluctant to emerge to face the world. To face Ash.
In any case, she wasn’t hungry. Her eye caught the automated hearth. Fire on demand. Fire under control. What message had there been in that gift?
She sat by the window, looking out over the estate. She supposed Ash’s estate at Cheynings must be similar. But then she remembered Lady Calliope saying that it was neglected becausethat womanspent nothing on it.
Doubtless Damaris Myddleton’s money would create a deer park, topiary, and a knot garden. That lay below this window, beyond a small lawn edged with box.
A dog raced into the area as if pursuing prey. Then another. A moment later, she realized they were chasing a ball. One caught it and ran back, pursued by the other. They met a man. Two men. And two children.
Lord Rothgar and his brother Lord Bryght were laughing at something, their two elegant dogs frisking, begging for the ball to be thrown again. Persian gazelle hounds someone had told her. Lord Bryght hurled the ball over the hedge, and the dogs streaked off.
Little Master Malloren, bundled up in layers until he was almost round, toddled after, chirruping. An older boy—one of the guests, but she didn’t know his name—went after, apparently to keep an eye on the little one.
The dogs ran back and one gave the ball to Rothgar. He carelessly dried it on his breeches, then called to the boy. The boy turned and, grinning, caught the ball. The dogs loped over to him, tails wagging. The boy hurled, but it only went as far as the hedge. One dog raced after it anyway. The other had a toddler around its neck.
Genova rose, even though she was too far away to do anything, but the dog lay down as if trained to it and obliged with a sort of gentle wrestling match until Lord Bryght rescued it by scooping up his son and tossing him into the air. Lord Rothgar produced anotherball and joined with the older boy in amusing the indefatigable dogs.
Genova leaned against the windowsill, watching this family play, touched that it survived, even among the aristocracy.
Someone knocked on the door.
She opened it and found a maid there, curtsying. “Lady Arradale and Lady Bryght are breakfasting in Lady Walgrave’s room, and invite you and Lady Thalia there, Miss Smith.”
She supposed a lying-in meant some servants were needed.
