Genova was probably the one here most familiar with hard work, which might be why she didn’t feel as if she belonged. She hovered, pretending to admire a classical statue until she realized that studying a naked man could not improve her reputation.
She turned away, looking for Portia, or even Lady Arradale, and saw Ashart coming down at last, but with Damaris Myddleton on his arm. The heiress’s eyes seemed to seek out Genova’s so she could signal her triumph.
Ashart had added only gloves and hat. Perhaps he had no extra layer other than his riding cloak, which would be too heavy for a stroll. Would a marquess spend Christmas with only the contents of a saddlebag? More Trayce eccentricity.
Miss Myddleton’s waist-length cape was trimmed, and probably lined, with fur. Genova guessed mink. She hoped the heiress was wearing woolen stockingsand an extra petticoat or two. Such a shame if she got chilblains.
Trying not to think catty thoughts, Genova strolled over to meet the two at the bottom of the stairs, to claim Ashart’s other arm. He raised her gloved hand and kissed it.
“A guinea, please,” she said.
With a cocked brow, he produced one and gave it to her.
“Youchargehim for kisses, Miss Smith?” Miss Myddleton asked.
“In a game.” Ashart’s eyes never left Genova. “Something like the mistletoe bough. Does that really count as a kiss, Miss Smith?”
“If you need lessons, sir…”
“A definition, perhaps?”
“That would be as difficult as defining a true husband.”
“Vows said before a minister,” inserted Miss Myddleton, tightening her paw—hand—on Ashart’s sleeve.
Genova suddenly felt sorry for the young woman. “What if the vows are broken, Miss Myddleton? The law doesn’t allow a lady to end a marriage for that.”
“It’s remarkably hard for a gentleman,” Ashart said. “Thus, the bonds are best considered binding, no matter what becomes of the vows.”
“Is that why you’re not bound, Ashart?” Miss Myddleton demanded.
“But I am. To Miss Smith. My word is given and will be kept unless she insists on her freedom.”
It was cruel as a blade, and Genova winced. Miss Myddleton snatched away her hand, a spot of angry color in each cheek. Had she not heard before? Or chosen not to believe.
“I must wish you both happy then,” she said, pitch too high.
“Must,” Ashart echoed, eyes on Genova.
“Must,” Genova replied.
When the heiress marched off to talk to others Genova said, “That was unnecessarily cruel.”
He dropped the amorous manner. “Is your soft heart touched? Damaris Myddleton wouldn’t be trying to sink cat’s claws into plain Mr. Dash.”
“I wonder.”
He was probably right, however. Miss Myddleton might be attracted to handsome Mr. Dash, but she wouldn’t invest her fortune in him.
The young officer came over. “We’re planning the correct handling of the Yule log, Ashart. Hoping you’ll give your advice.”
He’d probably been sent to drag in the unwilling bachelor. With a bow to Genova, Ashart went to join the other men.
Lady Arradale and Portia had not come down yet. It was possible they wouldn’t be joining the party at all, since traditionally only unmarried people brought in the greenery. Lord Bryght seemed to be part of it, however, and she saw Lord Rothgar join the men.
“Miss Smith.”
Genova turned to find Damaris Myddleton approaching and suppressed a sigh.
