The Unthinkable Page 3

  Genie shook her head, listening to the fanciful ramblings. Lizzie’s imagination, once freed, was impossible to harness. So rather than try to stop her, Genie just sat back and allowed herself to be swept along for the ride.

  A duke’s son. A sharp thrill shot through her. To wed the son of a duke was almost like marrying a prince—with a coronet instead of a crown. What a wonderful story it would make, to be whisked away into the privileged, exciting world of the beau monde. Was such a thing possible?

  Hardly. She grinned. It was about as likely as Lizzie sitting still long enough to finish her sampler.

  But it was certainly fun to dream about.

  After months of preparation, not to mention countless trips to her mother’s mantua maker, the eagerly anticipated day had finally dawned. The week-long horse races held at Thornbury’s prized racetrack were over, and tonight, Genie and three other girls, including her dearest friend Miss Caroline Howard, would be presented to society tonight at the ball held in the town’s hall on High Street.

  The town was abuzz with excitement. And not just on account of the annual harvest festival race-week ball. The Duke of Huntingdon and his family had arrived at Peyton Park a few days ago, though no one seemed to be sure whether they would attend the ball tonight. After four weeks of Lizzie’s outrageous imaginings, Genie hoped they would show if only to put an end to all the speculation.

  Genie had been giddy with excitement all day—all week for that matter. She’d begun her preparations for the ball hours ago and was finding it difficult to sit still while Patty, her mother’s lady’s maid, put the finishing touches on her elegant coiffure.

  Genie couldn’t believe the difference in her appearance. The elegant woman reflected in the mirror was in sharp contrast to the excited young girl twittering inside.

  The pearl encrusted bandeaux that matched the delicate pearl earrings, necklace, and bracelet borrowed from her mother, had been secured on the crown of her flaxen head. Her long hair was bound up in the back into a high cascade of ringlets. More silken curls had been artfully arranged along her temples. What in the end was meant to appear simple and uncomplicated had thus far taken over an hour and a half to arrange. All that was left was to weave fresh pink flowers through the bandeaux to match the satin trim of her gown..

  “Sally,” her mother called anxiously to one of the harried chambermaids darting in and out of the room. “Where is the pink satin ribbon? Did you find the flowers for the bandeaux? Oh, where is my cashmere shawl? And find someone to help Miss Prescott get these kid gloves on.”

  “I have the ribbon and the flowers right here, ma’am. Your shawl is on the bed. I’ll send Kitty right up to help with the gloves.” The poor girl was barely coping with the frenzied demands of her nervous mistress.

  It seemed that all four of the female servants had been in her room at some point today. Indeed, the entire household of Kington House, from her father down to the daily scullery maid, had been on edge all week long.

  Expectations ran high. Despite her rather insignificant dowry, Genie knew that her family hoped that her “angelic beauty and sweetness of character” would enable her to make a good match. The entire family would benefit. The son of a wealthy squire or perhaps even the son of a nearby baronet could aid her eldest brother, Charles, in securing a good parish and help advance William and John with more desirable commissions.

  Critically, Genie studied her reflection as Patty began to weave the tiny flowers through the bandeaux. Her father called her and Lizzie his “two little Rubens cherubs.” Genie supposed it was an apt description with their pale, baby-soft blond hair, tiny turned-up noses, round pink cheeks, red bow lips and big blue eyes. Both girls also enjoyed their sweet cakes and tended toward a curvaceous figure. Pleasing enough, Genie supposed, but the big question was whether she would prove popular tonight.

  She dearly hoped so. What girl didn’t dream of having a swarm of handsome beaux to choose from at her first ball? And maybe from those beaux she would find her one true love. Like Lizzie, at her heart Genie was a romantic, though she was a tad more sensible than her oft impulsive sister.

  Genie yearned to be swept away by love and happiness like that which her parents had found. A husband whom she loved, a comfortable home, and a dozen children were everything Genie could wish for.

  But she’d yet to meet a man who came close to fitting her dreams. With only a few thousand people in the parish, she was already acquainted with most of the eligible young men in Thornbury. But tonight, many of the gentry from the surrounding countryside would join in the celebration. Perhaps her true love would be amongst them?

  The last flower secured in place, Genie stood to view the culmination of months of planning. Otherwise unadorned, the white crepe gown was trimmed at her high waistline with a thin pink satin ribbon to match the delicate pink satin petticoat. A moderate train, which would be pinned later for dancing, fell in small gathers down the length of her back. A rounded neck, tight bodice, and short sleeves completed the fashionable Grecian-style gown. Genie and Lizzie had pored over the latest sketches from their aunts in London to achieve just the right design. Thrilled with the result, she twirled before the looking glass.

  “Oh Eugenia,” her mother exclaimed, her eyes misting with tears. “You are loveliness itself. You’ve always made your father and me so proud, always such a good, sensible girl. Now look at you, all grown up…” She trailed off, dabbing her eyes with a lace-trimmed piece of linen she’d pulled from her reticule.

  “Truly, I’ve never seen you look so beautiful, Genie. The men will be falling at your feet. I do wish I could be there to see you tonight,” Lizzie said from her forlorn perch on Genie’s bed. “It’s not fair. Why must I wait until I’m eighteen?” She scowled at their mother. “Susan is coming-out with Genie and she has only just turned seventeen.”

  Sly puss, Genie thought. Lizzie’s nagging magically lightened the sentimental mood.

  “That’s only because Mrs. Andrews can’t wait to catch a title,” Mrs. Prescott replied briskly. “Your father and I harbor no such ambition. Though I wish we had more for you girls.”

  Genie could hear the silent apology in her mother’s voice. Although her father’s advowson of seven hundred and fifty pounds a year under the patronage of the Marquess of Buckingham was considered substantial for a rector, after providing for her brothers and supporting her two maiden aunts there was not much left for the two girls.

  “But you are both beautiful and accomplished,” Mrs. Prescott continued firmly, convincing herself. “It will be enough.” She sighed. “Before I know it both my girls will be gone with homes and families of their own.”

  “That will be some time yet, Mother.”

  “Especially for me,” Lizzie piped in glumly.

  “It will be your turn soon enough, young miss.” Mrs. Prescott gazed at Lizzie thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is the bane of the youngest to always want to be the eldest.” Gently, she lifted Lizzie’s chin with her finger. “So impatient, always afraid that you’ll miss something.” Leaning down, she placed a light kiss on Lizzie’s cheek. “Try not to grow up too fast, my love.”

  Empathizing with her sister’s impatience—a feeling she understood only too well at the moment—Genie offered what consolation she could. “I promise to tell you everything, including every boring detail about the duke’s sons—if they deign to make an appearance.”

  “Boring?” Lizzie laughed. “You don’t fool me, Genie Prescott. You are as curious as I am. But I’ll hold you to your promise. I want to hear every detail.” She sighed dramatically. “I just know something wonderful is going to happen tonight.”

  Any trepidation Genie may have harbored vanished in the first few minutes after her arrival when she was immediately surrounded by a throng of very enthusiastic gentlemen vying for her introduction.

  Never had she had such fun. Dancing, laughing, even her first foray into a little innocent flirting. It was perfect. She wished the night would ne
ver end.

  Awaiting refreshment, Genie stood with her friend Caroline at the back of the large hall next to the wide doors that opened to the patio, fanning herself with the cool breeze of the starry summer night. Along with her first ball, she was also experiencing the unbearable heat of a crowded ballroom lit by hundreds of candles. Genie welcomed the rare moment of peace, content to merely observe the dancers for a while. A sea of white and pastel silk swirled by, the ladies’ gowns shimmering in the soft flickering candlelight.

  “It feels like I’ve been caught up in a pink and violet whirlwind.”

  Genie turned to Caro, taking note of the bright eyes and flushed cheeks that surely matched her own. Fortunately, Caro had not lacked for suitors either. As the only daughter of the baronet Sir John Howard, Caro was guaranteed a certain modicum of success by her connections alone, but her vivacious joie de vivre immediately enraptured all around her. Her otherwise ordinary features transformed to beauty by the force of personality alone.

  “I know what you mean,” Genie agreed. “The night has flown by. Everything has happened so fast I can barely remember any of it.”

  “You better,” Caro warned, “or Lizzie will never forgive you.”

  They shared a smile. Bereft of a sister, Caro loved Lizzie as her own. Thinking of her last conversation with Lizzie, Genie said, “She’ll be disappointed that the duke and his family have chosen not to attend. She was in quite a sulk when I left. I only pacified her by promising details.”

  Caro nodded, understanding. “I suppose it is to be expected, but a disappointment all the same. I’ve never seen a duke before.”

  “Most in this room have not.”

  Above the din of the music, a wave of whispers rippled through the hall. Genie glanced toward the entry. A shiver of excitement ran up her spine. A distinguished older gentleman and an extremely thin woman of indeterminate age, wearing the most extraordinary turban she had ever seen, were being welcomed by the Marquess and Marchioness of Buckingham. Their unmatched elegance and haughty disdain alone proclaimed them as the Duke and Duchess of Huntingdon. Not to mention the giant diamond broach that secured a plumed feather that must have been two feet high to the turban. Genie could see the large sparkling gem from across the room.

  “Perhaps Lizzie will not be disappointed after all?” Genie said, peering through the crowd that had gathered around the new arrivals but unable to see whether their sons had accompanied them.

  “Her gown is magnificent.”

  Genie nodded. It was true. The intricate design, the elaborate beading in a room of simply adorned gowns, the workmanship, and the bold purple color were unrivaled. The Duchess’s sophisticated ensemble exemplified rare wealth and power. Even the formidable Marchioness seemed provincial in comparison.

  Their dancing partners, amiable young men from Tewkesbury, reappeared with the promised ratafia, drawing their attention away from the ducal party. She was led back onto the dance floor and the opportunity to apprize the sons from afar was lost.

  Lizzie was going to kill her. The ball was almost over and she had yet to catch a glimpse of the duke’s sons. She’d managed a few discreet searches, but thus far, no luck. Perhaps they had decided not to join their parents? Perhaps they were too proud to partake of humble country society?

  She tried not to be disappointed but failed.

  The dance ended and her partner led her back toward the circle of women that included her mother and Mrs. Andrews. Though some in the room might look down on the Andrews’ trade connections as inferior, Mrs. Prescott was not so small-minded. “There’s no shame in doing a hard day’s work,” was her gentle refrain.

  Before Genie could rejoin her mother, an animated Caro intercepted her. “They’re here,” she whispered.

  “You’ve seen them?”

  Caro nodded; a broad smile on her face.

  “Then tell me,” Genie asked impatiently. “Are the duke’s sons more frog or prince?”

  Caro’s eyes widened to enormous proportions. “See for yourself,” she whispered.

  Genie’s eyes narrowed quizzically. She turned to find her eldest brother Charles at her side, looking as if he’d just swallowed a horse.

  A lump of dread formed in the pit of her stomach. Please, don’t let the duke’s sons be standing right next to me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Her prayer was only half answered.

  “Sister,” Charles said tightly. “May I introduce Lord Fitzwilliam Hastings.”

  Genie finally glanced at the young man at his side; though how she could have missed him, even for a moment, was incomprehensible. Her breath caught. Surely her eyes rounded with shock? He was tall, with dark blond hair and blue eyes, and quite simply the most handsome young man she had ever set eyes on.

  Stunned into a temporary stupor, but eventually rote training took over and Genie curtsied. “A pleasure, my lord.”

  He seemed to be alone, but she took little relief that there were not two handsome duke’s sons to witness her dreadful gaffe.

  Beautifully white teeth gleamed from behind an amused grin. He bowed and an oh-so-tempting lock of dark gold hair fell forward across his cheek.

  A single thought invaded her mind: She wanted to touch it.

  The highly improper response succeeded in jolting her back to reality.

  A reality where she might have just committed a horrible faux pas. Had he heard her compare him to a frog?

  “Miss Prescott,” he said.

  Two little words. But enough to hear the laughter in his voice. Oh, he’d heard her all right.

  She’d certainly have something to tell Lizzie about now, only the single most embarrassing moment of her life.

  Yet, the charming twinkle in his sea-blue eyes disarmed her. Mirth was not what she expected from a gentleman of his distinction and rank.

  “I hope more prince than frog, Miss Prescott?”

  The color slid from her face. Mortified, Genie wanted to crawl beneath the nearest table and hide. “Though you might not agree once you meet my brother Henry.” He laughed. His obvious good humor lifted the blanket of uncomfortable tension that had descended upon the small group. Even her staid brother Charles smiled.

  Genie blushed at his gentle teasing. Lord Fitzwilliam Hastings was certainly not the too-proud man she assumed. Perhaps only a few years older than herself, she decided that he must be the second son. The elder had a title, Viscount Loudoun. Still too embarrassed to meet his gaze, she did manage a small smile in return. “Then I’ll reserve my judgment, my lord, until I have had the pleasure.”

  Surprised by her own playfulness, Genie stole a quick glance.

  From the way his dimples deepened, she could tell that he admired her pert reply. “If I promise not to croak too loudly, will you do me the honor of a dance?”

  Her pulse raced. She hoped her voice sounded less eager than she felt. “Of course.”

  He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. Even through the leather of her gloves, she could feel the firm strength of his hand and the hard muscle of his arm as he placed her fingers in its crook. She seemed to be aware of everything about him, from the overwhelming strength of his tall, lean build to the hypnotic clean scent of sandalwood that surrounded him.

  It was strange. She’d never had this reaction with her other dance partners. She glanced at him from under her lashes. Though she supposed none of her other dance partners looked like they stepped straight off the pages of a fairy tale.

  The Country Dance began and the next half hour was interspersed with only the occasional snippets of conversation.

  He was enjoying his time in Gloucestershire thus far. He found the long stretches of farmland near the river Severn crossed by the old stone walls particularly beautiful. Peyton Park seemed a fine country house and was more than sufficient while Donnington Park was undergoing improvement, thank you.

  Conversation might have been limited, but Genie had never enjoyed a dance more. When the divergent movements of
the dance prevented speech, he communicated with her in other ways. Just by the way he stared at her, his interest was clear: the intensity of his gaze, the subtle lifting of a brow, the irrepressible charm of his roguish smile.

  Genie couldn’t help but bubble with pleasure. She knew she was probably smiling too broadly, her eyes too bright, her cheeks too flushed, but she bloomed under his appreciative gaze.

  She wanted to stare at him, to memorize his glorious features, but she kept her gaze down-turned and properly demure. Each time she managed to catch a glimpse of him from under her lashes, he was staring at her—improperly, boldly even.

  Genie felt light-headed.

  Unfortunately, the dance had to come to an end. He took a circuitous route to return her to her mother who was watching them with unabashed interest. As were most of the women in the room. He was amazing, and he’d singled her out. She couldn’t prevent the smile, but she forced herself to repress the companion sigh.

  They’d nearly reached her mother, but were still far enough away for a few last moments of private conversation. “And what do you do with your days in Gloucestershire, Miss Prescott?”

  She sensed something lurking behind his pleasantry, but she answered him matter-of-factly. “I enjoy the countryside, my lord. Long walks, picnics along the river as the weather permits, and of course, riding.”

  “Hmm. Sounds delightful. Would you recommend any spots for walking in particular?”

  “The path around the park of the castle is a great favorite of mine. My younger sister, Lizzie, and I take our morning constitutional there a couple of times a week.”

  He seemed pleased with her response.

  They were almost within earshot of her mother when he said, “Well, Miss Prescott, have you found the answer to your question?”

  She blushed and didn’t bother pretending not to understand. “I am still as yet undecided, my lord,” she said primly.

  “Hmm,” he considered. A naughty grin played upon his lips. “There is always another way…”