The Unthinkable Page 4

  Genie looked up and their eyes locked. Her heart lurched, overwhelmed by the sheer charisma that radiated from him, sucking her in. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something more powerful at work than the simple attraction of his incredible good looks. He was stunning—if that term could be used to describe a man: the classic bone structure of a perfectly shaped nose, high cheekbones, square jaw and wide forehead; a wide sensual mouth; dark blond hair streaked with strands of gold; and striking blue eyes.

  No, there was more. He seduced her with the charm of his twinkling gaze and naughty smile punctuated with dimples. When she looked at him she saw something that definitely wasn’t good for her, but which proved impossible to resist. Like the sweet cakes and chocolate cream puffs that she devoured. In the back of her mind, a voice urged caution. But Genie was drawn to him like a magnet.

  How could she ever think him a frog? He was the prince of her dreams. Knowing she shouldn’t, she found herself asking nonetheless, “There is?”

  “Indeed.” The huskiness of his voice sent chills down her spine. “You could always kiss me to find out.”

  Hastings returned Genie to her mother, bowed, thanked her graciously, and excused himself. Rendered temporarily mute, Genie could only nod like a simpleton.

  She should have upbraided him for such a shocking, highly improper statement. She was shocked. But not in the way that she should have been. Genie was shocked by the thrill that shot through her, by the thought of how much she would like to kiss him. Once formed, the image of his mouth on hers could not be undone. Would his lips be hard or soft? Warm or cool? How would it feel to have those lean, muscular arms wrapped around her in a crushing embrace?

  She jerked upright. What was happening to her? Had she taken complete leave of her senses? Proper young ladies did not think about, let alone discuss, exchanging kisses with gentlemen. Whatever must he think of her? No doubt he thought her a wanton for not immediately taking him to task for his untoward suggestion. She should have been offended. She should have been appalled and asked him never to speak of such indecorous things again.

  She resolved to do exactly that the next time they met.

  Which of course begged the question… would there be a next time?

  He didn’t call.

  A week had passed since the night of the ball. It was clear from the number of gentlemen morning callers at Kington House that despite her lack of fortune, Genie had been a resounding success. Many of her suitors seemed in earnest, including the son of an important squire from Tetbury and the eldest son of the baronet Sir John Thurston from Tewkesbury. Genie knew she should be excited by the prospect of having so many acceptable—more than acceptable, really—suitors to choose from, but try as she might, she could not muster any enthusiasm.

  Not when the person that she most wanted to see had yet to cross the threshold. Despite the obvious barrier of rank, even Charles and her parents seemed surprised. Genie knew that she had not imagined his interest.

  She feared that her initial conclusion could be correct—he thought her wanton and uncouth. Surely he must realize how shocked she was by his suggestion of a kiss? A feeling of dread and dismay swept over her. What if he’d guessed the truth? That she’d actually considered it.

  How could a man that she’d only met once have such a profound effect on her? Perhaps it was because he so resembled the fairy-tale prince of her dreams. Tall and handsome, charming, and kind. He’d soothed her embarrassment with his humor and wit, flirted with her, admired her, and he was the son of a duke. All she could think about was whether she would see him again.

  It seemed not.

  Disappointment rang acute, and not just for Genie. Even Lizzie seemed unusually subdued. There was no more talk of duels and London seasons.

  This morning, for the first time since the ball, Genie and Lizzie decided to take their favorite walk through the castle’s vast surrounding park. Thornbury was unusual in that it could boast two grand country houses, Thornbury Castle and Peyton Park—though Peyton Park had once been part of the neighboring parish of Alveston.

  The magnificent castle was built by the third Duke of Buckingham during the reign of Henry VIII—the same King Henry who later took possession of the castle when the unfortunate duke was beheaded for treason. Queen Mary returned the castle to the Stafford family in whose hands it remained to this day.

  Genie’s home, Kington House, a comfortable brick family home of classical design, was situated not far from the castle, and just down the road from the church of St. Mary’s with its impressive tower pinnacles, where her father was rector under the esteemed patronage of the Marquess of Buckingham. The Buckinghams were the current holders of Thornbury Castle and until recently the only peers in the vicinity.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Lizzie said, breaking the silence.

  They’d come upon a favorite resting place, an old tree trunk carpeted with bright green moss and shaded by the giant oak trees circling the pond. Some distance behind them, but not visible through the band of trees, stood the old stone Tudor Castle.

  Seated on the stump, Lizzie had tucked the yellow skirts of her muslin walking dress up beneath her, revealing an improper display of her shapely calf. She tossed a stone; it skipped three times before sinking into the dark, murky water. Genie could see the frustration screwed on her sister’s lovely face beneath the rim of her straw gypsy hat. Lizzie yanked the pink ribbon under her chin, whipped off her hat and carelessly tossed it next to her, completing the indecorous picture.

  “From everything you’ve said,” Lizzie continued, “from what mother has said, from what Susan has said, I don’t understand. Why has he not called on you?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Lizzie’s eyes narrowed. “There’s nothing wrong with being a parson’s daughter.”

  “There is if you’re the son of a duke,” Genie quipped. Noticing Lizzie’s pressed lips, she softened her tone. “Come now, Lizzie. You know as well as I that such a pairing is highly improbable, if not impossible. You and I were carried away, that’s all.” She forced a gay smile to her lips that she did not feel. “It’s no use worrying over something that cannot be. Let’s talk about something else.”

  Lizzie ignored her. “Tell me again what he said to you after the dance.”

  Genie felt her cheeks burn despite the fact she had omitted the kissing comment from her retellings. “If I tell you, will you promise to put it aside for the remainder of our walk?”

  “Very well,” Lizzie agreed distractedly. “I promise.”

  Genie nodded. “Fine. He asked me what I liked to do in Gloucestershire. I told him walk, picnic by the river, and ride. He asked me if I had a favorite path, I mentioned—”

  “That’s it! How could I have been so obtuse?”

  “Obtuse about what?”

  “I knew we should have gone walking a few days ago,” Lizzie said crossly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you see?” At Genie’s blank look, Lizzie shook her head. “Of course you don’t. Genie, sometimes for an otherwise sensible girl you can be unbelievably green.” It was not said unkindly, so Genie tried not to take offense. “He wanted to know where you walked so that he could happen upon you.”

  Genie’s brow furrowed. “But why? Why would he not just call at the rectory?”

  Lizzie wasn’t listening to her. She was looking over Genie’s shoulder at the path directly behind her that led to the castle. A huge smile lit her face.

  “Don’t look now, but I think your prince approaches.” She tossed in a cheeky smile. “Though he seems to have misplaced his trusty steed.”

  Genie forced herself not to crank her head around like a wrung chicken.

  Instinctively, she gazed down at her simple ivory muslin walking dress. She groaned softly. Why couldn’t she have picked a more elegant gown? There was even mud around the hem. Of course there was nothing she could do about it now. She consoled herself t
hat at least she was wearing her finest silk spencer in a flattering periwinkle blue. “Is my bonnet straight?” she asked anxiously.

  “It’s fine.” Lizzie jumped off the stump, knocked out her skirt, and hastily plopped her hat back on her head. “But you might want to wipe the smudge of chocolate off your cheek.”

  “What!”

  Lizzie giggled. “Only teasing. You look beautiful, Genie. Don’t fret.”

  A few moments passed. Although Lizzie was making a show of appearing not to notice them, Genie could tell by her sister’s expression that something had changed. “What’s wrong?”

  “There is a young woman with him.”

  “Oh.” Crestfallen, Genie tried not to let it show. Lizzie indicated that they were now close enough for Genie to turn around. Genie plastered what she hoped was a carefree smile on her face and looked.

  It was him. And he was with a woman. A beautiful young woman no less. Lord Fitzwilliam Hastings was everything she remembered… and more. The brilliance of his smile could rival the sun god Apollo. He seemed so happy. She felt her mouth quiver trying to maintain her smile in the face of disappointment that curdled her stomach like bad beef. As they drew closer, Genie could see that the woman was young, very young. Probably even younger than Lizzie.

  Hastings spoke first. “Miss Prescott, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “It is indeed, my lord,” Genie replied, proud of her blithe tone.

  “Would you do me the honor of introducing me to your companion, your sister, I presume? The likeness is uncanny.”

  “My younger sister, my lord, Miss Elizabeth Prescott.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Prescott. I am sorry that we did not have the opportunity to meet at the ball.”

  “I am not yet out, my lord,” Lizzie said, unable to keep the resentment from her tone.

  “Neither am I,” his companion piped in, equally resentful.

  Hastings scowled at her fondly. “And that is precisely why, brat. Your manners are deplorable,” he chastised, but with a smile. “Misses Prescott, may I present my sister, Lady Fanny Hastings.”

  Genie brightened. His sister. Of course. How could she not have guessed? Despite their different hair color—Lady Fanny’s was a rich, chestnut brown—the beautiful young woman greatly resembled her brother.

  Lizzie was visibly pleased with the new development as well. “Do you walk here often, my lord?” she asked politely.

  “No—” he started.

  Rolling her eyes, Fanny blurted out at the same time, “We’ve walked this same path for six straight days.”

  Hastings shot his sister a venomous look that promised brotherly retribution. When he turned to Genie, she noticed telltale red blotches on his cheeks. His boyish embarrassment charmed her like nothing else. Her handsome prince wasn’t quite as confident as he appeared.

  She felt a jump of excitement in her chest. He did like her. He had been hoping to meet her. Lizzie shot her a smug “I told you so” grin.

  Genie felt like such a fool. How could she not have realized why he’d inquired into her habits? She could have avoided six days of torturous waiting. But she still didn’t understand why he had not called at the rectory.

  Though replying to his sister, Genie looked at Hastings’s flushed face and teased, “It is a favorite walk of mine as well, my lady.”

  “May we join you? We don’t want to intrude,” he asked.

  “We’d love the company,” Lizzie replied a shade too eagerly. She immediately engaged his sister in conversation and they moved off ahead, leaving Genie and Hastings a discreet distance behind them.

  “I’m afraid that didn’t go quite as smoothly as I had planned,” he said sheepishly.

  “Younger siblings have a way of upsetting even the best laid plans, don’t you think?”

  He grinned. “That they do. Especially that one,” he said indicating Fanny. “She can’t keep a secret for longer than five minutes.”

  Genie shook her head. “I have a feeling your sister and mine will get along famously because Lizzie loves nothing more than to convey secrets.”

  “Should we be worried?”

  Genie laughed. “Probably.”

  They walked along in pleasant silence for a minute or two, enjoying the sunshine. “I feared that I had misunderstood you,” he said.

  Heat rose to her cheeks. He obviously wondered why she had not walked before today. “I’m afraid I did misunderstand you. I didn’t realize…”

  He peered at her questioningly for a moment then seemed to understand. “Ah. So you weren’t avoiding me?”

  She shook her head.

  “I thought I might have offended you.”

  Her cheeks flamed. She peeked at him from under her lashes. He looked like a downtrodden puppy with his troubled frown and soulful eyes. Now would be the time to upbraid him for his improper suggestion, but he looked so worried she didn’t have the heart. “Shocked perhaps, but not offended. Though you should not say such things, my lord.”

  He raked his hair back from his face, clearly at a loss. “I’m not sure what provoked me; I offer no excuse for my deplorable conduct except to say that I was bewitched by your beauty.”

  Genie tried to look stern. “That is no excuse.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said. “But it is the truth. You are beautiful, you know. The most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

  Embarrassed and at the same time enormously pleased, Genie stared at the tops of her half boots just visible beneath the slightly higher front hem of her walking dress. “When you didn’t call at the rectory, I thought…”

  “I planned to later today. I’d hoped to get the chance to renew our acquaintance under less formal circumstances. I wanted to talk to you, really talk to you. We wouldn’t have that opportunity in a crowded reception room. And I’ve heard just how crowded your reception rooms have been this week.”

  Good gracious! He sounded jealous. Genie couldn’t believe it. This handsome gentleman, the son of a duke, was actually jealous of her country suitors. Didn’t he know that they could not possibly compare? Was it possible that beneath the charming, lighthearted exterior he was just as uncertain as she?

  “Not so crowded that I wouldn’t have welcomed you, my lord.”

  He beamed. “I shall call this very afternoon then. But first tell me something about you, Miss Prescott. Other than catch frogs, what do you like to do?”

  Her breath caught. Was he referring to himself? Genie felt like her dreams were unfolding right before her eyes. This was how falling in love was supposed to be: instant attraction, instant camaraderie, instant understanding with no cause to feign disinterest. “The usual pursuits, my lord: pianoforte, embroidery, and singing.”

  She glanced up to find him staring at her. His gaze intensified. She seemed to be caught in a whirlpool, drowning in the azure depths of those gorgeous eyes.

  “All fine pursuits for a young lady,” he dismissed. “But what do you really enjoy?”

  She warmed under his earnestness. He truly wanted to know more about her. The real her, not the accomplished young woman presented to society. Shyly, looking back and forth between him and her feet, she took a deep breath. “I’m afraid that I’m a simple country girl at heart. I’d rather be outside, walking, fishing, or riding than doing anything else.” She peeked again to gage his reaction. “I even, on occasion, hunt when I can persuade my brothers to let me accompany them.”

  “I knew it. A girl after my own heart. What else?”

  “I love children, my young cousins often visit. I read to them, sometimes we make up stories and act them out.”

  “A budding playwright?”

  She giggled. “I’m afraid nothing quite so formal, my lord. More like a displaced governess.” Had she really just said that? Her cheeks burned at the unfortunate slip of tongue. Good gracious, he probably thought her a silly country mouse. Fashionable young ladies did not compare themselves to governesses.

  “If I had been fortunate to ha
ve a governess like you, I’d venture to say that I would have been a very devoted pupil. And a much better student. Shall I let you in on a little secret?”

  Forgetting her embarrassment, Genie nodded.

  “I consider myself a displaced farmer.”

  She thought he was jesting, but he looked at her in earnest. “It’s true. I enjoy the labor, the sense of accomplishment. But promise not to tell anyone or I’ll be laughed out of Brooks and Whites.”

  Genie grinned. “I promise. My lips are sealed.”

  “Now that you know my deepest secret, I should like to hear some of your stories sometime.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d be too embarrassed.”

  He made a small wave with his hands. “Nonsense.” He stopped behind a tree where their sisters wouldn’t be able to see them, took her hand, and gazed into her eyes. “I have a feeling you and I, Miss Prescott, like our young sisters over there are going to get along famously.” He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against the thin leather of her glove. An improper gesture, but she would remember that later. Melting under the heat of his gaze, Genie felt a tide of warmth ripple through her body. He lowered his voice, a sultry whisper that sent chills down her spine. “Very close friends, indeed.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “What shall it be tomorrow, my little princess? A ride around the countryside or a chance meeting in the park?” Lying on his side, perched up on one elbow, Hastings lazily tossed a small white flower into the water. The delicate bloom drifted gracefully along the surface for a long, deceptive moment before being dragged downstream by the indomitable flow of the river Severn.

  Lounging on the grassy bank of the secluded cove that she discovered with her brothers many years ago, Genie sighed with contentment. This is how it had been for four idyllic weeks: intense, heart-stopping courting interspersed with magical moments of stolen privacy. He’d pursued her with a singularity of purpose, distinctly at odds with the lighthearted young man she’d grown to admire and esteem above all others.