The Marrying Season: Volume 3 - Brossura

Candace Camp is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than sixty novels of contemporary and historical romance, including the bestselling Regency romances Enraptured, Treasured, and The Marrying Season. She grew up in Texas in a newspaper family, which explains her love of writing, but she earned a law degree and practiced law before making the decision to write full time. She has received several writing awards, including the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award. Visit her at Candace-Camp.com.

The Marrying Season One

Genevieve Stafford watched, smiling, as her brother led his new bride onto the floor for their first dance. “I’ve never seen Alec look so happy.”

Her grandmother let out a small, ladylike snort. “One would think Alec could have waited a few months at least. A hasty marriage is always cause for gossip, and when it is to a nobody, people are bound to talk.”

“People would talk no matter who Alec married or how long they waited,” Genevieve reminded her.

“I suppose it is inevitable when one is the Earl of Rawdon. Still, there’s no need poking a beehive with a stick. I had hoped Rawdon would choose a more appropriate bride, given the scandal his first engagement provoked.”

“One can hardly blame Alec for Lady Jocelyn’s behavior.” Genevieve quickly came to her brother’s defense.

“ ’Tis a logical consequence of Alec’s considering only how a woman looks, instead of her birth or family or character.”

“Alec does love beauty,” Genevieve admitted. “But there is more to Damaris than that.”

The countess cast her a sideways glance. “Taking up the cudgels for Alec’s wife now, too? As I remember, you wanted him to marry Damaris no more than I did.”

Genevieve felt a flush rising in her cheeks under her grandmother’s scrutiny. The countess had a way of making her feel as if she were five years old with a stain on her skirt. “I did not want him to be hurt again. I feared Damaris was an adventuress who would leave him once she’d gotten what she wanted. He would have been devastated.” Her grandmother would never know how close Alec had come to that state when he thought Damaris had left him. The countess had been carefully shielded from the tumultuous events at Castle Cleyre. Genevieve went on carefully, “I—I came to see that I had been wrong about her. The important thing is, Damaris adores Alec, and he loves her.”

“Pfft. Love.” The countess waved away the notion. “Alec has a regrettable tendency toward poetic notions.” She frowned at the thought of this shortcoming in her grandson. “At least you are not given to such nonsense.”

“No, of course not.” Genevieve was unaware of the little sigh she uttered.

“Ah, Felicity!” Real pleasure in her voice at last, the countess turned away to greet her old friend Lady Hornbaugh. “I wondered where you had gotten to.”

“Thought I’d slipped off for a nap, eh?” Lady Hornbaugh trumpeted. “I considered it, I’ll tell you that. Nothing like a vicar’s sermon to cure insomnia, I always say. Hallo, Genevieve.”

“Lady Hornbaugh.” Genevieve greeted her grandmother’s friend with polite deference, though inside she groaned. Whenever Lady Hornbaugh—with a voice that could be heard across any ballroom and of an outspoken bent—was around, Genevieve lived in dread of what she might say.

“You drew a nice number of guests,” Lady Hornbaugh went on, nodding and surveying the room. “Who is that with Sir Myles?”

Genevieve glanced over. Sir Myles Thorwood was making his bow to two women standing beside a well-dressed blond man. Good humor shone from Myles’s dark-lashed, golden-brown eyes, almost the same shade as his sun-kissed, light brown hair. His full, expressive mouth was, as usual, curved up in a merry grin. He was impeccably dressed, his broad-shouldered form showing to best advantage in the formal black attire. He was not as handsome as some—Lord Morecombe, for instance, who had the looks of a Lucifer—but it was generally agreed that Sir Myles Thorwood was possessed of an indefinable, irresistible, and apparently unending supply of charm.

“Flirting, as always.” Genevieve frowned. She was, she knew, one of the few people in the ton who was not beguiled by Sir Myles. The man had been one of her brother’s closest friends for years, but Genevieve and Myles rarely met that they did not find something upon which they disagreed.

“That is the Earl of Dursbury. Excellent family, of course. Never a whiff of scandal.”

“So that’s the new earl. Knew his father, of course—and a dull dog he was.” Lady Hornbaugh raised her lorgnette and stared unabashedly. “Then the beauty beside him is his stepmother?”

“Yes. Dreadful woman.” Lady Rawdon sniffed.

Genevieve studied the attractive woman now chatting with Sir Myles. Lady Dursbury’s lustrous, dark hair was done up in an intricate arrangement of curls; her eyes were large and a soft, doelike brown. Diamonds winked in her earlobes, matched by the pendant around her throat. She wore a round gown of deep plum silk, her full, white bosom swelling above the lace-edged neckline. Genevieve could not help but contrast the woman’s curvaceous figure to her own tall, narrow frame.

“The old earl died a year ago, as I recall, so she’ll be out of her year of mourning. She’s been stuck out in the country since she married Dursbury, and now, I’ll wager, she intends to make a come-out of her own. Who’s the young chit with them?”

“Miss Halford,” Lady Rawdon said. “She was old Dursbury’s ward. Lived with them since her father died a few years ago. It’s said her ladyship is very fond of her.”

“Harry Halford’s daughter? I warrant Lady Dursbury is fond of her, then.” Lady Hornbaugh let out one of her boisterous laughs. “Girl’s worth a fortune. Shouldn’t wonder if Dursbury has a mind to marry her.”

Genevieve’s grandmother shrugged. “She’s a plain little thing. And I’ve never heard that Dursbury was cash-strapped.”

“No. Still, never bad to have more. Mayhap Sir Myles has a mind toward the heiress, as well,” Lady Hornbaugh speculated.

“Myles?” Genevieve repeated, startled, then laughed. “Myles is not the marrying sort.”

“He is a dreadful flirt, of course,” her grandmother agreed. “I have seen him break many a foolish young girl’s heart.”

“You malign the young man,” protested Lady Hornbaugh, who obviously had a soft spot for Sir Myles. “He’s not at all unkind. Quite the opposite, I’d say.”

“I did not say it was his fault. I don’t suppose Sir Myles can help it if silly girls melt at his smile or think his compliments mean undying devotion. Thank goodness Genevieve had too much sense to pay attention to his blandishments.”

“Sir Myles never flirted with me,” Genevieve pointed out. “He was too loyal a friend to Alec. Not, of course, that I wanted him to.”

“Still, no matter how much he enjoys his bachelor state, Sir Myles must marry one day,” the countess remarked. “He has that whole brood of sisters, no brother to follow him or produce an heir. But I cannot imagine he would be interested in so plain a chit as Miss Halford. The widow would be more his style.”

“Dursbury’s stepmother?” Genevieve asked. “But she is older than Sir Myles, surely.”

“Three or four years, perhaps. Married young to an old man,” her grandmother summed up succinctly. “I imagine the lady’s charms would outweigh that.”

“It certainly doesn’t seem he finds any fault in her,” Genevieve said tartly.

“And Lady Dursbury returns his interest,” Lady Hornbaugh responded gleefully.

Lady Dursbury’s face was glowing, her eyes sparkling, as she chatted with Myles. The woman leaned forward to put her hand on his arm, smiling up into his face. Genevieve felt a twinge of annoyance, an emotion not uncommon where Sir Myles was concerned, and she turned away, looking out across the large assembly room.

“It’s no wonder,” Lady Hornbaugh went on. “Thorwood’s a handsome young devil. Don’t you agree, Genevieve?”

“What? Oh. Yes, I suppose,” Genevieve said with great indifference, wafting her fan. “I have known him so long, I scarcely notice.”

“Not notice!” Lady Hornbaugh hooted. “Good gracious, girl, now you have me worried about your eyesight.”

“I suggest we cease discussing the man,” her grandmother put in, “as he is making his way toward us right now.”

Genevieve glanced over to see that Myles was, indeed, striding across the floor toward them, smiling. Her spirits rose in anticipation. Her verbal skirmishes with Myles were always invigorating, no matter how irritating the man could be. And, she was honest enough to admit, it was rather pleasant to watch him walk.

“Lady Rawdon.” Myles made a perfect bow to the women. “And Lady Hornbaugh. Lady Genevieve. I cannot believe my good fortune to find three such lovely ladies unattended.”

“Flatterer,” Lady Hornbaugh replied without a hint of displeasure, and rapped him lightly on the arm with her fan. “As if we did not know that ’tis the presence of only one young lady that brought you over to visit us. ’Tis Genevieve who draws the young gentlemen.”

“I fear you mistake Sir Myles,” Genevieve said drolly. “He has no preference for me or any other particular lady. He is like a butterfly, drawn to all the flowers.”

Myles’s eyes gleamed gold with amusement. “Lady Genevieve! You are implying I am fickle?”

“I would not say fickle. Merely . . . indiscriminate.”

He laughed. “My lady, you have a cruel tongue.”

“I would say a truthful one.”

“Nay, I cannot allow you to count yourself so low.”

“Myself? I believe we were discussing you, sir,” Genevieve shot back.

“But if I am indiscriminate in my tastes, then my desire to ask you for this dance would cast you among the vast lot of young ladies whom I admire. And you must know that you are on a level quite above them.”

Genevieve could not keep from chuckling. “You are a complete hand.”

“That I may be. But will you give me your hand for this dance?” He extended his arm to her.

Genevieve took his arm, and they started toward the center of the floor. “Rather cocksure of yourself, I must say,” she told him. “Offering me your arm before I answered.”

“Oh, I knew you would dance with me,” Myles said with a grin. “You cannot resist.”

“Indeed?” Genevieve raised an eyebrow. “You count yourself so charming?”

“No, but I know that however obstinate, haughty, and disagreeable you may be, you love to dance.”

Genevieve drew in breath to shoot back a sharp retort, but instead she laughed. “You are an excellent dancer,” she admitted. “Indeed, it was you who taught me to dance.”

“Did I?”

“I might have known you would not remember. No doubt it is more difficult when one has danced with every young lady of the ton.”

“One must practice, after all.” Myles grinned and leaned his head toward her in that way he had perfected, as if the woman on his arm were the only woman in the room. “But ’tis always memorable to dance with you.”

“Don’t try to cut a wheedle with me.” Genevieve rolled her eyes. “You just told me you did not recall. It was one summer when you and Gabriel came with Alec to Castle Cleyre. Grandmama had quite despaired of my learning to dance properly. My dancing tutor had left in a snit.”

Myles let out a bark of laughter. “Chased off by the rough edge of your tongue, no doubt.”

“He was an oily little man,” Genevieve shot back indignantly. “He tried to kiss me one day—and I was only thirteen!” She stopped, realizing that Myles’s teasing had led her to touch on a most indelicate subject. It was one of Myles’s many annoying qualities—somehow when she was around him, she found herself blurting out the most appalling things. Fortunately, Myles rarely seemed shocked, no matter what she told him.

“I am surprised Alec didn’t have his hide.”

“I did not tell him, of course. I was afraid he might kill the little weasel, and I would not have wanted Alec to go to gaol, of course.”

“Of course. Why didn’t you get Alec to teach you to dance?”

“He wasn’t as good a dancer as you. Gabriel was quite good also, but I had such a mad tendre for him that I stumbled all over my feet whenever he was near.”

“Your girlish dreams were for Gabe and not me?” Myles raised his hand to his chest dramatically. “Lady Genevieve, you wound me.”

Genevieve laughed. “Then you may take consolation in the fact that you rank well above Gabriel now.” She glanced over to where Lord Morecombe and his wife, Thea, stood talking and laughing with Alec and Damaris.

“Ah, Genny . . . can you not forgive Gabe yet?” Myles asked in a more serious tone.

“He turned against my brother.” Genevieve’s blue eyes flashed in a way Myles had witnessed often enough in Rawdon, reminding him how close the Staffords still were to their fierce and autocratic ancestors. “The Morecombes broke Alec’s heart, and it was not just Jocelyn’s tossing him aside that did it. Alec believed Gabriel was his friend. You do not know how it was, growing up in the castle. There were no children of proper birth anywhere around, and a Stafford could not be friends with a servant or a tenant’s child. Father would have had his hide.”

“I think it was not only Alec who found it lonely at Cleyre,” Myles said gently.

“Oh, well . . .” Genevieve glanced at him. Myles could be disconcertingly perceptive at times. She shrugged carelessly, erasing the heat from her voice. “I did not feel it as Alec did. When he went off to school and you and Gabriel befriended him, it meant a great deal to Alec. For Gabriel to accuse him of frightening Jocelyn into running away—even going so far as to suggest that Alec might have harmed the silly girl! It wounded Alec deeply.”

“Yet Alec has forgiven him.” Myles nodded toward the two men, deep in conversation.

“Yes. Well . . . Alec has a warmer heart than I.” Genevieve smiled ruefully. “Mayhap he has more of our mother in him. It is enough for him that Gabriel apologized for his accusations.”

“Gabriel was in a good deal of pain himself at the time,” Myles reminded her. “He feared his friendship for Alec had led him to push his sister into the engagement.”

“Gabriel’s sister was as foolish as she was selfish, and the fact that she died as a result does not change her into a martyr. For Alec’s sake I will try not to dislike Gabriel. But I shall never forgive Jocelyn.” Genevieve’s eyes flashed, her jaw setting.

“What a lioness you are! I can only pray that I will never be the object of your enmity.”

“Don’t be absurd. You would never turn your back on Alec. No one can deny your loyalty.”

“Despite my many other shortcomings.” Myles grinned. The music struck up behind them, and he held out his hand. “Enough talk of feuds past. Come, Genny, let us dance.”

Genevieve smiled and went into his arms.

When Myles returned Genevieve to her grandmother’s side, Lady Rawdon had been joined by Alec and Damaris, as well as Lord and Lady Morecombe. Morecombe bowed politely to Genevieve, though he shot her an ironic glance that said he knew full well her true feelings about him. Genevieve returned his greeting without the iciness she would normally have employed. After all, she had told Myles she would try to like him, and since his wife was Damaris’s best friend, the Morecombes would clearly often be around. She smiled at Gabriel’s wife with more warmth. Genevieve had been around Thea several times the past few days as the wedding preparations demanded, and somewhat to her surprise, she found herself liking the woman.

Alec was smiling, as he had been all day, and his blue eyes, even lighter than Genevieve’s, were bright with happiness. Impulsively, he reached out and pulled his sister into a hug, the affectionate gesture surprising them both.

“I am very happy for you,” Genevieve told him quietly.

“Thank you.” Alec released Genevieve, grinning. “No doubt ’tis a great relief for everyone, given the state of my company the last few weeks.”

“You were a bit of a bear,” Geneviev...