Page 29 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

I t was another two days before Geneva finally escaped her rooms and never had anyone been so thrilled. Despite how lovely her Morpho Suite was, she would gladly have slept on the hard ground near the cliffs rather than spend one more moment confined inside. She was exceedingly weary of the whole business of being considered infirm. True, her knees weren’t completely steady, but—ha!—that was likely due to lack of use.

Noah held her arm as if he feared she would keel over as he walked her to the music room.

The megrims had eased and the lack of physical activity might have left her feeling lightheaded, but she was restless beyond words and quite looking forward to hearing Isabelle play the pianoforte. The child was a virtuoso. That might have been an exaggeration, as Geneva had never heard a virtuoso before. Abra notwithstanding, she thought, a smile filling her. Oh, how she missed her friend.

Upon entering the music room, she came to a quick stop.

It was plain to recognize the Marquess of Martindale, an abominable man, as the crowd was minimal at best He was much harsher than his late father had been reputed. Sadly, the elder had expired around the time Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, had in the late twenties.

“No one will bite,” Noah told her in a low tone.

But Noah hadn’t been in the park the day he’d been riding by. “Perhaps I shall do the biting,” she whispered back fiercely. She’d never been so grateful to Abra for having the foresight in leaving Geneva a respectable wardrobe. She smoothed her free hand down the cerulean silk skirts.

“Don’t be nervous. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

It was literally too late to back out of the room, as all eyes had turned upon her. Which also stopped her from digging her slipper into the carpet and being seized forward against her will. “I’ve never been nervous a day in my life.” She almost believed her words.

The decorative room was cool due to the high ceilings, but the blazing fire in the hearth reflected by the gilt-framed mirrors staved off the worst of it. This was where Noah led her.

“Miss Wimbley.” Sander Oshea inclined his head. “I’m relieved to see you looking so well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Noah turned from his uncle to the Marquess of Martindale.

Geneva thought she might be sick. She’d managed to avoid him during the events surrounding the late earl’s service, but doing so now was impossible. Only the thought of ruining Isabelle’s big night kept her from sliding to the floor in a dead faint.

“May I present the Marquess of Martindale.” Noah’s words yanked her attention from her coiling stomach. It took everything in her to not take a step back. “His lordship was still in the area visiting with Mr. Asher when the invitation for Isabelle’s musicale was issued.” Noah spoke without an ounce of emotion. Which said much to Geneva. He seemed to read the marquess as she did, a coxcomb of the first order.

“Miss Wimbley, I believe we’ve met before. Hyde Park, wasn’t it?”

Locking her hands at her lower back, Geneva inclined her head. “Indeed, my lord.” She could see the scene as clearly as if it were yesterday. She, Hanna, Meredith, and Abra had been strolling the path along the Serpentine when the marquess had nearly run them down, spouting a snide slur at Abra that didn’t bear thinking about. This was the man Lady Westbridge wished to shackle Abra to for the rest of her life.

Geneva blasted him with a bright smile she knew would vex him to no end. Her, an inconsequential cipher. “I see you survived Lord Westbridge’s wrath.”

Indeed, Abra’s father had been quick to lash out in a way that Geneva had tried, running after the man hurling insults. Due to an obscure law on the books that disallowed a lessor from issuing insults to a peer, the incident had nearly had her dragged to gaol but for Lord Westbridge’s interference. A scandal of the first order, but Geneva hadn’t regretted her actions. The blackguard had deserved it. She abhorred him.

The brittle smile he turned on her, bracketed by deep creases, was frightening, but she refused to be cowed by such a hateful cur and steeled her spine, meeting the coal-black, chilling stare he leveled on her.

Noah touched her arm directing her attention to another man Geneva recognized from the late earl’s funeral services. “This is Alnmouth’s Rector, Mr. Woodford, and his wife, Mrs. Woodford.” The erect man with his thinning, white hair and hawkish nose, stood next to the slight woman. There was nothing frivolous about her dark-gray frock. It covered every inch of skin, from neck to, practically, the tips of her fingers.

Geneva dipped a curtsey. “Sir. Ma’am.”

Mrs. Woodford took Geneva’s gloved hand. But one stern look from her husband and she quickly snatched her hand back as if she had poked a fabled dragon. Ah, yes, the bloodied dress. “My dear, dear, child. We heard of your harrowing ordeal?” she said with a delicate shudder.

Not only did Mrs. Woodford’s trailed question leave Geneva with no notion of how to respond—her memories of that day had not yet surfaced, if they ever would—but she wouldn’t have answered now to save her own life. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said coolly, while inside a seething inferno was set to blow. “As you can see, I’m quite recovered.” Her education at Miss Greensley’s had served multiple purposes. She tipped a condescending smile at the woman that included her pious master.

Noah bumped her shoulder with a warning and indicated the next man. He wore a coat that didn’t fit so perfectly and his dark hair hung a little too long. “Miss Wimbley, this is Mr. Asher of London.” Despite the intensity of the man’s dark eyes, Geneva blinked and gauged him with singular fervor. He seemed comfortable in his own skin, something she admired and aspired to.

“Miss Wimbley,” he said, taking her hand and brushing her knuckles with his heavy mustache.

“Sir.” Her voice cracked.

Beside her, Noah stiffened.

Geneva’s gaze shot to him, but his face was unreadable.

“Miss Wimbley. So sorry for your ordeal. Is there any word on the culprit?”

“None,” Noah answered quickly for her.

She was insignificant enough for that to be the end of Mr. Asher’s attention. He turned to Noah. “I’d heard Miss Hale was staying at Stonemare,” Mr. Asher said. “I’d hoped for the opportunity to visit with her.”

Curious . Geneva’s gaze cut back to Mr. Asher. “Oh?”

A genuine smile eased the intensity of his expression, exposing crinkles at the corners of his eyes. This was a man who went after what he wanted regardless of the obstacles. Another admirable quality. He would be perfect for the haughty and enigmatic Docia Hale. Of course, she didn’t know the man; he could be as abhorrent as Martindale, but she didn’t believe that was the case.

Frowning, Geneva glanced about the huge room, but there was no sign of the blonde beauty.

But seconds later, Docia strolled in wearing another soft, pale-yellow gown with emerald gloves tied just above her elbows. French, no doubt. “Goodness, we’ve quite the company tonight, haven’t we?” she said in their direction.

The melodic tonality effect was immediate and all attention shifted quickly from Geneva to Docia. The tension in Geneva collapsed so quickly, she swayed. Noah’s arm was the lifeline keeping her upright.

“You must sit down,” he said, his body vibrating against hers. “I told Isabelle such an event was too soon, but she was absolutely insistent. She felt it would lift your spirits.”

With a forced smile, Geneva concentrated on breathing but that made things worse because he smelled so delicious, so male, so right, it banded the air in her lungs. “She was quite correct. One more day in that chamber, lovely as it is, I vow I would have leaped from the tower to the sea below.”

“She also declared that to be precisely your words.” Noah settled her in a chair that was nearest to the fire but still faced the pianoforte that had been placed on a platformed rise. He lifted one hand, signaling a footman she didn’t recognize. “What was all that about with Martindale?”

“Just a little incident in Hyde Park that occurred not long after Abra’s season debut. It’s nothing to concern yourself over.” That was all she’d need. To draw Noah into a duel with the malicious marquess.

The footman rescued her, appearing with a tray of wine-filled glasses. She snatched up one and sipped—sherry. Something she’d never quite acquired the taste for. To say so, of course, would be beyond rude, and well, she was trying to tamp back that annoying portion of her personality.

From the corner of her eye, she observed Docia dealing with, simultaneously, Lord Martindale and Mr. Asher. It was a lesson in decorum that should have annoyed Geneva. Instead, she found herself admiring the woman’s subtle handling of two clearly eligible men vying for her undivided attention. “Why didn’t you marry her?” she asked her companion, her gaze never wavering.

“What?” Noah choked out.

“As I recall, the day Abra and I arrived at Stonemare, you were slated to leave for Scotland that morning to marry Miss Hale. Why didn’t you?” And just like that, the inappropriate question had surged forth, boldness be damned.

*

Heat crawled up Noah’s neck along with his irritation. He wanted to rail at Geneva’s impudence while also respecting her ability to probe what he hadn’t seen so clearly until she’d walked through the door that morning.

The relief that had nearly felled him to his knees. How a brush of her gloved fingers defied a chemical experiment of mixing water with calcium chloride. A method that warmed the skin. Geneva Wimbley was the calcium chloride to his body of water.

The realization had the blood rushing through his ears, as if he’d dropped powder in a beaker and the fuzzing sound churned inside his brain. God, he wanted her with a need that defied logic and, worse, scrambled his common sense. Well, if she could assert her boldness, so could he. He leaned in and whispered, “Why didn’t I marry Docia? Because you walked through the door.” Though his tone remained low, it carried a conviction that went deep.

Geneva had raised the small glass toward her lips, but she stilled, her eyes widening with… surprise? Her mouth moved, but no words emerged. Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink that sparked a masculine satisfaction through him.

“Did you believe I was jesting two days ago? I want you,” he whispered, “with a craving that refuses to leave me be.”

“But… I… But—” She stopped and drew in a deep breath.

All the while, his own intake of air faltered in a state of dreadful apprehension.

A stirring from behind broke the hold she had on his gaze. She blinked and his eyes followed hers to the double open doors.

Verda held Isabelle’s arm, leading her through the small group. His young cousin smiled without an ounce of guile. She stopped and his aunt made introductions before leading Isabelle to the raised platform. Isabelle was all innocence in her pale-blue frock with its white satin bow tied at her back. Her bright-red locks, which matched her mother’s, hung down her back in long, wavy tresses adorned with another satin bow fastened at the crown of her head. The delicate, gold chain she wore blended into her skin, only reflecting the candlelight when she turned. She curtsied to the company then took her seat on the bench behind the keyboard.

Many of tonight’s attendees would be shocked to learn of her collection of insects—live and pinned—and how determined she was to fulfill her dreams of becoming a doctor. No one knew more so than Noah. It was a difficult path she’d chosen to seek, but Geneva’s words returned full force: Change never occurs without those who do not rush headlong into the fray. Isabelle was just stubborn and headstrong enough to pull off such a feat.

The fact that his cousin was also an accomplished musician, he was certain, had something to do with her mathematic capabilities. They were prodigious beyond compare. Far surpassing Noah’s skills as a child when he’d sat beside Verda in her first few days of invading Stonemare and teaching him how to use the abacus.

Isabelle’s gaze found Noah and Geneva beside him. A bright smile lit up her face. He reached over and squeezed Geneva’s hand, catching the tender smile she cast his precocious, if somewhat, reckless, little cousin. With a small prim and proper nod, Isabelle looking all the picture of the sweet child she could project at will, when seconds later, she might thrust a vile and disgusting spider in his face.

He’d almost banned her from the laboratory for that outrageous prank.

A dramatic hush settled over the intimate setting. Then… her fingers trilled over the keys with a lightness worthy of Mozart. Perhaps he was just a proud cousin. Yet to him, she played with the ease of a master. The name of the piece escaped him, but it began with a quiet restlessness that stirred the mood and shifted to dark and intense. It was an odd one to start out with.

“How talented she is,” Geneva murmured.

“Yes.”

The next work Isabelle had chosen to showcase Noah recognized from The Marriage of Figaro . Again, with no idea of its title, its elegance came through with Isabelle’s light and flighty glide on the keys, bringing a sting to his eyes.

On and on, she played until a light sheen of perspiration shone on her face.

She ended the concert with something new he hadn’t heard, and to his astonishment, she added her voice.

He could hardly comprehend the words. It was Geneva shaking beside him, startling him. It took a full minute to realize she was doing her utmost to contain her laughter, as the words penetrated.

This Painted Lady, with such grace,

How she bows to her Admiral Red

The sunset’s glow, one’s swift curtsey

To the Monarch, she bows.

The Cabbage White, and Morpho’s celestial show.

Through the verdant wood she sweeps,

Her goal? To find a dainty tail. A Swallowtail, perchance?

Yet ’tis the Brimstone, Green Peacock,

and Mourning Cloak, that advance.

Such splendor merits joy in one’s nature

And, lends courage to one’s leap.

Gads! Painted lady ? He would strangle that child. The closer he listened, however, he realized she was singing of… butterflies .

The company jumped to their feet in a round of roaring laughter and applause that filled the chamber to the rafters. All perhaps, but the right and proper Mr. and Mrs. Woodford. Verda stood off to the side with Sander, both beaming with pride. And with Geneva at his own side, cheering enthusiastically, well, it was… right.

Seconds later, Isabelle made her way in his direction with her uneven gait and grand smile. She moved directly past him to Geneva and threw her arms about her waist.

“You were wonderful,” Geneva said, hugging her back. “Outrageously clever. Oh, I adored every word.”

Isabelle stepped back, clasping her hands together. “Oh, I’m so happy. You truly liked it?”

“It brings joy to my nature and I vow, I have courage to leap!” she said, repeating Isabelle’s words back to her. A true compliment, indeed.

Those words, their generosity, the honest candor—he could deny it no longer. I love her . The swift and suddenness of the emotion hit him square in the torso, knocking the breath from him. The dancing flickers of the candle flames toyed with his sight, their heat swamping him. He was much too large to faint. Such a fall would leave an imprint in the planks beneath his feet. The chaotic thoughts assailed him in relentless succession. With sheer determination, he blinked away the bewildering reflections.

“I was certain you would perceive my meaning straight away,” Isabelle was telling Geneva.

Geneva hugged her again. “Oh, how could I not, you brilliant, brilliant tease. Those of imminent intellect are apt to think in a similar vein, of course,” she said in mock seriousness. Then, with an impish grin, she added, “I am honored beyond words.” She went on, as if a tear were not trickling down her cheek. “I cannot wait to write Abra and tell her that her skills are rivaled only by you.”

A blush crawled up his cousin’s pale skin, hiding her freckles momentarily. “Truly?”

“Absolutely. I’ve never heard anything so beautiful and creative in all my life.”

Sander strolled up and set a hand on Isabelle’s shoulder. “Come, poppet. It’s time to make your grand exit.”

“Must I?”

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Noah told her. He kissed her cheek.

Sander escorted Isabelle into Verda’s care near the door and stopped to speak with Asher and the marquess.

Julius sauntered up. “I vow, her talent grows more phenomenal with every performance.”

“It was breathtaking,” Geneva said.

“But what the devil was that regarding a painted lady ? I thought the Woodfords would expire on the spot.”

Geneva tapped him on the arm. “A butterfly, silly.”

“I had no notion.” Julius shook his head. “She’s a clever one, I’ll hand you.”

Noah watched Geneva eyeing Isabelle and her father working their way to the doors with stops here and there along the way. “You were exceptionally late, Jules. What were you up to?” Noah’s question drew Geneva’s attention away from Isabelle and back to him and Julius.

“This cursed sling is the devil to deal with.” He spoke too quickly and his eyes, tellingly, shifted away.

Noah’s gaze sharpened. “Julius?”

“Quit interrogating me, Noah. I’m not a child any longer for you to fuss over or manipulate.”

Somehow, Noah managed not to clutch his chest and stagger back.

“What a horrid thing to say.” The mild remark from Geneva startled not just Noah, but Julius as well.

Julius’s expression looked as hurt. And his hand flattened against his chest too. “But—”

She rose to her miniscule height and poked him in the chest. “By all accounts, sir, your brother raised you from infancy because your father put you in his care. I’ve never witnessed anyone more loyal than Mr. Oshea.” She rubbed her forehead as if one of those dreadful megrims had begun its attack, but she appeared to will it back. “Let me tell you what you survived, Julius. My father would have sold you to the highest bidder for his next bottle of gin— no —not a bottle, but a mere taste of the vile stuff. My mother was not well enough to fend him off. You can’t know how decidedly propitious you were to escape such a fate.” Her fingers flew up and pressed her temples.

“Geneva,” Noah gripped her wrists. “What—”

“The pain.” She gasped. “It’s excruciating.”

Noah caught her before she slid to the floor. “I’ll take her out the side door,” he told Julius. “Distract the others if you can.”

His brother, though, had stiffened in a pose comprised of Italian marble.

“Julius,” he snapped.

Jerking at the bark, Julius nodded once and strode to the marquess and Asher, each vying for Docia’s attention. The rector and his wife stood about awkwardly, their ears likely still ringing from the “painted lady” reference in Isabelle’s innocent lament. Julius effectively stepped past the group, drawing their gazes, leaving Noah an opportunity to usher Geneva through the servants’ entrance.

He swept her off her feet and carried her into the Morpho Suite and into her bedchamber, firmly latching the door behind him.