as a glass of wine. But as silly as it seemed, she’d have felt embarrassed serving anything but good brandy to a fine gentleman. Besides, she still had money left over.
Genevieve took another deep breath and exhaled slowly, but it didn’t make her any less shaky. She grew a bit nauseated, too. Surely she wasn’t going to be sick?
What on earth possessed her to think that she could go through with this? She hadn’t kissed anyone in years, let alone a perfect stranger.
A too-perfect stranger, at that.
And of course he wouldn’t be satisfied with just kissing—that was a ridiculous notion. She’d make a complete and utter fool of herself.
For the last couple of days, she had practiced the things she would say, even imagined speaking in a serene, knowledgeable voice, but now she was sure she’d wasted her time. He’d realize right away that she was a sham, trying to play a game for which she hadn’t the least skill. He wouldn’t be able to resist telling all his grand friends about it, and she’d be the laughing-stock of London.
Why did she have to be so unrealistic? This had always been her problem: she made rash decisions, pursued mad plans that had no chance of success. Any woman with a modicum of good sense would have realized this was a bad idea. No, a sensible woman wouldn’t have thought of the idea in the first place. Would she never learn how to live with just a little dignity?
Two minutes till seven. Maybe she should hide upstairs, and Flory could inform Mr. Creighton that she was ill? Laid low with some dreadful and very contagious disease.
Syphilis, perhaps. That would get rid of him.
But no, it was no good. Flory wasn’t even here, of course: Tuesday was her night off.
Genevieve heard the clattering of hooves and carriage wheels outside. He’d arrived.
Suddenly, her mind went completely calm. All right then, she thought.
She lifted her chin up higher and walked over to the front door.
****
“Good evening, Genevieve,” Will said when she answered the door. She looked even lovelier than he remembered.
True, she didn’t possess the delicate, sweet features so prized in ladies like the Tudbury sisters. She looked nothing like a bisque china doll. With her large eyes, full mouth, and broad oval of a face, she was too alive for that. Too sensual.
Her hair was more properly arranged than the last time he’d seen her, and Will was sorry about that. He loved to see it tumbling loose past her shoulders and down her back. It made her look like the Lady of the Lake, in the book of King Arthur tales he loved as a child. A beautiful, mysterious woman turning up unexpectedly to offer a precious gift.
“Mr. Creighton. Pray come in.”
“I hope you won’t continue calling me Mr. Creighton,” he said as he followed her inside. “It seems too formal.”
She motioned for him to sit. “Well, Mr. Creighton,” she informed him, “I imagine I shall be calling you whatever I please.”
Will smiled as he took his place on the settee. He’d enjoy this. She knew exactly what she was doing, and as far as that went, he knew exactly what he wanted to do with her, too.
In fact, he wondered why they sat in the drawing room. Maybe she felt it more civilized to talk first before going off to bed. He understood that, and he was content to follow her lead. Especially when she sat down next to him on the settee.
She didn’t wear those blasted cage-like contraptions under her skirts. He felt the captivating contour of her thigh, right alongside his own.
And he smelled her. No heavy French perfume, but something fresh and almost herbal, as if she’d wandered on a heather-filled moor. Just a hint of another scent, too, unusual but too faint to identify.
She smelled good. Felt good. How long since he’d been this close to a woman? Too long, that was certain.
“Did you have a pleasant ride here?” she asked.
“Certainly. Lovely landscape.” He surveyed her form.
“I have always thought
Genevieve took another deep breath and exhaled slowly, but it didn’t make her any less shaky. She grew a bit nauseated, too. Surely she wasn’t going to be sick?
What on earth possessed her to think that she could go through with this? She hadn’t kissed anyone in years, let alone a perfect stranger.
A too-perfect stranger, at that.
And of course he wouldn’t be satisfied with just kissing—that was a ridiculous notion. She’d make a complete and utter fool of herself.
For the last couple of days, she had practiced the things she would say, even imagined speaking in a serene, knowledgeable voice, but now she was sure she’d wasted her time. He’d realize right away that she was a sham, trying to play a game for which she hadn’t the least skill. He wouldn’t be able to resist telling all his grand friends about it, and she’d be the laughing-stock of London.
Why did she have to be so unrealistic? This had always been her problem: she made rash decisions, pursued mad plans that had no chance of success. Any woman with a modicum of good sense would have realized this was a bad idea. No, a sensible woman wouldn’t have thought of the idea in the first place. Would she never learn how to live with just a little dignity?
Two minutes till seven. Maybe she should hide upstairs, and Flory could inform Mr. Creighton that she was ill? Laid low with some dreadful and very contagious disease.
Syphilis, perhaps. That would get rid of him.
But no, it was no good. Flory wasn’t even here, of course: Tuesday was her night off.
Genevieve heard the clattering of hooves and carriage wheels outside. He’d arrived.
Suddenly, her mind went completely calm. All right then, she thought.
She lifted her chin up higher and walked over to the front door.
****
“Good evening, Genevieve,” Will said when she answered the door. She looked even lovelier than he remembered.
True, she didn’t possess the delicate, sweet features so prized in ladies like the Tudbury sisters. She looked nothing like a bisque china doll. With her large eyes, full mouth, and broad oval of a face, she was too alive for that. Too sensual.
Her hair was more properly arranged than the last time he’d seen her, and Will was sorry about that. He loved to see it tumbling loose past her shoulders and down her back. It made her look like the Lady of the Lake, in the book of King Arthur tales he loved as a child. A beautiful, mysterious woman turning up unexpectedly to offer a precious gift.
“Mr. Creighton. Pray come in.”
“I hope you won’t continue calling me Mr. Creighton,” he said as he followed her inside. “It seems too formal.”
She motioned for him to sit. “Well, Mr. Creighton,” she informed him, “I imagine I shall be calling you whatever I please.”
Will smiled as he took his place on the settee. He’d enjoy this. She knew exactly what she was doing, and as far as that went, he knew exactly what he wanted to do with her, too.
In fact, he wondered why they sat in the drawing room. Maybe she felt it more civilized to talk first before going off to bed. He understood that, and he was content to follow her lead. Especially when she sat down next to him on the settee.
She didn’t wear those blasted cage-like contraptions under her skirts. He felt the captivating contour of her thigh, right alongside his own.
And he smelled her. No heavy French perfume, but something fresh and almost herbal, as if she’d wandered on a heather-filled moor. Just a hint of another scent, too, unusual but too faint to identify.
She smelled good. Felt good. How long since he’d been this close to a woman? Too long, that was certain.
“Did you have a pleasant ride here?” she asked.
“Certainly. Lovely landscape.” He surveyed her form.
“I have always thought
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