Summer's Bride. Catherine Archer

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      But she was not.

      Before she had run away to Brackenmoore, her life had been very different from what it was now. And more unhappy than she had ever admitted to anyone. Somewhere in her mind was the belief that if she could only become an Ainsworth, she would be able to finally and completely erase the years before she had come to live here.

      It had been for this reason that she had felt distress at learning Tristan was still in love with Lily, whom he had believed dead. Genevieve had never begrudged them their happiness, not for one moment, only mourned the death of her own dream.

      Yet when she had realized her feelings for Marcel, her hope to be an Ainsworth in truth had once more come to life. Not that this was the reason for her feelings for him. That she knew. It had simply meant that her hope was reborn.

      Now Marcel had returned, a Marcel she no longer felt she knew. Yet he was so very handsome and even more compelling than before. She had made a complete fool of herself by spilling wine all over his lap. Her cheeks burned at the very thought.

      Hearing the door open again, Genevieve did not turn from the window. “I am fine, Lily. As I told you, you need have no concern for me.”

      A deep voice replied, “It is not Lily.”

      Swinging around with a gasp, Genevieve saw none other than Marcel standing just inside the doorway. “What are you doing here?” Her eager gaze ran over him, so tall, so strange and familiar at the same time, so very handsome with his black hair, the color of which seemed to intensify the blue of his eyes.

      He took a deep breath, closing the door behind him before he said, “Genevieve…” He took a step toward her then stopped. “I had to come to see you.”

      She caught her own breath, the sound of her name on his lips making her realize anew just how much she had missed him, the sound of his voice, his gentle strength. She tried to answer evenly, but her own hopes, her irrepressible reactions to him brought a huskiness to her voice. “Why, Marcel?”

      Marcel came toward her. “There are things I wish to say to you. Things that, I believe, must be said.”

      What was he talking about? Could it be what she most desired in the secret recesses of her heart? Did he feel what she did?

      As he began to speak, she understood that all these thoughts had simply been wishful thinking on her part. “Firstly, let me say that I want you to know that my presence here at Brackenmoore need not make you uncomfortable. There is no need to avoid me or to be nervous of my presence.”

      She drew herself up, her heart thumping as she blushed. “What makes you think I am nervous of your presence?”

      He shrugged. “Your spilling the wine.” Inwardly she cringed. As he continued, she felt torn between pleasure and embarrassment. “In all the time I have known you, you have never been aught but graceful in your every movement. Even when you first visited Brackenmoore at seven.”

      Genevieve settled on incredulity. She was not usually awkward, but she had to have been so at times as a normal seven-year-old. She took his statement as an overzealous effort to put her at ease with her clumsiness in the hall.

      Yet as Marcel went on, she forgot all but the utter embarrassment caused by what he was saying. “I know that before I left we had a particular…that we had certain feelings for one another. I realized soon after my departure from Brackenmoore that we had simply been drawn together through your troubles over your engagement to Tristan. I want you to know that all is forgotten. I do not harbor any feelings that would make our having a friendship difficult and my hope is that you feel the same. Any fear that you might have about my having feelings for you that are more than brotherly may be laid to rest.”

      Genevieve could say nothing as his meaning found purchase in her mind, feeling as though a dagger had been stuck into her heart. He was letting her know in clear terms that he had no romantic feelings for her and that she should not harbor any such feelings.

      How could he talk to her this way? Did Marcel think to put her in her place, to make certain that she did not pursue him and cause him embarrassment?

      Well, he need not worry there. She had no intention of pressing herself upon him.

      It was, in fact, the last thing she would do.

      She drew herself up to her full height, which unfortunately was not great. “Have no worry on that score, Marcel. I thought no such thing. I was simply embarrassed at having ruined your homecoming and I felt I might cry. Yow know that I have never cared to display my emotions before others.”

      He frowned, and she wondered at his expression before he said, “I should have realized. Benedict has told me of your coming marriage to Roderick Beecham.” He smiled stiffly, even as she felt a ripple of shock run though her at his words. She was hard-pressed to concentrate as he said, “You have my congratulations. He is a fine man.”

      Genevieve simply stood there, staring at him. It was true that Roderick Beecham had sent an offer of marriage. And that Benedict has said he would make a very fine husband. It was also true that she had, although flattered and moved by the proposal of such a gentle and handsome man, declined. He had written back and indicated that he would still be willing should she change her mind.

      She did want a husband, children.

      Yet in her heart Genevieve had known that she would never change her mind. She could think of no one save the very man who now stood before her and told her that he had no such feelings for her.

      Genevieve offered what she hoped was a bright smile. “Thank you so very much for your kind wishes.”

      She saw a strange and unfathomable expression pass over his handsome features as he said, “I am sorry that I will not be in attendance and you must be assured that I will be thinking of you on my journey to Scotland and after—”

      She spoke too quickly, her shock evident. “You are the one who is leaving for Scotland then.”

      He nodded. “Aye.”

      She felt a jolt of renewed sadness, in spite of her resentment about his attitude. Genevieve asked, “When?”

      He grimaced. “Immediately. A rival clan has kidnapped Aunt Finella’s grandson. They refuse to negotiate with her and she has turned to us, as we are her only family. We cannot ignore such a request.”

      Genevieve looked at her hands as the seriousness of the summons sank home. “I see. Then surely you must go even though it will mean that you must be away from your family again so soon.” Her gaze met his. “It is very good of you to do this.”

      Marcel shrugged, as if uncomfortable with her praise. And as in the hall, she could not help noting how wide his shoulders seemed to have grown.

      “You have never met Aunt Finella, have you?” he asked.

      She shook her head, distantly thinking that this was just one more thing that set her apart from being a true Ainsworth. Genevieve had never had an aunt of any kind. Knowing he was expecting a reply, she said, “Nay. I have not met her.”

      He nodded speaking casually, “I recall her being quite the eccentric though it has been many years since I have seen her. Since before Mother and Father died. It will be good to see her again СКАЧАТЬ