Tristan from his promise to marry me. It is Lily he loves. He only agreed to marry me because he thought her dead. He feels only as a brother to me as I feel as a sister to him…. You know that my engagement to Tristan was in aid of my finally and actually becoming an Ainsworth in truth.” Her gaze darkened on his, displaying a depth of emotion that rocked him. “That might still be possible if…”
In that moment he knew Genevieve would take him did he declare himself. Yet he could not do so, because she wanted him for the wrong reasons. The unmistakable signs of desire he saw in her eyes were brought on by her admitted need to be an Ainsworth.
Marcel would be wanted for himself alone, not for his family, however much he loved them.
The past faded away and he realized that, though painful, his thoughts had taken no more than an instant. He also realized that after two years and so many miles between himself and Genevieve, Marcel could not deny that he still felt something for her. And it was equally clear that though he had tried to convince himself otherwise, his feelings were far from brotherly.
He felt a tightening not only in his chest, but in his loins as he saw the way she flushed, the scarlet hue trailing the elegant and well-remembered column of her throat. It then swept down over the full curves of her breasts above the tight bodice of her green velvet gown. Feeling the tug in his body, Marcel knew he was on dangerous ground. He forced his gaze away and when he glanced back, she was looking down at her hands.
Try though she might, Genevieve could not still the sudden erratic beating of her heart.
It was he—Marcel.
And looking far more masculine and confident than she had remembered. She had not known what it was that caused her to look up only a moment ago, yet she had felt something, a sense that all was as it should be—but not.
And there he was, with his dark hair grown slightly longer, his blue eyes, which seemed so familiar but also older, more cynical. Those eyes, which she had thought of so very oft in these two long years, had offered comfort and compassion. She nearly cringed now as his blue eyes raked her with a remote and unreadable expression.
There was another difference in him, something so subtle that it could not be measured in the length of his hair, nor the bronze cast of his skin, nor the slightly rolling gait he had adopted. It was a difference undeniably deeper and could more likely be ascertained in the way he held his head and shoulders.
She felt that somehow Marcel had come to a bigger place within himself. It was as if this castle, these lands, would never be vast enough to hold him again.
This understanding was at once frightening and fascinating, for it seemed as if he was the Marcel she had known, yet not that Marcel. He had become somehow mysterious and new and completely unpredictable.
Dear heaven, she did not know what to do with her hands, with her completely scattered emotions. Genevieve risked another quick glance at him and saw that he was once more moving toward them, his expression self-confident, his strides assured.
He no longer looked her way and gave no sign that he had been moved by the sight of her.
And why should he? she asked herself. Why would a man such as Marcel Ainsworth show even the least interest in her?
Simple country maid that she was, in spite of her great fortune.
An overwhelming and at the same time shocking despair swept over her. As if from a very long distance she heard Benedict say, “Good God above, look who has arrived days before we expected him.” Peripherally she was aware of her guardian standing and holding out his arms in welcome.
It was clear that he had realized his brother’s arrival with joy, but Genevieve could not share in his pleasure. She sat in dejected silence as the next few moments passed in a clatter of introductions and cries of welcome.
No one seemed to note that Genevieve failed to join in the chaos, for there was much to occupy them. Not only had Benedict married and had a child, an auburn-haired daughter named Edlynne, there was an announcement to make of his wife Raine’s new pregnancy. Marcel had also acquired another brother in that marriage. Benedict proudly introduced Raine’s brother, the now thirteen-year-old William.
Then it was Lily and Tristan’s turn to display their second child—a tiny boy named Aidan. Marcel hugged them all, including his youngest brother Kendran, who was near grown to be a man. He ruffled Aidan’s dark curls and kissed him on the forehead. Marcel then lifted an excitedly dancing Sabina up into his arms to place a resounding kiss upon her soft cheek before setting her back down, while congratulating Raine and Benedict on their upcoming birth.
By the time anyone got around to looking at Genevieve she had nearly managed to master her emotions. She smiled, albeit stiffly, and moved forward as Benedict turned to her.
Not sure what she would do, Genevieve extended her hand. “Marcel. It is so good to see you home at last.” She was quite proud of the fact that her voice remained even despite her inner turmoil.
He took her numb hand in one large warm one for such a brief moment that their flesh barely touched. “It is good to see you, as well, Genevieve.”
But though that touch had been brief, it left a tingling of awareness along the length of her fingers and she felt her face heat. She found herself glad that Marcel immediately turned back to Benedict, his voice deep with concern as he said, “I came as soon as your letter arrived.”
Benedict replied quickly, “There was no cause for alarm. I had simply decided that it was time you came home.”
Marcel appeared both relieved and rueful at this admission. “Well, I am home and gladly so, though you might have told me in your letter.”
Had it been so very simple to have him back at Brackenmoore? Genevieve wondered silently. If only she had known, she would have come up with some pretext to have him sent for long before now.
Immediately she told herself her thoughts were sheer madness considering his obvious disregard for her. All the secret dreams she had held close to her heart in these two interminable years had been for naught. There was nothing for them. He was a stranger, a stranger with a life that had nothing to do with her.
Benedict waved toward his own place at the table. “Sit. I am sure you have hunger after your journey. You have arrived just in time.”
Genevieve said hurriedly, “I will see that another plate and cup are brought. I will fetch some of the wine that Maeve has set aside for special occasions, as well.”
Benedict halted her. “Nay, sit, Genevieve. I will send one of the servants.”
Genevieve was quite aware that the servants would come at Benedict’s call, but she would have been grateful for any excuse to be away. Any excuse to keep from having to sit at the table with Marcel. Yet that was exactly what she must do, for she could think of no way to avoid it. Quickly she took her place beside Sabina, fussing over the child’s meal though there was no need to do so.
She could do no more than listen distantly as the others continued to converse while they took their places with Marcel, now in the position of honor—directly across from her.
Only briefly could she glance in Marcel’s direction for fear of his seeing the yearning she knew was in her own eyes. Yet even in a glance she saw that his shoulders filled the same space Benedict’s had. Encased in the black velvet of his houppeland, his shoulders looked so broad and powerful. She had not recalled them being so very wide.
Benedict spoke, his query drawing her undivided attention. “May I ask how long we shall have the pleasure of your company, my brother?”
She looked to Marcel, who was watching Benedict now so she was free to let her gaze focus hungrily on the blue of those heavily lashed eyes. He shrugged. “I fear not long.” Was she wrong or did his gaze flick briefly to her? Or was it the pain that sliced her at hearing his words that made her wish he had some care for leaving her? She forced herself to pay heed as he went on. “My crew is unloading cargo, but I must arrange for another.”
Benedict