Page 52 of What Lies Beneath

Though Genevieve had not been joking about wanting to marry that very day, she was not so foolish as to understand why it was not possible. Happily, Pip’s parents being in residence made her staying at the house unexceptionable—if not the previous years when she had been there working as a governess. Montagu had simply shrugged, agreed there would be the very devil of a scandal, and advised them simply to ignore it. After all, such tactics had always worked for him. Added to that, the public's hearts had been so overwhelmingly touched by Georgette’s character in His Grace and Disfavour, and the revelation that it was based upon a true story, that the romantic ending would likely overshadow any impropriety, no matter how egregious.

Finding this a sound plan, they did just that and carried on regardless, and the moment the snow thawed enough to get easily into the village and then to Monmouth, preparations began. Not that they needed much. Neither Genevieve nor Pip wished to wait, and a quiet affair was a far better idea than a grand wedding that would cause a furore, with avid readers of her novel pushing to get a glimpse of their heroine.

Still, Matilda—as his mother insisted Genevieve call her—was firm in her belief that a wedding was not a wedding without a bride cake and flowers and most certainly a vicar, and whilst the cake and the flowers could be handled at Goshen Court, the vicar must be sent for and a common licence provided.

So, they decided to marry on Christmas Eve, and endured the days that followed in a state of happy, if impatient, anticipation.

Two days before their ordeal was over, Pip was finding the confines of the house and his parents and Tilly a little frustrating, and so suggested a walk in the gardens.

Genevieve, quite in sympathy with the idea, grabbed her coat and gloves and they scurried outside like naughty children evading their tutor. It was a bright day, the sun glinting on the remnants of melting snow, and Genevieve turned her face up, enjoying the slight warmth as it shone against her chilled skin.

“Darling Tilly is a menace,” Pip said with a sigh. “How does she know? That’s what I don’t understand. The minute I get close enough to kiss you, she appears like some avenging chaperone. I swear my father puts her up to it.”

Genevieve laughed. “She’s happy, and she wants to share in our happiness. We must be careful not to let her think we don’t want her around.”

“Of course I want her around, just not all the time,” he said pointedly.

Genevieve stopped and looked around her, checking they were out of sight of the house or prying eyes. “She’s not here now,” she said, quirking an eyebrow.

Pip smiled and pulled her into his arms, taking a moment to tuck the lovely rose-pink cashmere shawl he had finally given her tighter about her throat. “No. That’s very true,” he murmured, and took full advantage of the fact. His mouth covered hers, hot and urgent, and Genevieve melted against him, wondering if continued exposure to such overwhelming sensations could actually damage her faculties.

As his hands explored and squeezed and caressed, she thought it must be true, for she could not think of anything remotely sensible, only more, and yes, and please don’t stop. After a prolonged and heated interlude which left Genevieve breathless and entirely witless, Pip regretfully told her they must go back inside before she froze to death. Feeling anything but cold, she protested.

“No. I must be sensible, as you’ve clearly given up doing so,” he said gruffly, apparently no happier about it than she was. “For I will not have you catching cold and spending our wedding night with a red nose and reeking of camphor.”

“Do you mean to say you would not love me if I had a red nose and smelled of camphor oil?” she said in tragic accents.

“No, I do not mean that,” he replied darkly. “But I’d do it from a distance.”

Genevieve laughed and then ran from him, scooping up a handful of snow. She balled it up and threw it at him. It was not a terribly fine shot, but it hit him in the arm.

“Oh, you did not just do that,” he said, his eyes glittering with the light of battle.

Genevieve screamed and ran off into the gardens, with Pip in pursuit.

Montagu looked out of the library window, watching in amusement as his son and soon–to-be daughter-in-law gambolled about in the snow like puppies. Finally, he could let go of the worry he had felt for his eldest son for so long, the fear that he might never find the person who completed him and would help him succeed and find happiness no matter what life threw at him. That he had found the right woman was not in doubt, as far as Montagu was concerned. He had harboured suspicions about Mrs Harris for a very long time, and to find that not only had his supposition been correct, but things had worked out just as he had hoped, was most gratifying. So it was with no little self-satisfaction that he watched them laugh and run about like fools, remembering having done much the same thing in his time. In fact, he wondered if his lady might be in the mood for a little stroll in the garden.

Smiling at the thought, he was about to turn away when something caught his eye. Had that been movement at the edge of the woodland? He told himself it was likely just a bird, or some wild creature hiding in the shadows, but his senses prickled, and from the time he was but a boy, he had learned not to turn his back if something did not feel right.

A moment later a figure slid from the treeline: a man, watching the couple as Montagu had, but with quite different sentiments. He raised his arm.

A shaft of fear pierced Montagu’s heart and, knowing he could not get to them in time, he tugged the window open and leaned out.

Pip’s breath billowed on the frozen air, and he gasped, for it was difficult to run when you were laughing like a fool. Once again, Genevieve—yes, Genevieve—danced out of reach and gave a little yip of triumph.

“Can’t catch me,” she teased, though she was a fool if she really believed that.

If he’d really wanted to, he could have caught her a dozen times, but he adored watching her laugh and taunt him for missing her, calling out cheeky retorts like she was the veriest hoyden. He had only glimpsed this side of her before, and now he wished to drink his fill, finding out just how merry and playful and ridiculous she could really be.

A shout cut through the air, audible even over Genevieve’s gurgle of laughter, and Pip frowned, turning towards the house. His father was leaning out of the library window, bellowing and gesticulating. Montagu, gesticulating? That was odd. And then the words reached him.

“Gun! Get down!”

Pip swung back to Genevieve. He did not know where or why there was a gun, but his father would not be mistaken. He ran, moving as fast as he had ever done in his life, though his limbs seemed to wade through tar, the world slowing to a crawl as he lunged for Genevieve, taking her down and covering her body with his own. They fell hard, Genevieve crying out in fright as he forced her to the ground. The crack of gunfire rang in his ears, an obscene explosion devastating the peace of the morning, of their world, and for a moment he thought his heart had shattered at the sound. But then everything was silent until his pulse began thundering in his ears once more.

“Love? Harry?” he said, breathless now, his hands moving over her, searching for wounds, for blood.

“I’m f-fine,” she stammered, her lovely face ashen. “I’m fine.”