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Genny longed to deny it. She didn’t want to give Brooke the satisfaction of knowing for certain why Rafe had married her. But please. Brooke would know soon enough anyway. “Yes, I am.”
“Suddenly it all makes sense.”
Genny refused to rise to that bait. “Rafe and I are thrilled. So is Eloise.”
Brooke produced a slow, mean smile. “Allow me to congratulate you.”
“Thank you.”
“Granny’s asked me to go away, did you know? For a week. I’ll stay with Fiona.” Brooke’s lifelong friend had a house in Chelsea. “It’s partly a reprimand for my behavior this morning. But it’s mostly for you, of course. To give you time settle in as countess of Hartmore without having to deal with me.”
“Do you want me to tell Eloise to let you stay, is that it?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t dream of that.” Brooke stared up at her, defiant.
“Brooke, I’m not going to beg you to stay.” And who was she kidding? It would be a relief to have the woman gone.
“It’s fine.” Brooke gave a lazy shrug. “Time away from here with someone who loves me is just what I need about now.”
Genny wanted to grab her and shake her. “Why does it have to be my fault that you feel unloved at Hartmore?”
“Did I say I felt unloved?”
“You didn’t have to.”
Brooke made a humphing sound. “Well, you can take what I said however you want to.”
Genny asked with excruciating civility, “Was there anything else you needed to discuss with me?”
“Not a thing.”
“Then, let’s go back in.”
Brooke swept to her feet and they turned together for the house.
* * *
The remainder of the day passed uneventfully. Brooke and Geoffrey left for London.
In the afternoon, the rest of them walked down to the lake, where they threw sticks for the dogs to fetch. Rory took more pictures and they shared a picnic. And that night, they all enjoyed a lovely dinner in honor of the bride and groom and the visiting Bravo-Calabrettis.
After the meal, Genny’s father and Rafe disappeared into Rafe’s study. Eloise pleaded exhaustion and went to bed. Genny, her sister and her mother went out to sit at an iron table under the stars in the terrace garden. It was good to have a little time together, just the three of them.
At a quarter past eleven, her father and Rafe came out. Genny glanced up and Rafe met her eyes....
Her heart gave a lurch, and a prickly, hot shiver raced down the backs of her knees. Would he leave her to sleep alone again?
She really had no idea what he would do. And she used to think she knew him better than anyone. Those days were over. Now she hardly knew him at all.
Her mother and sister got up. Everyone said good-night.
Rafe and Genny were left alone. He held out his hand to her.
So. He was coming upstairs with her, then? Her skin felt overly sensitized suddenly. And her breath came short.
She rose and went to him.
* * *
“What happened with Brooke this morning when you went outside?” he asked.
They’d taken turns in the bathroom, though there were two sinks and plenty of room in there. Now they lay, propped on piles of pillows, side by side in the bed. He wore his boxers and she’d put on a short summer nightgown much less revealing than the one she’d worn the night before. It tied with pink bows high on her shoulders.
The lamps on either side of the bed cast a soft glow across the bedcovers—and over the powerful planes and angles of her husband’s broad chest. He had the body of a laborer—everything hard and big and honed. And every time she looked at him, her stomach hollowed out with longing. The crescent scar looked more pronounced than ever in the slanting lamplight.
He was watching her now, eyes black as pitch beneath the strong shelf of his brow. His inky hair curled on his wide forehead. His skin was brown all over, rich and dark against the white pillowcase. “About Brooke?” he asked again, one black brow lifting.
She shook herself from her trance of hopeless yearning and answered him. “We called a truce and agreed to get along with each other. And I told her about the baby—or rather, she guessed.”
He stared at her intently, as though seeking a point of entry. Or maybe testing her expression for lies. “Did she make you want to strangle her?”
“Only a little bit.”
He made a low sound—of frustration, or annoyance. “I can’t believe Geoffrey’s not a holy terror, the way she carries on.”
She bumped him with her elbow, a tap of reassurance. “Well, he’s not a terror and shows no signs of becoming one.”
“Gen. He ran away this morning.”
