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Time enough to have a nice cry and get herself under control.
The tears welled up and spilled over. She let them come, now and then lifting a hand to swipe them away. She hurried on, past the tents, the aboveground pool and the jetty. Several members of the house team were there, cleaning up. She gave them a wave and went on down that long stretch that led eventually to the graveled road around the walled garden.
Her unspoken love for Rafe seemed to be eating her up from inside. She ached to say the words, to have them out. He was a good man with a true heart.
And yet she feared to give him that kind of power over her. It was a mostly groundless fear. She knew that. Rafe would not betray her. He’d given her his word to be true, and he lived by his word.
Still, she kept flashing on that moment last night when Melinda had flung herself into his arms and slammed her open mouth to his.
To banish that image, she broke into a run—until she had to stop and catch her breath. She paced in circles, pausing to bend at the waist, sucking in great gulps of air, finally stretching her calves a little with the help of a sturdy oak tree to lean against.
Out on the lake, a couple drifted in a rowboat. They waved to her and she waved back. She put her hand on the slight swell of her belly.
All was right with the baby. He—or she—was safe and cozy in there. But Genny promised herself she would slow down a little, not push so hard. She only needed to keep going for a while, needed solitude and steady movement to think everything through.
She walked on at a brisk pace, Brooke’s furious accusations echoing in her head. It wasn’t that anything Brooke had said was news. It was only to have to hear it right out loud like that, in front of everyone. Because she had wanted Hartmore, more than anything. And no romantic illusions about Edward were left to her now. She would have married Rafe’s brother simply to get Hartmore, just as Brooke had said.
And she had managed to get herself pregnant, causing Rafe to insist on marrying her—and resulting in her getting what she’d always wanted: to be a DeValery and mistress of Hartmore.
She veered off the lake path and walked fast beside a crumbling stone wall. By then, she was hardly aware of her location, let alone of the direction her swiftly moving feet were taking her. The stretched-out elastic slid down her ponytail and fell off. She ignored it, shoving her hair behind her ears and letting it hang free.
Eventually, she did pause. She looked around and tried to figure out exactly where she’d come to. How long had she been moving blindly along this unknown path? She hadn’t seen a single soul since she’d waved to that couple boating on the lake.
And when had she left the lake trail? Definitely before she reached the road to the walled garden.
Had she come to the garden road along this path? She seemed to remember running across it, the crunch of gravel beneath her shoes.
Ahead, just off the path, she saw a stone wall and a heavy wooden gate. Ivy climbed the wall, growing thick, digging into the stone. She approached and pushed on the gate. It opened reluctantly with a creak of rusty hinges.
Inside, she found an overgrown garden and a small stone house with the thatch roof half caved in. She didn’t know the place. Perhaps a gardener’s cottage fallen into disuse, or maybe a tenant farmer’s house, abandoned with the changing times.
Fascinated by the magical feel of the place, she picked her way through all the undergrowth toward the house.
What time was it?
She took her phone from her back pocket and shook her head. Late. Almost eight. She needed to start thinking about getting back. A rotting plank creaked underfoot, but she didn’t really stop to think what that might mean to her.
Still walking, she auto-dialed the house and put the phone to her ear. Before she heard a ring, the plank gave way beneath her. With a cry of surprise, she plummeted into darkness.
Chapter Twelve
Rafe
As Gen had predicted, Rafe found his nephew in the stables looking broody and sullen, petting one of those rangy, big-eared kittens born to the mistakenly named Samson at the end of May. Rafe sat down with him. They played with the kitten for a long time until Geoffrey was ready to talk.
Rafe let him get his frustrations off his chest. Geoffrey whispered that he hated his mum sometimes—or he said that at first. As he kept talking, he admitted that maybe he didn’t really hate Brooke. But he hated things she did.
“Like how she never listens to me, Uncle Rafe. And like how she’s mean to Aunt Genny, who only wants to love us and have us all be happy together.” He also hated that his mum was always getting mad and yelling and then running off crying. “I hate that a lot, Uncle Rafe.”
Rafe said that he didn’t like it, either. And he thought about Gen, about the numb misery in her big brown eyes when he’d left her on the terrace.
