The Unthinkable Read online

  Genie looked up and their eyes locked. Her heart lurched, overwhelmed by the sheer charisma that radiated from him, sucking her in. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something more powerful at work than the simple attraction of his incredible good looks. He was stunning—if that term could be used to describe a man: the classic bone structure of a perfectly shaped nose, high cheekbones, square jaw and wide forehead; a wide sensual mouth; dark blond hair streaked with strands of gold; and striking blue eyes.

  No, there was more. He seduced her with the charm of his twinkling gaze and naughty smile punctuated with dimples. When she looked at him she saw something that definitely wasn’t good for her, but which proved impossible to resist. Like the sweet cakes and chocolate cream puffs that she devoured. In the back of her mind, a voice urged caution. But Genie was drawn to him like a magnet.

  How could she ever think him a frog? He was the prince of her dreams. Knowing she shouldn’t, she found herself asking nonetheless, “There is?”

  “Indeed.” The huskiness of his voice sent chills down her spine. “You could always kiss me to find out.”

  Hastings returned Genie to her mother, bowed, thanked her graciously, and excused himself. Rendered temporarily mute, Genie could only nod like a simpleton.

  She should have upbraided him for such a shocking, highly improper statement. She was shocked. But not in the way that she should have been. Genie was shocked by the thrill that shot through her, by the thought of how much she would like to kiss him. Once formed, the image of his mouth on hers could not be undone. Would his lips be hard or soft? Warm or cool? How would it feel to have those lean, muscular arms wrapped around her in a crushing embrace?

  She jerked upright. What was happening to her? Had she taken complete leave of her senses? Proper young ladies did not think about, let alone discuss, exchanging kisses with gentlemen. Whatever must he think of her? No doubt he thought her a wanton for not immediately taking him to task for his untoward suggestion. She should have been offended. She should have been appalled and asked him never to speak of such indecorous things again.

  She resolved to do exactly that the next time they met.

  Which of course begged the question… would there be a next time?

  He didn’t call.

  A week had passed since the night of the ball. It was clear from the number of gentlemen morning callers at Kington House that despite her lack of fortune, Genie had been a resounding success. Many of her suitors seemed in earnest, including the son of an important squire from Tetbury and the eldest son of the baronet Sir John Thurston from Tewkesbury. Genie knew she should be excited by the prospect of having so many acceptable—more than acceptable, really—suitors to choose from, but try as she might, she could not muster any enthusiasm.

  Not when the person that she most wanted to see had yet to cross the threshold. Despite the obvious barrier of rank, even Charles and her parents seemed surprised. Genie knew that she had not imagined his interest.

  She feared that her initial conclusion could be correct—he thought her wanton and uncouth. Surely he must realize how shocked she was by his suggestion of a kiss? A feeling of dread and dismay swept over her. What if he’d guessed the truth? That she’d actually considered it.

  How could a man that she’d only met once have such a profound effect on her? Perhaps it was because he so resembled the fairy-tale prince of her dreams. Tall and handsome, charming, and kind. He’d soothed her embarrassment with his humor and wit, flirted with her, admired her, and he was the son of a duke. All she could think about was whether she would see him again.

  It seemed not.

  Disappointment rang acute, and not just for Genie. Even Lizzie seemed unusually subdued. There was no more talk of duels and London seasons.

  This morning, for the first time since the ball, Genie and Lizzie decided to take their favorite walk through the castle’s vast surrounding park. Thornbury was unusual in that it could boast two grand country houses, Thornbury Castle and Peyton Park—though Peyton Park had once been part of the neighboring parish of Alveston.

  The magnificent castle was built by the third Duke of Buckingham during the reign of Henry VIII—the same King Henry who later took possession of the castle when the unfortunate duke was beheaded for treason. Queen Mary returned the castle to the Stafford family in whose hands it remained to this day.

  Genie’s home, Kington House, a comfortable brick family home of classical design, was situated not far from the castle, and just down the road from the church of St. Mary’s with its impressive tower pinnacles, where her father was rector under the esteemed patronage of the Marquess of Buckingham. The Buckinghams were the current holders of Thornbury Castle and until recently the only peers in the vicinity.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Lizzie said, breaking the silence.

  They’d come upon a favorite resting place, an old tree trunk carpeted with bright green moss and shaded by the giant oak trees circling the pond. Some distance behind them, but not visible through the band of trees, stood the old stone Tudor Castle.

  Seated on the stump, Lizzie had tucked the yellow skirts of her muslin walking dress up beneath her, revealing an improper display of her shapely calf. She tossed a stone; it skipped three times before sinking into the dark, murky water. Genie could see the frustration screwed on her sister’s lovely face beneath the rim of her straw gypsy hat. Lizzie yanked the pink ribbon under her chin, whipped off her hat and carelessly tossed it next to her, completing the indecorous picture.

  “From everything you’ve said,” Lizzie continued, “from what mother has said, from what Susan has said, I don’t understand. Why has he not called on you?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Lizzie’s eyes narrowed. “There’s nothing wrong with being a parson’s daughter.”

  “There is if you’re the son of a duke,” Genie quipped. Noticing Lizzie’s pressed lips, she softened her tone. “Come now, Lizzie. You know as well as I that such a pairing is highly improbable, if not impossible. You and I were carried away, that’s all.” She forced a gay smile to her lips that she did not feel. “It’s no use worrying over something that cannot be. Let’s talk about something else.”

  Lizzie ignored her. “Tell me again what he said to you after the dance.”

  Genie felt her cheeks burn despite the fact she had omitted the kissing comment from her retellings. “If I tell you, will you promise to put it aside for the remainder of our walk?”

  “Very well,” Lizzie agreed distractedly. “I promise.”

  Genie nodded. “Fine. He asked me what I liked to do in Gloucestershire. I told him walk, picnic by the river, and ride. He asked me if I had a favorite path, I mentioned—”

  “That’s it! How could I have been so obtuse?”

  “Obtuse about what?”

  “I knew we should have gone walking a few days ago,” Lizzie said crossly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you see?” At Genie’s blank look, Lizzie shook her head. “Of course you don’t. Genie, sometimes for an otherwise sensible girl you can be unbelievably green.” It was not said unkindly, so Genie tried not to take offense. “He wanted to know where you walked so that he could happen upon you.”

  Genie’s brow furrowed. “But why? Why would he not just call at the rectory?”

  Lizzie wasn’t listening to her. She was looking over Genie’s shoulder at the path directly behind her that led to the castle. A huge smile lit her face.

  “Don’t look now, but I think your prince approaches.” She tossed in a cheeky smile. “Though he seems to have misplaced his trusty steed.”

  Genie forced herself not to crank her head around like a wrung chicken.

  Instinctively, she gazed down at her simple ivory muslin walking dress. She groaned softly. Why couldn’t she have picked a more elegant gown? There was even mud around the hem. Of course there was nothing she could do about it now. She consoled herself t