He’d never intended to spend. He’d intended to let her have her pleasure of him, to stretch out this joining as long as he could, to make as many memories with her as she could bear to share with him.
A man in love treasures even the pain of his affliction, after all.
Jenny ambushed him, though, moving on him with increasing power and speed, her arms lashed around his shoulders, and then, without warning, she pitched off to the side, dragging him over her.
Exactly where he longed to be.
“Genevieve…”
She silenced his warning with kisses, with her body determined to shower pleasure upon them both, with her hand gripping his hair, and with—a curious, fierce sensation—her fingernails gripping his buttocks. “Don’t beg, Elijah. Never beg. Love me. Love me now.”
He could not refuse his lady’s command. He loved her, and he made love with her, and when she slept in his arms, sated and sweet, her hair in complete disarray, he only loved her more.
Jenny watched as Elijah tugged on his boots then paused while he examined his footwear. “If there’s a baby—”
She cut him off with a look and a nod. “Of course. I wouldn’t visit illegitimacy on my child. Our child.”
The words, even the very words, our child, weakened her knees to the point that she had to sit on the bed. She might have just conceived a future Marquess of Flint. The notion was upsetting, for any number of reasons.
Paris had loomed like an artistic haven, of course, and like a sanctuary from her family’s well-intended, smothering attentions. Paris was the antidote to everything stupid and backward about the present version of English chivalry too, and to all of Polite Society’s idiot notions about a true lady being a useless, decorative, porcelain figurine.
Paris was where she could keep her promise to Victor and put her entire focus on her art.
At what point had Paris also acquired the lure of a coward’s way out?
Elijah took the place on the bed beside her and extracted the brush from her limp fingers. “I’ll do that.”
He tended to her hair, just as he’d assisted her to dress, with brisk competence that suggested regret for what had passed between them.
“Elijah, are you angry?”
He tucked the last pin into her hair and drew her back against his chest. “If I am angry, I am angry for you and with myself, not with you. We’d best be going.”
Not an answer she could comprehend, not with her body that of a sexually sated stranger, her mind in a complete muddle, and her heart…
Her heart breaking.
She let Elijah lead her through the house, sensing darkness gathering even earlier than usual.
“The snow has picked up,” Elijah said as they donned coats, gloves, and scarves. “You will take my hand, Genevieve, damn the appearances, until we’ve reached a cleared path on Morelands property.”
That he’d understand she needed some lingering connection with him was a relief. That he’d do her the further courtesy of making it a command was a blessing.
“I don’t need to hold your hand to make my way through a few inches of snow.”
He tucked the ends of his scarf under her chin. “Perhaps I need to hold yours.”
She held his hand until they’d reached the very steps of the Morelands back terrace.
“Lovely. Lovely, lovely, lovely.”
Jenny watched while His Grace the Duke of Moreland gushed—that was the word—gushed about the portraits on display, and the duchess quietly beamed her satisfaction with the duke’s praise.
Also with His Grace’s portrait, which, now that Jenny considered the image dispassionately, emphasized not only the man’s ducal consequence but also his regard for his duchess. Percival Windham as rendered in oil on canvas was a man capable of humor and sternness, of loving his country fiercely and his duchess gently.
Elijah had caught that heart, and caught it wonderfully. He might also have caught a sudden case of lung fever, because the entire family had assembled in anticipation of the open house, while the artist in residence had yet to come downstairs.
“Both portraits are quite good,” Her Grace said. “I am particularly pleased with how my surprise turned out.”
Her surprise being the portrait of her, done for His Grace’s holiday present.
When Elijah dared to venture down the steps, Jenny was going to ask him some pointed questions about that portrait, but for now, her siblings and their spouses were adding their choruses of appreciation for the art they beheld.
“I do think that portrait of Her Grace is better even than the one he did of the children,” Sophie allowed. “Sindal, would you agree?”
Everybody agreed, and in the middle of all this smiling and agreeing, Louisa sidled up to Jenny, bringing a hint of cinnamon and clove with her. “Have you told them yet?”
“You are like the bad fairy, Louisa, insisting on difficult tidings when they’ll easily keep for a day or two. I don’t intend to leave until after the New Year. There’s time yet.”
Louisa’s mouth flattened, but she kept her voice down. “You cannot hare off as if you’re eloping with a disgraceful choice, Jenny. That’s not fair to you. It’s even less fair to Their Graces. They’ll need time to adjust, to strike terms.”
“I am going to move to Paris,” Jenny said, just as firmly. “I do not expect you to understand, Lou, but I do expect you to keep my confidences, within reason.”
Louisa opened her mouth to say something, likely something articulate, insightful, and painful—though not mean—when her expression shifted. “It’s a bit late for that.”
Jenny glanced over her shoulder to find both of her parents hovering only three feet away, the good cheer of the season apparent in the eyes of neither.
Elijah hustled as far as the first landing, then paused, took a deep breath, and came down the last set of stairs at a pace that befit a gentleman and a guest in a ducal household.
Though Jenny would likely skewer him for leaving her in the grand parlor alone amid the milling, smiling herd of her family, all decked out in their holiday finery, all blessedly ignorant that Lady Jenny had trysted away an hour of her afternoon.
With him.
As they’d left Lavender Corner, she’d seemed right enough, seemed composed, for all she’d gripped Elijah’s hand the entire distance back to Morelands. And yet, he hadn’t wanted to leave her, not when her undisclosed travel plans hung like the holiday equivalent of the sword of Damocles over the entire family gathering.
He came through the doorway at a pace halfway between dignity and panic—an enthusiastic pace, perhaps. A holiday pace adopted when a man needed a clear shot at the punch bowl—only to stop short.
His Grace was glowering mightily at Jenny, who was resplendent in red velvet and white lace. Beside the duke, Her Grace looked concerned, and Jenny looked… determined. Mulishly determined.
“What is this tripe about moving to Paris?” His Grace asked.
God help them and their chances for a happy Christmas. Elijah sidled through a crowd of Windham lords and ladies, the women’s expressions mirroring concern for their sister, the men’s eyes guarded and their arms around their wives’ waists.
“Mama, Papa, I’m moving to Paris to study art. I trust you’ll wish me well.”
She hadn’t asked; she hadn’t begged or prettied up a request with pleases and perhapses. Elijah had never been more proud of his Genevieve.
“Percival, talk to your daughter.” That from Her Grace, whose tone conveyed bewilderment. “The strain of holiday entertaining has taken a toll on her.”
“You, Genevieve, are distressing your mother,” His Grace began. “I know not what wild start you’re positing, but no daughter of mine is going to waste her youth and beauty getting her fingers dirty in some frozen French garret, when her proper place is here, among the family who loves her. A husband and children—”