Jenny did not hear the duchess’s reply, because Elijah was standing across the room, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight that showed him both tired and handsome.
So very handsome.
“Ladies, welcome.” An older fellow advanced, one who had Elijah’s eyes and chin. He bowed over Her Grace’s hand with old-fashioned courtliness, and still Elijah did not move from his spot by the window.
“And you must be Lady Genevieve. Elijah would no doubt enjoy showing you our portrait gallery, though we keep it chilly this time of year to discourage impromptu athletic competitions—to no avail, I might add.” Lord Flint cleared his throat. “Elijah?”
“Yes, Elijah,” the marchioness added. “The tea will take a moment, given the state of the kitchen of late. Show Lady Genevieve the portraits.”
Elijah held out his hand, and Jenny stifled the urge to run to him. “Nothing would please me more. Lady Genevieve, welcome.”
Still he did not smile. Jenny took his arm and processed from the room with him as if they were promenading around some ballroom before all of Polite Society.
“I should not have come.”
“I’m so glad to see you.”
They’d spoken at the same time, which caused Jenny to pause in her progress down a quiet, carpeted hallway. “I beg your pardon?”
Elijah glanced around. “My brothers are playing skittles in the portrait gallery, and it’s bound to be freezing. Come. We’ll have only a moment, and there are things I need to say to you.” He took her hand in his and tugged her into a room near the end of the corridor.
And Jenny allowed it—there were things she needed to say to him. They might be the last words she ever exchanged with him, but she needed to say them more than she’d ever needed to paint, draw, or embroider.
More even than she needed to keep a promise extracted by a wily, if mortally ailing, brother.
Elijah closed the door behind them quietly, and Jenny found herself in a room much like what the Windham children called Her Grace’s Presence Chamber. The walls were full of sketches, the furniture was as comfortable as it was elegant, and everywhere there was color. The upholstery was blue and cream, the gilding a mellow gold. Green pillows riotously embroidered with flowers added a comfy touch, and gold fleur-de-lis decorated the walls.
“There’s no red,” Elijah said.
“That’s what you wanted to say to me?” Though he was right. The room sported neither red nor pink, even.
“This is my mother’s parlor, and it has no red. But that is not what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say—”
He went to the door and locked it, which could presage either difficult words or—
He took her in his arms and brushed his mouth across hers. “We haven’t any mistletoe, Genevieve, and I know you’ll soon be on your way, but—”
Jenny went up on her toes and kissed him back, kissed him as if he were every destination on His Grace’s splendid itinerary and the place she’d come home to all rolled into one. “Hang the red, hang the mistletoe, Elijah.”
Hang Paris. She wanted to hang Paris, and yet she might still end up there. Jenny eased back, but did not leave Elijah’s embrace. “Happy Christmas, Elijah.”
His cheek rested on her hair. “That is your version of a holiday greeting now? I’ll not be introducing you to my brothers, if that’s the case.”
Jenny inhaled the scent of him and closed her eyes. To be in Elijah’s embrace was better than Paris, better than the world. “You left Morelands before I could give you my Christmas token.”
“I don’t need any tokens from you, Genevieve.”
He also apparently did not need to let her go, which was a fine thing indeed. Jenny, however, needed to see his eyes when she bestowed her gift, so she eased away.
“I need to offer this to you anyway, Elijah.”
He joined his hands behind his back, the same gesture His Grace had made when Jenny had announced a pressing need to add Surrey to the Itinerary from Hell. “If it’s a farewell, Genevieve, then you may—”
She put her fingers to his lips. “My gift is a question. I want to give you a question.”
He took her hand in his, his expression grave. “Ask, Genevieve. With me, you have ever only to ask.”
His fingers were warm around Jenny’s abruptly cold hand. Her heart thumped painfully against her ribs.
“Will you come to Paris with me?” That wasn’t what she’d wanted to ask, but it was close.
Elijah’s expression didn’t change. “Paris stinks, it’s full of Frenchmen, and they have addled notions of chivalry. Why do you want to go to Paris, Genevieve?”
He hadn’t said no. Jenny clung to that and to his hand. “I don’t want to go to Paris, and I’m not sure I ever did. I don’t want to go anywhere that means I can’t be with you.”
“Do you want a travel companion, Genevieve? If that’s what you’re asking, then I must refuse the honor.”
Pain threatened to buckle Jenny’s knees. “Not a travel companion. Not just that.”
“Somebody to paint with and appreciate art?”
“Not that either.” Because she would set aside her artistic aspirations happily in favor of creating a life with him.
“Good, because as much as I admire your talent and dedication, as much as I would enjoy seeing all the great capitals and treasures of the Continent—of the world—with you, I would decline that invitation too.”
It dawned on Jenny that he wanted her to ask a different question.
“What invitation would you accept? Tell me, Elijah, and I will extend it.”
He took a step closer. “You already have. You have invited me to love you, and I do, Genevieve. I love your heart, I love your gentleness and determination, I love your concern for all around you, and I love your kisses.”
He kissed her, a quick punctuation mark at the end of a lovely little list.
“But you won’t travel with me?”
“I’ve seen the wonders of the Continent, Genevieve. Stared at them for so long I was blind to much else, such as the wonders of a loving family and a welcoming home. Marry me, and I will happily explore those more impressive wonders with you, regardless of what country we find ourselves in.”
Marry me. The question she hadn’t known how to ask him. Jenny bundled into Elijah’s arms. “Yes. Yes to the family and the home, yes to becoming your wife. Nothing would make me happier.”
In the small parlor curiously devoid of pink or red, Elijah held her close, which was very good indeed, because Jenny felt as if she’d fly apart if he let her go, so great was her happiness.
“We can make Paris our wedding journey,” Elijah said, kissing her cheek. “Though I’d spare you a winter crossing if I could.”
She aimed for his mouth and ended up kissing his chin. “A New Year’s crossing, please.”
His hand slid down her back to cup her derriere and draw her closer. “I can’t wait a year.”
“This New Year.”
“Better,” he growled against her mouth. “Nearly tolerable, in fact. Kiss me.”
She did, and she was still kissing him when a tap sounded on the door.
Elijah smiled crookedly and eased away, pausing to tuck a lock of Jenny’s hair behind her ear. When he opened the door, Jenny saw his parents and Her Grace in the hallway.
The marchioness led the parental parade into the parlor. “Excellent! You are showing Lady Jenny your sketches. Her Grace tells me she has a similar collection, most of them done by her daughter.”
“Perhaps it will be a family tradition, then,” Elijah said. He slipped his arm around Jenny’s waist. “I am happy to inform the assemblage that Lady Genevieve has consented to be my wife. His Grace led me to believe my suit would be accepted, and Genevieve has indeed agreed.”
His Grace? As Jenny accepted a hug from her mother, she spared a thought to wonder when His Grace-of-the-never-ending-journey might have said such a thing.