Page 79 of A Daring Pursuit

The megrims had eased and the lack of physical activity might have left her feeling lightheaded, but she was restless beyond words and quite looking forward to hearing Isabelle play the pianoforte. The child was a virtuoso. That might have been an exaggeration, as Geneva had never heard a virtuoso before. Abra notwithstanding, she thought, a smile filling her. Oh, how she missed her friend.

Upon entering the music room, she came to a quick stop.

It was plain to recognize the Marquess of Martindale, an abominable man, as the crowd was minimal at best He was much harsher than his late father had been reputed. Sadly, the elder had expired around the time Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, had in the late twenties.

“No one will bite,” Noah told her in a low tone.

ButNoahhadn’t been in the park the day he’d been riding by. “Perhaps I shall do the biting,” she whispered back fiercely.She’d never been so grateful to Abra for having the foresight in leaving Geneva a respectable wardrobe. She smoothed her free hand down the cerulean silk skirts.

“Don’t be nervous. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

It was literally too late to back out of the room, as all eyes had turned upon her. Which also stopped her from digging her slipper into the carpet and being seized forward against her will. “I’ve never been nervous a day in my life.” She almost believed her words.

The decorative room was cool due to the high ceilings, but the blazing fire in the hearth reflected by the gilt-framed mirrors staved off the worst of it. This was where Noah led her.

“Miss Wimbley.” Sander Oshea inclined his head. “I’m relieved to see you looking so well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Noah turned from his uncle to the Marquess of Martindale.

Geneva thought she might be sick. She’d managed to avoid him during the events surrounding the late earl’s service, but doing so now was impossible. Only the thought of ruining Isabelle’s big night kept her from sliding to the floor in a dead faint.

“May I present the Marquess of Martindale.” Noah’s words yanked her attention from her coiling stomach. It took everything in her to not take a step back. “His lordship was still in the area visiting with Mr. Asher when the invitation for Isabelle’s musicale was issued.” Noah spoke without an ounce of emotion. Which said much to Geneva. He seemed to read the marquess as she did, a coxcomb of the first order.

“Miss Wimbley, I believe we’ve met before. Hyde Park, wasn’t it?”

Locking her hands at her lower back, Geneva inclined her head. “Indeed, my lord.” She could see the scene as clearly as if it were yesterday. She, Hanna, Meredith, and Abra had beenstrolling the path along the Serpentine when the marquess had nearly run them down, spouting a snide slur at Abra that didn’t bear thinking about. This was the man Lady Westbridge wished to shackle Abra to for the rest of her life.

Geneva blasted him with a bright smile she knew would vex him to no end. Her, an inconsequential cipher. “I see you survived Lord Westbridge’s wrath.”

Indeed, Abra’s father had been quick to lash out in a way that Geneva had tried, running after the man hurling insults. Due to an obscure law on the books that disallowed a lessor from issuing insults to a peer, the incident had nearly had her dragged to gaol but for Lord Westbridge’s interference. A scandal of the first order, but Geneva hadn’t regretted her actions. The blackguard had deserved it. She abhorred him.

The brittle smile he turned on her, bracketed by deep creases, was frightening, but she refused to be cowed by such a hateful cur and steeled her spine, meeting the coal-black, chilling stare he leveled on her.

Noah touched her arm directing her attention to another man Geneva recognized from the late earl’s funeral services. “This is Alnmouth’s Rector, Mr. Woodford, and his wife, Mrs. Woodford.” The erect man with his thinning, white hair and hawkish nose, stood next to the slight woman. There was nothing frivolous about her dark-gray frock. It covered every inch of skin, from neck to, practically, the tips of her fingers.

Geneva dipped a curtsey. “Sir. Ma’am.”

Mrs. Woodford took Geneva’s gloved hand. But one stern look from her husband and she quickly snatched her hand back as if she had poked a fabled dragon. Ah, yes, the bloodied dress. “My dear, dear, child. We heard of your harrowing ordeal?” she said with a delicate shudder.

Not only did Mrs. Woodford’s trailed question leave Geneva with no notion of how to respond—her memories of that dayhad not yet surfaced, if they ever would—but she wouldn’t have answered now to save her own life. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said coolly, while inside a seething inferno was set to blow. “As you can see, I’m quite recovered.” Her education at Miss Greensley’s had served multiple purposes. She tipped a condescending smile at the woman that included her pious master.

Noah bumped her shoulder with a warning and indicated the next man. He wore a coat that didn’t fit so perfectly and his dark hair hung a little too long. “Miss Wimbley, this is Mr. Asher of London.” Despite the intensity of the man’s dark eyes, Geneva blinked and gauged him with singular fervor. He seemed comfortable in his own skin, something she admired and aspired to.

“Miss Wimbley,” he said, taking her hand and brushing her knuckles with his heavy mustache.

“Sir.” Her voice cracked.

Beside her, Noah stiffened.

Geneva’s gaze shot to him, but his face was unreadable.

“Miss Wimbley. So sorry for your ordeal. Is there any word on the culprit?”

“None,” Noah answered quickly for her.

She was insignificant enough for that to be the end of Mr. Asher’s attention. He turned to Noah. “I’d heard Miss Hale was staying at Stonemare,” Mr. Asher said. “I’d hoped for the opportunity to visit with her.”

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