THE UNTHINKABLE
Monica McCarty
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
The Unthinkable
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
Excerpt from TAMING THE RAKE
COMPLETE MONICA MCCARTY BOOKLIST
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Acknowledgments
I need to go back quite a few years to give proper thanks to some of the people involved with this book from the beginning. Bella Andre and Jami Alden, I’m looking at you! As my early critique partners, I don’t even want to think about how many times you read this book (Jami, thanks for reading it yet again after about a ten year lapse), but thanks to you both for your collective brilliance, sage advice, and ongoing encouragement in (finally!) seeing this book to publication. A huge thanks to Carrie at Seductive Musings for this gorgeous cover, Shona McCarthy for her extremely helpful copyediting, Anne Victory and Cyrstalle for their eagle-eyed “oops” detecting, and Lisa Rogers for the ebook formatting. I also want to give a very special thanks and shout out to Isobel Carr who generously offered to help me format this novel for print only to be caught in word processing program hell. It wasn’t pretty, and the fact that it was last minute made it even worse. A huge thanks—I owe you big time.
The Unthinkable
© 2015 Buccaneer Press LLC
The Unthinkable is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organization, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Cover Design: © Seductive Designs
Photo copyright: Woman:
© Novel Expressions
Photo copyright: Landscape:
© Depositphotos.com/ianwool
Photo copyright: Ship:
© Depositphotos.com/ Elenarts
Photo copyright: Letter:
© Depositphotos.com/ estudiosaavedra
All rights reserved.
Excerpt from TAMING THE RAKE Copyright © 2015 Buccaneer Press LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced without prior written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations for purposes of review.
Five years ago Eugenia “Genie” Prescott, the daughter of a country parson, gave her heart to a young nobleman who betrayed her. Seduced by an unspoken promise of marriage, she is forced from her home to avoid scandal. Irreparably changed from the destruction wrought by the failed relationship, Genie has paid for her sins in tragedy and heartbreak. Returning to England on the arm of the man who rescued her from hell, she is determined to reclaim the life denied her and never be at the mercy of a man again. But the secrets of the past threaten to ruin her future when she comes face-to-face with the man whose betrayal nearly destroyed her.
Forced to choose between duty and desire, Lord Fitzwilliam Hastings refused to defy his family and do the unthinkable: marry a girl of inferior wealth and rank. But by time he realizes his error, Genie has disappeared. Haunted by the failure of his youth, and by the girl he could never forget, Hastings, now unexpectedly the Duke of Huntingdon, has searched for her for five years. But now that Genie is back, the duke has his chance for atonement and is determined to make it up to her… even if the reluctant Genie has to be persuaded.
If thou remember’st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into
Thou hast not lov’d.
—William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act II, scene iv
CHAPTER ONE
Carlton House, June 19, 1811
The soft glow of the gaslights cast ominous shadows across the coach as it crept along Pall Mall. But not even the black curtain of a starless night could relieve the oppressive heat of the sweltering London evening. The air inside the luxurious carriage had passed beyond stagnant over an hour ago, turning the once-delicate mingling of the ladies’ fine French perfumes to pungent and cloying. The normally loquacious occupants of the coach had been silenced by darkness and shared discomfort. The short journey from Berkeley Square to Carlton House that should have taken a quarter of an hour had already extended to an excruciating three.
The interminable wait would try the patience of a saint. And Eugenia Prescott had long ago forsaken her chances for sainthood. Tension knit with excitement balled in her gut. With what was at stake tonight, each minute of delay was pure agony.
After years of pain and heartbreak, Genie stood poised on the verge of triumph. If all went according to plan, tonight would be the beginning of the end of her long quest to secure the life that was denied her five years ago.
The coach lurched forward then jerked to another abrupt stop. Stop and start, like the erratic pounding of her heart. Yet each step, no matter how infinitesimal, brought her closer to the realization of her dream.
She sank back against the silken walls, closed her eyes, and slipped into the shadows, hiding her impatience from the watchful eyes of her companions. She drew a deep breath, both to steady her nerves and to give herself a moment to absorb the significance of all that she had accomplished.
She’d journeyed from the doorstep of hell to the very pinnacle of elite society. Miss Eugenia Prescott, the prodigal parson’s daughter, who’d fled ruin and disgrace, surviving hardship her provincial upbringing never could have imagined, had returned as the soon-to-be fiancée of an earl. Accomplishment enough to be sure, but there was more. Tonight Genie would make her entrée into high society at one of the grandest events ever to befall the fashionable world.
Much rode on her success this night. Acceptance by the ton would secure her future and enable her to finally put the darkness and bitter memories of the past behind her.
Resisting the urge to look outside the small window yet again, Genie adjusted the bodice of her gown, giving only momentary relief from the biting pinch of her stays. Though beautiful, her ensemble was not particularly comfortable in even the most agreeable of circumstances. After hours of confinement in the stifling coach, the diaphanous ivory column gown clung to her lean body as if she’d dampened the skirts, as was the fashion of the more risqué members of the ton. Still, despite her discomfort, Genie had never looked more beautiful. It was a fact, thought without conceit. She had long since taken any pleasure in her beauty. What she’d thought a blessing had turned out to be anything but. Now her face and body were all she had to ensure her survival—and her future.
“Finally,” Lady Hawkesbury, one of her companions and chaperone, broke the silence. “It’s almost our turn.”
Too nervous to respond, Genie instead concentrated on calming her racing heart. Trepidation nibbled at the edges of her consciousness. Everything she had battled and scraped for was so close she could almost reach out and grab it. Almost. But not quite.
The coach clattered to its final stop. A moment later the blue and gold liveried coachman opened the door, releasing the stale air with a gentle cleansing swoosh.
Accepting the proffered white-gloved hand, Genie alighted out of the carriage and into her future.
Temporarily blinded, it took a moment to digest the vision before her. Hundreds of gaslights illuminated the evening sky, turning night into day. Astonished, Genie gazed around at the Prince Regent’s wonderland. She’d never seen anything like it, and for a moment, she was an awestruck young girl from Gloucestershire again.
“Dear Prinny will never be criticized for restraint.”
Genie clamped her mouth shut, reminding herself that sophisticated soon-to-be countesses did not gape. She pulled her gaze from the pink and silver draperies and mirrors adorning the trellises of the garden walkways to look up at the handsome man who had appeared at her side. Though not accustomed to seeing him in such dandified evening attire, the jaunty grin and sparkling blue eyes were comfortingly familiar.
Edmund.
An aura of peace settled over her as it always did when she looked upon his handsome face. Genie had sworn never to trust a man again, but Edmund St. George, the Earl of Hawkesbury, had chipped away her resistance with his irrepressible chivalry and nobility. Nobility might be conferred at birth, but being noble was earned—not passed along as part and parcel of a title. Lord Hawkesbury, Edmund after all that they had been through, was a truly noble man. And there had been precious few of those in Genie’s life since she’d been forced from her home.
As much as Genie could trust any man, she trusted Edmund.
She met his bemused smile with one of her own. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” She shook her head. “If this is just to celebrate the prince’s regency, I can’t conceive what the coronation will be like.”
Edmund took her kid-gloved hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. “I dare not fathom, but whenever that illustrious event takes place, I’ll not wait three hours just for the privilege of descending from my carriage. A more miserable journey I cannot recall.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” Edmund’s mother, the Countess of Hawkesbury, chided from his other side with an emphatic snap of her ivory fan to his arm. “Of course you will.”
Genie laughed while Edmund grumbled fondly at his mother. But the countess was indubitably correct, Edmund could be depended upon to do what was right. And attending his king, future or otherwise, certainly qualified—three-hour wait to descend his carriage or not.
They stood unmoving near the entrance to the spectacular Gothic conservatory, held captive as much by the sheer extravagance of the decoration, as by the crush of the throng around them. With two thousand of the crème de la crème of polite society milling about, the crowd inside wasn’t any easier to navigate than the long procession of carriages that lined the Mall.
“It’s both incredible and outrageous,” Edmund said, a touch of recrimination in his voice.
Genie agreed. The Prince Regent’s “Grande Fete” (ostensibly to honor the exiled royal family of France, though in truth a celebration of his regency), was both magnificent and appalling. It was impossible not to be awed by the grandeur of the decoration, but it was an exorbitant expenditure of money for a man already sharply criticized for his excesses.
“My word,” the countess exclaimed. “Look at that table!”
Genie followed the direction of the countess’s fan. Her eyes widened. “Who could possibly have conceived such a thing?”
No one spoke; they were all too transfixed. The dining table had to be at least two hundred feet long. And running down its entire length, from an ornate silver fountain at its head, was a stream, replete with moss, tiny bridges, and silver and gold fish.
The opulence of this celebration would strike even the most jaded of the haut ton with wonder. Everywhere Genie looked were riches beyond her imagination, from the elegantly dressed guests in their finest evening dress and jewels to the gold and silver ornamentation that appeared to adorn every surface. The spectacle, the theater of the Prince Regent’s fete, was a long way from the Kington House rectory.
Overwhelmed by the thought that she could soon be a part of this closed society, her façade of confidence knew a fleeting moment of panic. Nothing in her past could have prepared her for such a lavish display of wealth and power. Certainly not the country balls and assemblies she frequented as a girl, or even the elegant intellectual salons of Boston that she’d enjoyed over the past year with Edmund and his mother.
Could she actually do this? Would these people accept her?
“There are so many people,” she said, almost to herself. Turning back to Edmund, she hesitated. “Are you sure this is the best time?”
Instinctively, Edmund pulled her closer to his side. Always the protector. A veritable knight in shining armor. Genie felt a stab of guilt, knowing that she had taken advantage of those propensities. But tonight she truly needed his stalwart conviction and strength.
“If you wish to cause a sensation, there is no better time. The ton will all be gathered in one room tonight. At one table for that matter,” he said wryly, indicating the enormous table. His hand moved over hers, giving it a comforting squeeze. “There’s nothing to be scared of, Genie. You’re incomparable. They’ll love you, as I do.”
Scared? Her back straightened. She wasn’t scared. She was no longer a frightened country mouse, but a woman hardened by life’s disappointments. She’d faced far more difficult challenges than navigating the perilous pitfalls of society. Edmund was right. This would work. She would be accepted. Genie would not allow herself to be intimidated by rank again. That naïve country miss was gone forever. She was older now, a woman of three and twenty. Five years, well four at least, of suffering had changed her forever. It had been almost a year since Edmund had found her. If only he could have saved her before…
She blocked the memory. Genie refused to dwell on the past when her future, a secure future, was laid out before her.
And ready for the taking.
Genie knew what she wanted and more important, she knew what she had to use to get it—no matter how much playing the coquette went against her natural disposition. The sweet, innocent girl she’d been had been a lamb in a pen of lions. But now she knew better. Men—even decent ones like Edmund (she’d seen the way his eyes devoured her body when he thought she wasn’t looking)—only wanted one thing from her.
So she gave it to them.
Her composure recovered, Genie caressed the hard bulge of Edmund’s upper arm with her thumb. She wobbled a brave smile and peeked up at him from beneath her lashes. Years ago the innocent, vulnerable look might have been done unthinkingly. Now she understood its effect.
Heat warmed Edmund’s gaze.
He really was extraordinarily handsome, with his coal-black hair, piercing blue eyes and ruggedly masculine features. Rakish looks without the profligate behavior to go along with it. Genie was fortunate to have him, and she knew it.
She fought the stab of conscience. Was it really so horrible to give him what he wanted? Edmund liked to be the knight in shining armor. What did it matter if she had to pretend a little to be the innocent maiden in need of rescue?
She nudged a little closer, allowing her breast to brush against his arm and said, “With you by my side, my lord, how could I fear anything?”
His eyes lingered on her bosom for a moment before his face grew suddenly earnest. His voice dropped. “You don’t need to do this, my love. Say the word and I’ll shout from the rooftop that you have agreed to be my countess. I don’t care whether we rusticate in the country all year long, as long as we’re together.”
She was half-tempted. Before, Genie might have let him do just that. She would achieve the security of wealth and position just by marrying him—with or without society’s approval. But over the past few months, she’d grown to love him. Not in the soul-encompassing, uncontrollable way she’d loved before—shudder—but in a safe, manageable way.
Dear Edmund. Always gallant, always noble. Even if that nobility could lead to his own social ruin. Though she wanted the prot
ection that marriage to Edmund would afford, she would not destroy him needlessly. The taint of scandal once given could never be undone. A woman with a shadowed past was vastly different from the woman of mystery she hoped to portray.
Genie just had to make sure the ton accepted her, or rather the respectable widow Mrs. Ginny Preston. Miss Eugenia Prescott, parson’s daughter from Thornbury, was a distant memory.
Although there was one person who might remember.
She quickly discarded the thought. He probably had forgotten all about her—just another notch in his bedpost. And if he hadn’t…
He could be persuaded to remain silent.
Genie scanned the crowd for familiar faces, though it was unlikely that she would know anyone. The exalted circles of the haut ton did not often overlap with that of a country parson. She knew that her family would eventually hear that she had returned from America, but she couldn’t face them just yet. She told herself she would go to them and explain once she was established. Once they had reason to be proud of her. Once she was a countess and the threat of scandal was behind her.
For now, she was simply Mrs. Prescott, the widow of a soldier, recently arrived from America. There was no reason to suspect anything else. A carefully constructed web of lies would pave her way to happiness. A brittle bed, perhaps, but it was all she had to sleep on.
Edmund knew her secrets, or those that mattered, and was still willing, even anxious, to marry her. Indeed, since she’d revealed her true name to him a few months ago, his desire to marry her had taken on an almost frantic urgency.
Edmund dared the unthinkable: a misalliance—an inferior marriage in the eyes of the ton. After all that he’d done for her, she owed it to him to try to not make it a costly decision.
“Nothing would make me happier than to announce our betrothal,” she said truthfully. “But it’s better this way. We’ve already agreed. I’ll win them over first then we’ll announce our engagement in a few weeks.”