A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin 2)

She regarded him with horror. “So I should sell myself to him?”

A hiatus in his hand wringing. “You’d be a lady in a great house and close enough to continue working with me.”

Of course his convenience was paramount. If she married Lord Neville, her father retained patron and assistant in a neat package. An ocean of disappointment drowned her rage. She should have guessed that her father wouldn’t take her side. That liar Richard Harmsworth was the only person prepared to stand up to Lord Neville for her. What an appalling revelation.

“Don’t you care that he hit me?” she asked in a small voice.

Her father looked hunted. “You mustn’t dismiss his many kindnesses because of a childish spat.” He adopted the pious expression reserved for his sermons. “We can’t be unchristian.”

“No, let’s not be unchristian,” she said bitterly, turning away to hide her distress.

He stood and touched her arm. “Genny, I know that something’s frightened you. But for your own sake, consider Lord Neville’s proposal. I’m sure today he’s repentant. Your innocence makes you blind to a man’s passions.”

Shamed color flooded her cheeks. After last night, she was innocent no more. But her voice remained steady, even as wretchedness weighted her belly. “Lord Neville attacked me. I won’t overlook that for the sake of your comfort.” She steeled herself to say what she should have said long ago. “And I’ll no longer let you claim credit for my work.”

Her father snatched his hand away and retreated. “What is this? You’re getting above yourself, my girl. You’ve been an able assistant, but purely an assistant.”

She jerked her head up and stared at him. The morning light through the window lay plain on his face. He looked tired, petulant, and completely sure of himself. She’d long ago accepted that fundamentally he was weak and self-centered. But this denial tested the boundaries of credulity. In the last five years, the vicar hadn’t written one published word. Even commissions to authenticate some item or confirm an obscure piece of family history had been her work.

The tantamount importance of her article about the Harmsworth Jewel had never been so clear. How glad she was that she’d kept the truth about the artifact to herself. She needed to establish her academic reputation. And she needed to do it soon.

“I’ve been more than an assistant,” she said shakily.

Her father’s jaw set in an obstinate line. “Years ago Lord Neville approached me about making you his wife. I should have arranged the wedding before pride gained this hold over you. You’ve become arrogant, Genevieve, and rebellious. Remember what we both owe Neville Fairbrother.”

Bile rose in her throat. Her father resented her upsetting his cozy world. He’d forgive her if she allowed everything to continue as before. No, even worse, he’d forgive her if she bolstered the lies about his work and married Lord Neville.

She’d rather die.

Richard awoke to shadows and the unmistakable aroma of horses. The bed beneath him was unaccountably hard and rough beams supported the ceiling above his head. He blinked, sneezed and wondered where the hell he was.

Immediately he remembered. Bundling his coat into a makeshift pillow, he’d slept in the vicarage stables. Even with Cam’s footmen on watch, he couldn’t leave Genevieve unguarded. Then the night’s exertions had taken their toll and he’d nodded off, bugger it.

“Who’s there?” a husky voice asked.

He recalled now what had disturbed him. A woman’s crying. Fierce concern banished all drowsiness. He rolled onto his side in his dark corner of the loft and discovered Genevieve huddled against the far wall.

“Genevieve? What’s the matter?” He rose into a crouch, struggling to see her. Sun forced its way through the cracks in the boards, but he discerned little beyond her outline. She curled into the wall with her knees raised and her shoulders slumped forward.

She stiffened and hunched away. “What are you doing here?” she asked, the snap failing to mask her voice’s rawness.

His lovely girl was crying as if her heart broke. Over what he’d done last night? The thought winded him.

“I slept here last night.” He stood and stretched tight muscles. “I meant to stay awake to make sure you were safe.”

“But you didn’t.” She sounded bitter and unhappy.

“I’d have heard if there was trouble.” As he brushed away the straw clinging to him, he hoped to God that was true. Desperate not to scare her into scarpering, he strolled across to the narrow window and pushed the shutters open. The sun was high in the sky. Sweet air flooded the loft, dissipating the equine tang.

He turned back to Genevieve. Even with the window open, it was difficult to see. He could just make out the discoloration on her cheek where Fairbrother had hit her. Richard tamped down his fury at the sight.

He shrugged with assumed carelessness. “If you and I were alone in the house with only Dorcas as chaperone, it would look bad.”

Her wariness was so powerful, it felt like a physical presence. “As if you care.”

He frowned. “Of course I care.” More than she knew, although after their quarr

el, now wasn’t the time to declare his feelings. He sucked in a breath redolent of hay dust and warm air and sneezed again. “That covers why I’m in this deuced inconvenient rat hole. What’s your excuse?”