The Marrying Season by Candace Camp

doubt you are right.” His mother should, of course, be told before other people knew about the marriage. But Genevieve dreaded meeting the woman. She would be bound to despise Genevieve for this hasty wedding.
    “If you wish to go somewhere else afterward, you have only to let me know,” Myles went on. “Italy, perhaps? Switzerland is lovely.”
    “No. There is nowhere I want to go.” Genevieve took a steadying breath, keeping her eyes on her hands. “I apologize. I am being beastly—and after all you’ve done for me. Pray do not think that—that I am not grateful to you.”
    “Hush. I don’t ask for your gratitude,” Myles said softly. “Ah, Genevieve, things so rarely go to plan, do they?” He smiled at her and reached out to untie the ribbons of her bonnet.
    “Myles, what are you doing?”
    “I think what you and I both need is some rest. A hat is not conducive to sleeping.” He set the straw concoction on the seat and pulled her snugly up against his side, leaning back into the corner of the carriage.
    “I could not sleep,” Genevieve told him, holding herself stiffly upright.
    “Well, I could. I rose far too early this morning and have been running about all day.” He pressed her head gently down against his shoulder, where, Genevieve discovered, it seemed to fit surprisingly well. “Just relax. I promise you, we can argue all you want later.”
    It was so odd to lean against him like this, yet it was inviting as well. His body was soothingly warm against her, and he smelled pleasantly like, well, like Myles. It was almost impossible to keep her muscles tense, and she gradually let go, sinking into his side.
    Genevieve woke up in darkness. The chaise jounced over a rut, sending her body rolling forward, but Myles’s arm tightened around her, holding her in place. She blinked, pulling her hazy mind back into focus. She lay against Myles’s chest, her face buried in his coat. She pulled herself upright and found Myles watching her.
    “I have rumpled your coat. I am sorry.”
    “You have apologized to me yet again. I am beginning to fear that I have mistakenly married someone other than Genevieve Stafford.”
    She pulled a face at him. “Must you always play the fool, Myles?”
    “Ah, good, it is you, after all.” He, too, sat up and straightened his coat.
    Genevieve slid over on the seat, putting several inches between them. The coach slowed and turned, the sound of the road changing beneath its wheels. There were shouts and lights outside, and Myles flicked the window curtain aside to look out.
    “We’ve reached an inn. Hopefully it will be able to at least provide us with a meal.”
    Rain was pouring down as they stepped down from the coach, and even with her cloak thrown over her, Genevieve was soaked by the time they reached the door. Myles acquired a private room for them to dine in, though the fare proved ordinary—rough bread and overcooked roast beef. Though the maid built up the fire, the room took time to heat up, and Genevieve found herself shivering as she ate. Her wet cloak did little to keep her warm, and she wound up spreading it and Myles’s jacket on a chair in front of the fire to dry.
    The sense of comfort she had felt earlier in the chaise with Myles had vanished the moment they stepped inside the inn. Nothing was natural about being here, nothing was normal in sitting down to eat alone with Myles in his shirtsleeves. Genevieve could not think of anythingto say, and she wished, as she often had, for the ease of conversation that other women possessed. Sadly, the only sort of speech that seemed to spring without difficulty from her lips was sharp. Even Myles was quiet, and his silence deepened her gloom. She wondered if he was regretting his actions.
    “The rain doesn’t appear to be letting up,” Myles said finally. It lashed the window as the wind gusted.
    “Yes.” Genevieve forced a smile. “Not good weather for traveling, I’m afraid.”
    “Shall we get a