Page 21 of Winter's Waltz
Her eyes were burning. Remnants of the fire, she told herself. It was everywhere, hanging thick, coiling around them. The hot, charred carcass of her kitchens seemed to mock her. And yet, when her gaze locked with the Marquess of Sundenbury, a man she knew to be a wastrel who could not keep himself from trouble, something inside her shifted. A new awareness burst to life, one not just founded in the physicality of his beauty. That, she could not deny. But instead based upon something of far greater import to Gen.
Respect.
Tonight, the marquess had saved not just her hell from destruction, but he had also saved the lives of so many others, including Gen and Arthur.
She was humbled. Grateful. She inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm herself, but the hot smoke curled into her lungs, making her choke and sputter and cough. When at last she could properly breathe again, she wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes.
“Thank you,” she managed. “Both of you. Thank you to each one of you. I will never forget this night. Not as long as I live.”
Arthur barked, as if to concur.
“Another round of buckets!” called one of the men. “We need to be certain this sodding fire is done!”
“Aye,” Peter agreed. “More buckets.”
Gen stood in line and took a fire bucket from one of the stable boys. “I’ll help.”
The marquess, much to her surprise, settled into the line as well. Behind her.
“As will I,” he said.
The line went back to work. Each of them, together.
* * *
As dawn roseover the East End, Max escorted Arthur and Miss Winter back to her rooms. It had taken hours, along with the late arrival of the fire brigade, and much difficult labor, to make certain the fire was altogether doused. The smoldering coals had been prodigious in their attempts to reignite, but their tedious efforts had prevailed.
“I am sorry about what happened this evening,” he told her, feeling her anguish at the destruction which had been wrought quite keenly.
As if it were his own, in fact. The agony on her face for a brief moment as she had surveyed the ultimate damage to her kitchens had felt like a blade piercing his heart. But in typical Miss Genevieve Winter fashion, she did not shed a tear. Nor did she betray a hint of her inner devastation after schooling her features into their customary, impervious mask.
“You needn’t be sorry,” she said quietly as they stopped at the threshold of her private apartments. “If you hadn’t been aware, if you hadn’t taken note of the crashing and the flames…”
He suppressed a shudder as his mind traveled to the same, dark place.
Every one of them could have lost their lives in such a blaze, had it taken root and grown beyond the kitchens. And even more frightening—to think someone could have started the fire intentionally, with just such an evil intention. But he would not express his concerns to her now. The sun was rising, and she was soot-stained and fatigued.
She had almost lost her gaming hell this evening. And her life as well.
“I am relieved if I played any part in keeping your hell from burning down,” he told her.
“The noise you heard,” she began.
“Later, empress,” he interrupted gently, a sudden fierce burst of protectiveness toward her overcoming him. “You need some rest.”
She shook her head, the obstinacy he had come to know so well in their short acquaintance presenting itself in the sudden harshness of her expression, the rigidity of her jaw. “Not yet. I want to know about the breaking glass. Did you see anything? Anyone?”
He shook his head. “No. I was not near enough. By the time I reached the kitchen, the flames had already begun.”
“Someone started the fire intentionally,” she said then, echoing his thoughts. “There was no fire in the kitchens all day. No one should have been within. Everyone I employ is loyal. I know each one of them well. They are trustworthy to a man.”
How well did she know them? He could not help but to wonder, with a twinge of jealousy he could not control. Her relationship with Peter seemed…Hell.Peter worshipped the ground upon which Genevieve Winter trod. That much was apparent. As did every last man beneath this roof.
Max included. The woman astounded him.
Tonight, she had been a warrior, running headlong into danger, standing in line with her men, staying awake till dawn, when at last they had all dispersed to varying corners of the hell, their faces blackened, their bones weary if the way Max felt was any indication. He felt as if he could sleep for a solid sennight.
But she was still watching him, waiting, it seemed, for a response.
