Page 41 of Claiming Genevieve

“It’s beautiful.” Dahlia looks at the necklace. “He still has a lot to prove, though.”

I swallow hard. “He’s thoughtful,” I admit. “But you’re right. Maybe that’s just part of being a ladies’ man.”

Something deep inside of me, though, can’t help but feel that it’s more than that. Rowan doesn’t need to seduce me. He has me already, so long as I show up today and don’t back out at the last moment—the contract is signed and our wedding is today. Of all the women in the world, he needs to put in the least amount of effort when it comes to me.

And yet, the effort is there all the same.

I could still back out.I touch the pendant at my throat, feeling my heart trip again in my chest, nerves fluttering through my stomach. This has become something bigger than I expected it to be. Rowan offered me a straightforward deal, in the beginning—a brief marriage in exchange for enough money for me to start over however I pleased. Simple. Easy. But now—now there’s the added caveat that I’ll be a surrogate for Rowan’s heir. What should have been a few months of marriage has turned into ten or more, depending on how long it takes for him to get me pregnant.

I bite my lip, sinking back down onto my vanity stool as I reach for the white satin ballet flat for my good foot.I’ve made my decision,I tell myself firmly as I slip it on. There’s no point in turning back now. It will solve nothing, and I’ve never been one to back down when presented with a difficult task. There are more than enough benefits to the agreement for it to be worth sticking it out.

I just have to avoid letting my husband seduce me.How hard could that be?I’ve been avoiding the seduction of men my whole life, putting up with it only to the point that I need to and then flitting away as soon as I can. This will be no different.

The car is waiting for us when we walk out. Dahlia and Evelyn ride with me, while Alek and Dimitri take another car. I look out of the window as we drive to St. Patrick’s, trying not to think about how very shortly, I’m going to hobble down the aisle in front of an audience made up of mostly strangers. Thinking of them as an audience only makes it worse.

Dahlia and Evelyn stay with me the whole way up the stairs to the church. I swallow hard, trying to force down the knot of frustration in my chest at how clumsy I feel. I know I look beautiful—the dress is utter perfection, exactly what I would have always chosen for myself, and the long veil with the pearl headband only adds to it. But I can’t help but feel it’s all ruined by the addition of the clunky crutches that I can’t get rid of.

I don’t even have a bouquet, since I don’t have a hand free to hold it.

Dimitri offered to walk me down the aisle, and I agreed. Dahlia and Evelyn fuss over my veil, making sure that it’s perfect, and then collect their small bouquets as the doors open and the wedding march begins.

I brace myself on my crutch, taking Dimitri’s offered arm, wincing as we start down the aisle at a slower pace than we really should. I can see all of the people gathered in the pews, some of whom I recognize—Vincent, Marie, Mme. Allard and other dancers from the company. I see Alek, and Rowan’s father, but everyone else is unfamiliar to me. I recognize some of them vaguely from the engagement party, but I don’t really remember their names.

And then I see Rowan, standing at the altar, and I briefly forget everything else I’m feeling.

He’s so stunningly handsome that it shouldn’t be possible. No one should be allowed to look the way he does, standing at the altar in a perfectly tailored dove gray suit that emphasizes every lean line of what I’m sure is a perfect body. The light coming in through the stained glass windows catches on his copper hair, and when his green eyes catch mine, I see a look that I hadn’t expected to see there.

There’s anticipation, and desire. Eagerness. But there’s something else, too—a look that I can only describe ashappiness. As if he’s genuinely happy to see me walking down the aisle toward him.

I try not to notice how handsome he is. Not to think about how the man staring at me as I walk down the aisle looks like everything I could have dreamed up in some wild fantasy. I try not to think about the sparks that I feel when he takes my hand, the warmth of his skin sinking into mine as I prop myself up and try to focus on what the priest is saying. I try not to think about anything other than reciting my vows, about making sure I sayI doat the right moment. A business agreement. A vow to seal a deal.

It means nothing, beyond that. I tell myself that as Rowan reaches for the edge of my veil, lifting it up, just as the priest tells him that he can kiss his bride.

The kiss is brief, perfunctory, as it should be. His mouth grazes against mine, a ghost of a kiss as one of his hands rests on my waist and the other touches the small of my back—and all the same, heat flares through me at the slightest touch of his lips.

When he pulls back, I can see in his eyes that he knows exactly what even that brief kiss did to me. A small smirk quirks the corners of his lips, and I narrow my eyes at him as he takes my hand.

He’s a playboy,I remind myself. Charming, and devilish, and absolutely not to be trusted, unless he’s signed on the dotted line—like the contract we both agreed to. I would have been nothing but a fling to him before all of this, and I need to remember that. Nothing has changed about who he is, only the circumstances of our relationship.

But it’s difficult to remember that, as he helps me into the limousine waiting to take us to our reception, his hands careful on my waist and back, gathering up my skirt for me as I clumsily slide to the other side of the car. It’s difficult to remember later, when I glance nervously at the dance floor as I pick at my dinner, and Rowan catches my gaze.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says calmly, as if he can read my thoughts. “There won’t be a first dance. I can only imagine how it would make you feel to have to try to dance in front of everyone right now.”

I can feel myself melt a little as he says it, but I frown. “Won’t your father be annoyed that we’re skipping that particular tradition?” I was given a lot of freedom in planning our wedding, but Rowan had warned me that his father wanted it to be as traditional as possible, and to keep that in mind while planning.

Rowan shrugs. “I don’t give a shite about tradition. I’m not putting you on display for all of them with the way things are right now. We’ll sit right here, and the rest of them can dance all they please.”

That surprises me. Not that Rowan is attempting to be caring—as much as I want to pretend that he’s the same as every other man I’ve ever gotten into a relationship with, he’s shown time and again that he’s thoughtful. No, the thing that I find interesting is that he’s so quick to eschew tradition—and even his father’s approval—for me, when he can’t do it for himself.

He’s made it clear, in the times we’ve talked about it, that he feels he can’t escape the responsibility that’s been placed on his shoulders. He feels the weight of that duty keenly, even if he doesn’t want it. Those traditions, the ones of inheritance and legacy, he can’t break away from, whether he cares about them or not.

All too soon, the reception winds down. I’m half-grateful for it and half-dreading it. I’m exhausted from the long day, and my face hurts from smiling at every person who came by to congratulate us. I’m hungry because I barely picked at my food, but I also don’t think I could eat another bite. And now, Rowan and I are meant to head back to his penthouse for our wedding night.

A wedding night that isn’t going to go at all the way I think he’s hoping it will.

Rowan’s Aston Martin is waiting for us outside the reception venue. He helps me into the car, grinning at me as he runs one hand through his copper hair.

“I thought I’d drive us back home for our first night as husband and wife, aye?”

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