Page 15 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
Genevieve drew in a quiet breath.
“But he stayed,” she said.
Sophia nodded, seeming as awestruck as Genevieve for a moment.
“He stayed,” she repeated. “And worked until the land gave back what it once promised.”
They continued through the house. Genevieve saw the parlor, the grand dining room, and the study. Each room bore the mark of careful stewardship, not lavish wealth but steady hands. The portrait gallery revealed a family line marred by neglect and silence, but the last canvas showed a younger Gabriel in uniform, his expression solemn, his posture unflinching. His blemish-free face was incredibly handsome, and she found it quite to suppress a shiver.
At the end of the hall, Sophia opened a side door.
“Mrs. Cartwright is expecting you,” she said.
Genevieve nodded, stepping silently into the room. The housekeeper stood at attention beside a writing desk stacked with ledgers. Her hair was pulled tight, her cap precise, but her eyes softened when she spoke.
“Welcome, my lady,” she said with a formal curtsey.
Genevieve smiled as warmly as she could manage.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cartwright,” she said. “The house is beautiful.”
Mrs. Cartwright gave a small nod.
“His lordship sees to every detail,” she said. “He works far more than he ought. Often, I find him at that desk past midnight, and then out before dawn, riding the far fields in all manner of weather.”
Sophia murmured something about madness.
Mrs. Cartwright did not smile. “Perhaps, now that there is a proper countess, he may learn to divide his time more wisely. Even the strongest horse’s founder if asked to run without pause.”
Genevieve met her look, the meaning plain enough.
“I hope to be of use,” she said. “If permitted.”
The housekeeper’s expression eased. “His lordship mentioned your interest in plants. The glass houses remain sound in structure, though sorely neglected.”
“I caught a glimpse of them as we arrived,” Genevieve said. “They belonged to his mother?”
The housekeeper nodded with a sad smile.
“They did,” she said. “The countess maintained a fine collection. But after her passing, and with the late earl’s decline, they were left to decay. His lordship never tore them down, though others suggested it. He said she loved them.”
A silence followed, one heavy with things not spoken.
“I should like to see what remains,” she said.
The housekeeper gave her another nod and curtseyed.
“Then I shall arrange it,” she said. “You may find more worth restoring than you expect.”
***
The hour grew late by the time Genevieve was shown to her rooms. A footman led the way through a quiet corridor to a suite situated at the rear of the house, where afternoon light softened across the polished floorboards. The door opened to reveal an elegant bedchamber, appointed with delicate tones and subtle floral patterns, refined without excess.
She stepped inside, and the footman bowed before withdrawing. At first glance, the room showed no sign of prior use, yet it bore careful touches of preparation. Fresh flowers stood in a porcelain vase atop the small table beside the bed, violets, jonquils, and sprays of white phlox, had been arranged thoughtfully rather than gathered in haste. The writing desk, placed beside a tall window, had been neatly set with fine stationery, several steel-nibbed quills, and a porcelain inkwell trimmed in gilt. On a nearby shelf, she discovered three books she knew instantly, A Treatise on British Ferns, The Horticultural Register, and Botanical Dialogues for the Instruction of Youth.
Her hand hovered over the spine of the first before pulling it down, opening to a page long familiar. This had not been left to chance. Someone, Gabriel, had seen to it that her preferences were considered. She moved to the tall window, gazing out over the deepening shade of the east lawn. In the distance, she could make out the outline of the glass houses beyond the orchard wall.
The connecting door behind her creaked open, pulling her sharply from thought. Gabriel stood in the doorway between their chambers, one hand resting against the frame. He wore no coat or cravat, only shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms marked by labor. His waistcoat hung open. The fine linen of his shirt stretched across broad shoulders, his build one of function rather than leisure.
