Page 47 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
Sophia’s voice broke through the brittle hush, bright and untroubled as ever.
“Well, what a morning,” she said warmly. “The clouds seem finally to have taken pity on us.”
Gabriel did not look up, but he heard the chair beside Genevieve scrape gently as his sister sat. James followed a moment later, setting his cup down with an ease born of someone entirely comfortable within the domestic sphere. He offered a jocular remark to Mr. Winters, who ignored it with the same gruff indifference he offered all lighthearted conversation before noon.
Genevieve murmured a polite greeting, her voice quieter than usual. Sophia responded at once, launching into a discussion of some botanical curiosity she had encountered near the west hedgerow. Gabriel absorbed none of it. His focus remained pinned to the figures before him, though he had long since ceased to see them.
When James reached across Sophia to retrieve the marmalade, his fingers brushed hers. The touch was brief and seemingly unintentional, but it left a visible trail. His sister’s blush rose swiftly, blooming in her cheeks like warmth spreading through frost. She lowered her eyes, and James, though still speaking, allowed a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth, as if aware of the silent exchange that had just passed between them.
Gabriel’s stomach knotted. It was not jealousy or resentment. It was from the clarity such a moment afforded. Here, across a table no more than ten feet wide, sat two people whose attachment had blossomed through silent accord, whose understanding deepened not with declarations, but with instinctive regard and shared presence. They had built something honest without urgency nor without secrets. Sitting across from them sat the woman Gabriel had taken into his arms, into his bed, into his soul, and now kept at the farthest reach of his silence.
He forced himself to turn the page.
***
Genevieve adjusted her teacup with careful precision, the porcelain warming her chilled fingers. Conversation continued around her, with Sophia’sbright observations filling the silence left vacant by Gabriel’s withdrawn presence. He had not addressed her directly once since she entered the room. His nod, brief and impersonal, echoed louder than any dismissal.
She cleared her throat softly, seeking steady footing on uncertain ground.
“I have been considering the condition of the glass houses,” she said, her voice even and uninflected. “Reinforcement before winter seems prudent. The southern panels, in particular, show signs of strain.”
Gabriel did not lift his eyes from the ledger before him. His reply came without pause, clipped and dispassionate.
“Mr. Winters and I shall attend to the procurement of the necessary timber," he declared. "The hinges, you understand, require replacing, and iron brackets for the framing are definitely essential. We shall occupy no less than six men from the village for the labour, assuming the weather proves favourable. The work, I dare to hope, may begin come Tuesday."
There was no inquiry, no recognition of her interest or prior involvement. He offered no indication shared recollection of moonlit breathlessness or trembling hands. There was nothing but cold logistics, delivered as though to a tenant’s bailiff. Genevieve looked at him fully then, the question unspoken but vivid in her eyes. He acted as if last night never happened. Or worse, as if he regretted it.
***
Sophia stirred her tea without tasting it, watching her brother with the quiet intensity of one who had known him since childhood and learned to read what he would not say. His manner this morning had returned to the rigid courtesy that masked something volatile beneath. The lines at the corners of his mouth, the set of his shoulders, and the way he never once allowed his eyes to meet Genevieve’s, all told her more than he intended.
She glanced toward James, seated at her right. His brows lifted, a question in them. She gave the faintest shake of her head, a silent answer he seemed to understand at once. There would be no explanations from Gabriel this morning. Only silence. And distance. The strained civility at the table pressed in on her like damp air before a storm.
Without warning, Gabriel pushed back his chair and stood.
“I must speak with Mr. Winters regarding the grain accounts,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection.
He did not look at Genevieve. He did not look at anyone at all. His footsteps receded down the corridor, the door closing behind him with soft finality. Silence followed, made heavier by all that had not been said.
***
Genevieve stepped into the glass house, the quiet creak of the door closing behind her muffling the raw throb in her chest. The heavy scent of rich earth and flourishing greenery enveloped her, a familiar and typically steadying presence. Today, it offered no balm. She crossed to the central bench, untying the ribbon at her wrist to pull her sleeves back. Her hands reached for a fern, movements precise but devoid of care. She repotted it, fingers pressing into the soil, yet she felt nothing beyond the hollow pulse of her thoughts.
The memory of his mouth against hers, the press of his body, the fire they had stoked into something feral and consuming shimmered behind her eyes like some cruel mirage. She had given herself to him fully, recklessly, believing for a fleeting moment that he had given something in return. And now, the man who had murmured tender reassurances in the dark refused even to meet her eye in the morning light.
She pressed her palms into the earth harder than necessary, breath unsteady. Perhaps it had meant nothing to him. It was likely a mistake to be buried under cold civility and estate matters. Perhaps she had only imagined the fire as real. What other answer was there for the way he was behaving toward her after something so intimate and meaningful?
Chapter Twenty-one
James found her in the greenhouse, standing amidst the clusters of orchids, her shoulders slightly slumped. The afternoon light filtered through the grime-streaked panes, casting soft shadows across the stone floor. She had not yet noticed him, her gaze fixed absently on the delicate petals, her expression composed but lacking the usual sharpness. He knew immediately that the carefully maintained poise was an illusion, a shield held with dwindling strength. It was clear that she was hurting.
Genevieve was a woman who mastered restraint, yet James had spent enough years reading soldiers on battlefields to recognize distress even when meticulously concealed. The silent weight in her posture spoke louder than words. He approached with measured steps, ensuring his presence did not startle her, and stopped beside her, close enough to be an offering of companionship but not so near as to force the conversation before she was ready.
“I thought I might find you here,” he said.
She did not turn at once. Instead, she inhaled slowly, as though fortifying herself before speaking.
“It is quiet,” she said. “I find it peaceful.”
