Page 8 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
Victoria, positioned at the head of the table, chirped nervously, filling the unbearable silence with an uninterrupted stream of pleasantries. Her breathless praise of the salmon accompanied enthusiastic remarks about the softness of the bread rolls and the exquisite selection of teas. No one corrected her or responded with genuine engagement, and Genevieve could not listen quickly enough to keep up with her fretting aunt. The vicar, seated beside her, provided vague acknowledgments before returning his attention to the teacup cradled in his hands, appearing relieved to have an excuse not to contribute further. Richard, however, lifted his glass with practiced ease, his expression adorned with his usual veneer of well-crafted charm.
“To your enduring felicity, dear cousin,” he said.
His words seemed strangely filled with insincerity so thick that Genevieve nearly choked on her sip of water. She forced a smile, delicate and sweet.
“Thank you, Richard,” she said. “Your support is most welcome.”
She turned, offering Gabriel the opportunity to respond, but he did not lift his head. He did not so much as glance in her direction.
Genevieve’s fingers tightened imperceptibly against her lap before she lowered her gaze to her untouched plate. The roast fowl and stewed carrots had been arranged with exquisite care, their presentation seemingly designed more for admiration than consumption. She picked up her knife and cut the meat with mechanical precision, though the action felt futile. Her appetite had deserted her completely. Her stomach curled in quiet indifference. The hush that had fallen after Richard’s remark stretched interminably, broken only by the occasional clink of cutlery or the soft scrape of a chair leg shifting against the floor.
Beside her, Sophia leaned nearer, her manner careful, offering quiet refuge in a moment where every other guest seemed oblivious to Genevieve’s disquiet.
“Will you take tea, or a little wine?” she asked, giving Genevieve a far sweeter smile than Genevieve felt she deserved.
Genevieve inhaled slowly, steadying herself.
“Neither, thank you,” she said, finding it easier, albeit only a little, to smile warmly at her new sister-in-law than she had at the rest of her wedding guests. Yet her voice sounded scarcely more than a whisper.
Sophia hesitated, observing her for a long moment before continuing.
“I can ring for lemonade, if you prefer,” she said.
Genevieve managed another faint, grateful smile.
“You are very kind,” she said. “But I am fine. Truly. Thank you for your consideration.”
Sophia did not press her further. Of all those present, she alone seemed attuned to the unreality of the moment. James, too, appeared content to remain detached, though it did not seem to be due to malice or discomfort.
He occupied himself with quiet conversation alongside Gabriel, his words measured, discussing the route to the country estate, the condition of the roads south of Reading, and the likelihood of reaching Mountwood by nightfall. The sheer practicality of their exchange set Genevieve’s teeth on edge. Was this what she had become? A name on a list? A detail to be scheduled and managed? Was her life now to be arranged between courses and travel maps?
She allowed her to gaze drift to the primroses at the center of the table, their pale-yellow faces turned upward, seemingly basking in the candlelight. She fixated on them, her thoughts pulling her backward into memory. Her mother had once told her that primroses symbolized young love, vibrant in its promise, untouched by the weight of time or sorrow.
The irony cut deeply.
Time moved oddly. The meal dragged on, yet everything seemed to blur together, each passing second indistinct from the one before. The murmured exchanges, the scripted pleasantries, and the soft clatter of cutlery all became part of the same endless procession of polite detachment.
Victoria finally rose, signaling the conclusion of the farce.
“Thank you all for attending the wedding of my beloved niece,” she said with affected brightness. “The carriage that shall take Genevieve and her new husband to their new home must be prepared.”
The declaration struck Genevieve with a sickening twist in her chest. Her fork slipped against her plate. Those words were as heavy as those her aunt had spoken previously were empty. They sank from her heart to her stomach like a boulder to the bottom of the sea. My new husband, she thought with a numb chill. My new home…
The party rose as one, relief barely concealed in their movements as they silently acknowledged that the event had finally reached its conclusion. Conversations resumed in muted tones, polite farewells exchanged in a practiced manner, though none of it truly registered in Genevieve’s ears. She nodded where expected, responded where necessary, and endured each interaction with the quiet precision of a woman performing a role assigned to her rather than acting on any personal impulse.
Victoria approached first, pressing a formal kiss against Genevieve’s cheek. The gesture was carefully executed, her lips barely grazing the skin, yet the familiar scent of rosewater and faint powder triggered long-buried memories of childhood lessons, of moments when Genevieve had stood before her aunt, absorbing instructions on decorum, on grace, on the necessities of propriety. She had been taught that a woman must never falter before society, must never betray her uncertainty, must always uphold the dignity expected of her rank.
Sophia, ever attentive, stepped forward, adjusting the fall of Genevieve’s veil with deft fingers. The housemaid had already arrived with her pelisse and gloves, placing them neatly upon the side table where her bonnet awaited her departure. Everything was prepared. Everything had been arranged.
The hush that unfolded during the farewells did nothing to ease the tightness building in her throat. The gloves slipped over her fingers with practiced ease, but they felt too snug, the pearl buttons pressing into her wrists like unseen restraints rather than ornamental embellishments. Her breath came slowly, with her heartbeat settling into a steady rhythm, despite the dissention within her just beneath her affected calm. She stood at the base of the staircase, a small valise in hand, her body poised for departure, yet her mind lagged, caught in the tangled remnants of an evening that had passed in surreal succession.
Victoria suddenly clasped Genevieve’s hands, drawing her close with startling intensity into an embrace far fiercer than anything she had offered in years. The abrupt nature of the touch sent a ripple of discomfort through Genevieve’s frame, but she did not pull away. Her aunt’s breath trembled against her ear.
“You must write,” she said, her worry cracking through her proper, polite hostess mask. “At once. As soon as you arrive. And if he is unkind or causes you harm, do not bear it in silence.”
Genevieve closed her eyes briefly, absorbing the words. Not as an instruction, but as something resembling genuine concern. It was the closest thing she had to maternal warmth on what should have been the happiest day of her life, and she needed all of it that she could get.
“I shall write, I promise,” she said, not bothering to reply about the rest of what her aunt had said. Gabriel might be many things, but she was certain he would never bring her harm. No more than what had been done to her reputation. Even that, though, was not his fault.
