Page 9 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
Her aunt’s grip remained firm, her fingers tightening before shifting to rest lightly upon Genevieve’s shoulders.
“Remember to inspect the pantry before market day,” she said. “Do not permit the housekeeper to order more tea than necessary. And be certain that the footmen wear gloves at dinner. A gentleman’s household must present itself properly.”
A single tear slipped from Victoria’s eye, an unexpected fracture in her otherwise composed demeanor. Genevieve hesitated only a moment before reaching out, brushing the tear away with a gloved thumb.
“I shall try not to shame you,” she said.
Victoria bit her lip, the gesture uncharacteristic of a woman so devoted to maintaining appearances, and she stepped back with a solemn nod.
Richard approached next, his polished boots gleaming as though freshly buffed for the occasion. He bowed with exaggerated courtesy, every movement deliberate and calculated in a way that Genevieve had never seen from him before.
“My dearest cousin,” he said with the same over-sweetness with which he had spoken at the table. “You make a radiant bride, and no doubt that you will make a remarkable wife. May your days be smooth and your nights full of domestic harmony.”
Genevieve gave her cousin a tight smile in silent response, offering nothing more than the required acknowledgment. She understood the meaning behind her cousin’s words. What she could not understand was why he had made such a bold remark. She was sure he had nothing but affection for her, so surely he had not meant to make her uncomfortable. So, why did he appear so self-satisfied?
Richard straightened with a wink, then turned away, reaching for his gloves. Gabriel remained near the door, distant but present in an odd, alert but detached manner. His gloved hand rested atop the head of his walking stick, the quiet authority of his posture unmistakable. Though his expression remained unreadable, his gaze did not falter as Genevieve was led toward the waiting carriage.
The door was held open. She climbed in with careful precision, arranging her skirts deliberately, folding her hands neatly atop her lap. The upholstery was burgundy velvet, cool against her back. She inhaled the faint scent of old leather and lavender oil. The interior of the carriage felt prepared, waiting for both her arrival and for her silent surrender to a journey that had been determined long before she ever stepped inside.
Outside, Gabriel murmured something to James, his voice too low for Genevieve to discern. His stance remained professional, and his every movement composed, yet there was something in his stillness, in the command he wielded even in silence that unsettled her. She did not watch him enter. She did not wish to appear as though she had waited upon his actions. The carriage dipped under his weight as he stepped inside, closing the door with quiet finality. He lowered himself opposite her, with his presence filling the space between them with heavy awkwardness.
He still said nothing, and, given their previous conversation, she thought perhaps that was best. Nonetheless, she could not help wishing that they could find something to discuss, if only to stave off boredom on the trip. She kept her gaze fixed upon the window, watching as the glass fogged faintly under the warmth of their breath.
Chapter Five
The road south narrowed after Guildford, revealing a landscape which opened out into grounds bordered by low stone walls. The advent of winter had laid bare the fields, stripping their hedgerows of all lushness. Within the carriage, silence gathered like mist, disturbed only by the dull rhythm of hooves and the occasional groan of worn leather. Genevieve kept her chin lifted and her spine drawn taut, though the effort had long since begun to wear upon her. The cushions, for all their refinement, offered little relief amid such unrelenting nearness.
Gabriel sat across from her, legs extended, his bearing composed. From time to time, the carriage dipped into a rut or lurched over uneven ground, causing their knees to touch without warning. Each such contact startled her nerves into alertness, as if the nearness carried something more than accidental touch. She gathered her skirts in a futile attempt to place some boundary between them. Still, warmth remained. His boot brushed her hem once, then again, before he drew back. His expression revealed nothing. Only a tautness along his jaw suggested that he had noticed as well.
She turned toward the window, though the glass revealed little aside from a smear of hedgerow and low sky. The countryside might have offered peace had her thoughts not wandered into disorder. No matter how she tried to arrange them, they returned to one conclusion. They remained strangers.
No closeness had drawn them together. There was only duty, arrangement, and the force of decisions forged long before she had the leisure to consider what it would mean to live beside a man whose nature remained unfamiliar. She folded her hands in her lap and urged her breath to steady.
It was not dislike that she harbored. That would have been easier. Rather, a quiet unease took hold, one which was sharpened by the memory of how tall and reserved he had been during their first meeting, how his speech had been so deliberate, with his expression offering no more than formality required.
He was no different now. He neither fidgeted nor sighed, nor made any attempt to seek conversation. And yet, he was not settled either. She read it in the careful stillness with which he held himself, as though every movement must first be measured and approved. She had known men who addressed their discomfortin jest and charm. Gabriel did neither. His quiet might have been a kindness if it did not carry such restraint.
At last, he adjusted his posture and turned his face to the passing fields, his brow creasing.
“That plot once belonged to the Darley tenants,” he said. “The ground near the stream flooded each spring until last year.”
Genevieve looked toward the area he indicated. The earth sloped gently down toward a narrow ribbon of water, silver where the light struck. A few sheep grazed along the rise, undisturbed by the passing wheels.
“A trench was dug beneath the rise,” he said. “Nearly half a furlong in length. Broader near the bottom. The tenants arranged it with hired men to deepen it. It drained well. Turnips prospered there afterward.”
She turned to face him.
“You arranged it yourself?” she asked.
He gave a brief nod, though not in the manner of men who dismissed a woman’s inquiry.
“It had to be done,” he said. “The ground served no use as it was. I cannot claim the impulse was charitable. The illness that followed the floods cost more in medicine and lost labor than the remedy ever would.”
A trace of an acknowledgment that there had been some irony in the result fluttered on his lips.
Genevieve regarded him for a moment.
“Practical,” she said. “But not unfeeling.”
