Page 13 of A Cursed Bride for the Duke
The Duke of Ravenshire. Even his name seemed to reverberate through the hallowed space. He stood tall, his broad shoulders accentuated by the cut of his dark coat. His features were sharp and defined, his jaw set firmly beneath a neatly trimmed beard, his lips pressed together in a determined line.
As he turned towards Genevieve and watched her walk towards him, his eyes instantly held her captive. They were a radiant emerald green, piercing and intense. He offered her a small smile of encouragement as she drew closer.
Genevieve’s breath caught in her throat as she took him in. Despite her apprehension, she could not deny his magnetism.
The musty, damp scent of the aged stone and the faint rustle of her skirts were the only things that infiltrated the stillness. She could feel Marianne and Owen watching her, their unspoken worries mirroring her own.
“Are you ready?” the Duke asked, his eyes fixed on her as he gave her a genuine smile.
Despite her inner turmoil and raging thoughts, Genevieve nodded. “Yes.”
The ceremony commenced, and the vicar recited the familiar vows.
The Duke took her hand as he recited his vows, his voice cutting through her thoughts. His gaze never wavered from hers as he spoke. His intensity unnerved her and stirred a strange sensation of longing deep within her chest.
She recited her vows in turn, but her voice sounded distant even to her own ears, as if the words were coming from someone else.
And just like that, it was over.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the vicar declared. “You may kiss the bride.”
The Duke turned to her, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He leaned in, his hand gently cupping her cheek, and kissed her.
The kiss took her by surprise. A warmth spread through her, contrasting sharply with the cold formality of the moment. His lips were firm yet soft, and they moved against hers with a gentleness that left her breathless.
She caught the faint scent of sandalwood and a hint of smoky cedar emanating from him, laced with something earthy and unexpectedly comforting.
Her pulse quickened, and a flurry of butterflies circled wildly within her stomach.
She leaned deeper into the kiss, feeling his hand slide to the small of her back, his fingers splayed, firm yet gentle, spreading a satisfying heat through her core. His other hand cradled her jaw as his thumb brushed lightly against her cheek.
A warmth blossomed in her chest and spread outward, and her skin tingled under the heat of his touch. Genevieve gasped at the slight but thrilling pressure in her groin that grew as he pulled her even closer, erasing her drifting thoughts as she became lost in the passion of the moment.
The world around her faded away, and the moment stretched into an eternity from which she did not want to escape.
He broke the kiss and pulled away slightly, his eyes scrutinizing her expression.
“My Duchess,” he murmured, his voice a caress.
Genevieve’s fingers tightened around the fabric of her gown as the wordDuchesslingered in the air. It was a weighty, unfamiliar title that carried an air of authority she was uncertain she could shoulder.
The guests rose from their seats and made their way to the yard, where a carriage awaited the newlyweds, its polished wood gleaming in the fading light of the afternoon.
Genevieve’s throat constricted as she clasped Marianne’s hands, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Her words of farewell sounded hollow in her ears, rendered insufficient by the ache in her heart. Owen stood beside her, his gaze soft but distant.
“My sincerest thanks,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “For everything you have both done for me.”
Marianne pulled her into a tight and comforting embrace. Her voice trembled as she whispered, “We will miss you terribly, dear Genevieve.” Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but a faint smile still clung to her lips. “Always remember, although we will be returning to Clowefield next week, it is only a short distance from Ravenshire. You must visit us often. Promise me that you will.”
Genevieve offered her a wobbly smile, and before she could stop it, a tear rolled down her cheek. “I give you my solemn promise,” she whispered.
Owen stepped forward, his gaze filled with concern. “Take care, Genevieve,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “And remember, if you ever need anything, do not hesitate to reach out to us.”
Genevieve managed a weak smile. “I shall,” she repeated.
She stood still and watched as Marianne and Owen’s carriage disappeared into the distance. The world seemed to shrink around her, leaving only a dense silence that filled her chest.
I am, once again, alone.
