Page 29 of A Cursed Bride for the Duke
Genevieve relaxed as she listened to the children sung Wilhelm’s praises. First-hand accounts replaced the unfounded judgments in her heart. She had been ignorant of the love his townspeople held for him.
There was obviously more to him than she had first perceived. If she could think of a way to pull back the layers of his aloofness, she had a feeling that she would find a kind man with a genuine, compassionate heart.
“The modiste’s shop is here, Your Grace.” Anna’s voice interrupted Genevieve’s train of thought.
The maid pointed at a quaint, little shop nestled amidst a row of charming cottages.
The doorbell chimed as they entered, greeting Genevieve as a cheerful display of rows upon rows of colorful fabrics and varieties of delicate lace beckoned her inside. The scent of lavender and freshly pressed linen tickled her nose.
The seamstress appeared from the back room, her eyes widening as she caught sight of her new customer. She bowed her head respectfully.
“Welcome, Your Grace,” she greeted, her voice a warm melody in the cozy space. “I am Mrs. Willowbrook. How may I assist you today?”
Genevieve’s gaze swept over the vibrant array of fabrics, and she offered a tentative smile. “I need a gown for an upcoming ball,” she hesitantly explained. “Something… elegant yet understated.”
Mrs. Willowbrook’s eyes sparkled with understanding. “Of course, Your Grace,” she replied warmly. “I believe I have just the thing you are looking for.”
She led Genevieve to a display of exquisite silks and satins, their colors ranging from the palest blue to the deepest green. Genevieve’s fingers brushed the delicate fabrics, her mind conjuring images of herself adorned in their splendor.
“How are you finding Ravenshire, Your Grace?” Mrs. Willowbrook respectfully inquired. “It must be quite a change from a bustling city like London.”
Genevieve’s lips curled into a small smile. “It is, indeed,” she admitted, with a touch of amusement. “The pace of life here is different. But I am finding it quite agreeable.”
Mrs. Willowbrook nodded knowingly. “The Duke is a good man, Your Grace,” she remarked with quiet pride. “He cares deeply about his people.”
Genevieve tilted her head slightly as she studied the seamstress, waiting for her to continue.
Mrs. Willowbrook’s smile widened. “Oh, indeed, Your Grace,” she confirmed warmly. “He is a fair and just ruler and is alwayswilling to lend a helping hand to those in need.” She paused as her expression became wistful. “He has been through a great deal, His Grace,” she added with some sadness.
Genevieve’s chest tightened, and she took a deep breath. She had witnessed Wilhelm’s aloofness and his guarded demeanor, but she had only briefly glimpsed the vulnerability that lay beneath the surface. Whatever losses he had endured, they must have been profound.
“But you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Willowbrook continued, her voice regaining its cheerful lilt, “you seem to have brought a spark of joy back into his life. The whole village has noticed the change in him.”
Genevieve’s cheeks flushed, and she turned her attention back to the fabrics, her fingers lingering on a swathe of burgundy satin. “He is a good man, Mrs. Willowbrook,” she admitted softly, her voice steady. “And I am grateful for his kindness.”
She pulled out the soft fabric. “Shall we see how this suits me?”
“Now, on to more pressing matters.” Wilhelm’s voice, though calm, carried an edge of steel as he turned back to Kenneth. “I trust you have made progress with what we had previously discussed?”
Kenneth leaned back in his chair, a smug grin spreading across his face.
“Indeed, I have,” he confirmed, steepling his fingers. “Remember that little venture you mentioned? The one designed to rival Shelton’s shipping interests?”
A shadow crossed Wilhelm’s face, his jaw clenching as the name echoed in his mind. That man’s name was a disease—a phantom from the past that he could not escape.
Lord Shelton. Alfred.
The magnitude of his betrayal came rushing back as though it had occurred only the day before.
“What was that?” Kenneth asked, leaning forward, his probing gaze fixed on Wilhelm.
Wilhelm shook his head, momentarily disoriented by the question, the weight of his thoughts dragging him under. “What was what?”
Kenneth arched an eyebrow, his voice becoming sharper. “What is the matter?”
A surge of cold, sharp hatred washed over Wilhelm at the thought of Shelton. He clenched his fists beneath the table, trying to keep his composure.
He’s a lying, scheming, despicable bastard.
