Page 37 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
Chapter Fifteen
Shivering with a chill entirely unrelated to the night air, Genevieve barely registered the warmth of Sophia’s hand at her elbow, guiding her inside. Her limbs moved numbly; her steps steady only by force of habit rather than intention. The house loomed before her, welcoming in its glow, yet offering no comfort. She did not turn back.
The ache of his deliberate withdrawal settled deep, a painful counterpoint to the lingering echo of his touch. Only moments ago, Gabriel had held her, had kissed her with a desperation that left her breathless, had unraveled weeks of restraint with a single, undeniable act. And then, in an instant, it had been erased. Not forgotten as it would not leave her, but erased, as though the fire had burned through more than just the west stables.
Inside the house, Sophia fussed gently, pressing a warm cup into her hands, though Genevieve barely registered the scent of chamomile rising from the porcelain. She murmured something, likely meant to be soothing, but Genevieve only nodded, unwilling to offer more. She climbed the stairs with deliberate slowness, each step feeling heavier than the last. The corridor felt longer than usual and the air felt colder, and when she finally reached her chambers, she did not undress at once. Instead, she sank into the chair by the window, staring out at the moonlit grounds that had seen the destruction only hours before. Had it been destruction or revelation? She wondered numbly
She pressed her fingers against her lips, still sensitive from his kiss. Gabriel had unraveled her carefully kept control, stripped her bare, not in body, but in truth. He had touched something within her that she had not prepared for, had exposed a part of herself she had kept hidden even from her own reflections. And then he had turned away. She did not dismiss the urgency of the fire or his need to help contain it and secure the property. But in the aftermath, he had not offered her comfort, not even in his gaze. He had brushed past her as if she was barely more than an inconvenience, as if their shared moment of passion had never occurred. As if he never cared at all, she thought with heartbreaking realization.
She exhaled slowly, forcing breath into lungs that felt tight with regret. She had allowed herself to believe that it was different, that the bond forming between them was not merely necessity, nor a mere partnership born of circumstance. Andyet, his retreat had been absolute. She did not know how long she remained there, lost in the quiet ache of the moment, but eventually, sleep claimed her.
She awoke late, sunlight streaming through the window, doing little to dispel her gloom. The air in the room was thick, heavy, as though the previous night still lingered between its walls. She rose slowly, dressing with methodical precision, though the motions felt hollow. A knock at the door drew her from her thoughts. She fetched her robe, donning it hurriedly, her heart skipping at the thought that it might be Gabriel coming to give her even just a word. When she opened the door, however, her heart and her hopes sank.
“His lordship breakfasted early in his study and has ridden out to inspect the boundaries,” said one of the footman she had seen the night before, his tone polite and neutral, offering nothing beyond the message entrusted to him.
Another layer to the wall between them.
Genevieve nodded in acknowledgment, gathering her words and composure before the tears could well.
“Thank you,” she said.
The footman bowed, departing without further remark. She did not know what she had expected. Certainly not warmth or easy conversation, but the cold absence stung all the same. The footman could not have known how much she needed merely a kind word from her husband, nor was it his problem to solve. Nevertheless, the disappointment of receiving nothing from Gabriel but cool detachment felt like swallowing a boulder of ice.
Seeking refuge, she carried herself to the morning room, settling at the writing desk where Aunt Victoria’s latest letter rested among the neatly stacked correspondence. The faint scent of lavender still clung to the paper, a delicate trace of its sender. Genevieve unfolded it carefully, smoothing the creases with her palm before reading again the familiar looping script:
My dearest niece,
I trust this note finds you well and not too harried by the management of gardens, staff, neighbors, and one fiercely ambitious husband. London remains as tiresome and smoky as ever, though the season offered some distractions. I attended the Royal Horticultural Society’s new display at Chiswick and thought of you at once. There was a climbing heliotrope so extravagant in bloom that the entire conservatory seemed perfumed with it. I secured a cutting, naturally, which I shall bring with me when next I travel north, provided the wretched gardeners here do not kill it with kindness in the meantime.
You will laugh to learn that Lady Elmsford cornered me at Lady Bettridge’s card party and tried once again to persuade me to wed her widowed cousin. I informed her that I was far too fond of my freedom, my solitude, and my books, in precisely that order. She said I was eccentric. I said I was content. I fear we remain at an impasse.
I must confess, however, that I have felt rather more fatigued of late. A persistent little cough has taken up residence in my chest, most inconvenient for reading aloud and even more so when attempting to outtalk Lord Grafton at dinner. The physician assures me it is merely the result of damp weather and too many late evenings. I shall take his advice and rest a bit more, though you may imagine how tiresome I find enforced idleness.
Please, my darling, write soon. I want every detail of your new life, including every bloom, every stubborn tenant, and every triumph.
Yours always,
Aunt Victoria
Genevieve let the letter rest against her lap, her thumb tracing the margin where a tiny ink blot marred the paper. Victoria’s tone was full of dry wit and sharp observation, though especially affectionate and longing. And one paragraph, lightly phrased and almost tossed aside clung to her mind with unwelcome insistence.
A cough. Fatigue. Advice to rest.
Victoria rarely admitted to anything unpleasant, let alone physical infirmity. For her to mention it at all suggested it had become too persistent to ignore. The physician might have been correct, of course. It might indeed be nothing more than poor weather and a few too many late nights. However, Genevieve’s heart stirred with unease all the same. A faint worry curled beneath her ribs, adding to the unrest already festering within her. She would press her aunt for details, request honesty in her next reply. Yet even as she forced herself to concentrate, her attention drifted, drawn unbidden toward the window.
Outside, near the boundary wall, Gabriel stood alongside Mr. Winters. His stance was rigid, his back to the house a forbidding figure, his posture one of command and distance. She wondered if he had returned from his errand the footman had mentioned, or if he was yet to depart. Whichever was the case, he did not look back. It was as if he was expecting to find her watching him, and he did not even want to glimpse her. Genevieve observed him, uncertain what she expected, but with a sinking knowledge that she had seen nothing.
The distance between them stretched, wider now than ever, reinforced by the quiet certainty that whatever had happened between them the night before was something he would not allow again. Her fingers tightened around the edges of Victoria’s letter; her breath uneven. She had not been prepared for closeness. She had been even less prepared for abandonment. Part of her wanted to confess her feelings and confusion to her aunt. But with her already ill, however minor, she could not add a burden to the aging woman.
The glass houses had become a refuge, and that was where she decided she would seek solace once more. Genevieve stepped carefully over loose flagstones, the hem of her gown brushing against overgrown vines as she entered the quiet sanctuary. The scent of damp earth and faded lavender filled the space, mingling with the crisp morning air filtering through warped panes. It was cold, the stonebeneath her slippers holding onto the remnants of the night’s chill, but she welcomed it. She needed something to steady herself.
The previous night lingered in sharp contrast: the heat and urgency, his touch searing against her skin, then it suddenly being ripped from her. The memory unsettled her as much as the abrupt distance did. Gabriel had held her like a man starved, someone who had abandoned restraint entirely. And yet, mere moments later, he had turned away, locking himself behind the armor of responsibility and duty. That rejection, so swift and absolute, left her feeling adrift.
She moved toward the workbench, where her sketches and cataloging notes lay scattered from where Gabriel had sat her there. With practiced precision, she reorganized everything, then opened her journal, adjusting her grip on the pencil before she began again. If Gabriel could forget something so meaningful and beautiful so easily, she would too. Even if it was only in appearance until she could finally remove herself emotionally from her matrimony once more.
Each measured stroke of graphite against paper was a small act of control and a reassertion of purpose. She listed species with careful notation, detailing their condition, estimated needs for restoration, and the likely timeframe before new growth could be encouraged. She methodically sketched the structure, noting where repairs would be most effective, where glass might be salvaged rather than replaced. Here, in this small sphere of work, competence was tangible and valued, even if only by herself.
Hours passed unnoticed. Only when the morning light shifted did Genevieve glance up, her fingers aching slightly from the pressure of writing. She set the pencil down with slow deliberation, closing her notebook and smoothing her hands against the worn cover. The distraction had been necessary. But it had not been enough. Resolving not to let avoidance dictate her actions, she drew in a steady breath and summoned what courage she could before making her way toward the house.
