Page 3 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
Victoria looked at her with a quizzical expression.
“Speak up, darling,” she said, distracted.
Genevieve said nothing more, however. What she had said was true enough. She did not belong among the diamonds of the season. Her aunt’s invitation had been reluctantly accepted, and merely out of her duty as Victoria’s companion. Genevieve had neither fortune nor striking beauty. Her value was in her quiet manners and prudent observations, both of which made her the perfect companion for her widowed aunt in her spinsterhood.
“Ah, Nephew,” Victoria said with a bright smile. “You look absolutely dashing.”
Genevieve turned as her cousin, Richard Lovell, approached. His coat fitted his form too precisely, his cravat had been tied by a valet with an eye to effect, and his expression bore the sheen of calculation.
“Aunt Victoria,” Richard said, bowing. “You honor your guests with such elegance.” Then he turned to Genevieve, and his smile sharpened. “And Genevieve. I see you have claimed the best vantage. Though I believe others have fixed their eyes elsewhere.”
Genevieve frowned, her confusion stemming from her distraction over the earl.
“Is that so?" she questioned, betraying no particular curiosity.
Richard nodded toward Lord Mountwood.
“Returned from exile, it would seem,” he said. “One hears things, such as how fortunes made from nothing usually involve sleight of hand.”
Victoria dismissed the implication with a flutter of her fan.
“Idle gossip, I am sure,” she said. “We cannot know his investments or business partnerships.”
Richard raised a dubious eyebrow.
“Can you be certain, Aunt?” he asked. “London is fond of its scandals. Particularly when money changes hands too swiftly.”
Genevieve kept her expression neutral. She had no wish to engage Richard in speculation, especially when the subject stood within earshot.
Richard leaned closer.
“Do you not find him intriguing, Cousin?” he asked softly.
Genevieve shrugged, avoiding Richard’s direct gaze.
“I find speculation in poor taste,” she said.
Richard smiled as though she had answered differently.
Victoria tapped her on the shoulder with moderate agitation, once more distracting Genevieve from the topic of the earl.
“It is too warm by half,” she said, seemingly speaking to both of them. “I left one of my fans in the library earlier as we were preparing for this ball. Genevieve, be a dear and fetch it for me, would you? I fear that I shall melt where I stand.”
Grateful for the excuse, Genevieve offered a curtsy.
“Of course, Aunt,” she said, glancing briefly at her cousin with a curt nod. “Please, excuse me.”
Richard bowed as she turned and withdrew from the ballroom. Her delicate feet were sorely pained from the borrowed slippers she wore whilst her head throbbed incessantly from the layered perfumes and the din of strings and voices. The hallway outside the ballroom stretched cool and empty, and she took a moment to inhale quietly.
At the end of the corridor stood the heavy oak door of the library. She turned the brass handle and stepped inside.
The hush enveloped her at once. Lamplight flickered gently against the shelves. The scent of leather, beeswax, and old ink replaced the heady confusion of the ballroom. The walls rose high, lined with books collected by Victoria’s late husband, whose passion for antiquities had extended to botany, history, and arcane treatises on astronomy. Though she had entered on an errand, Genevieve hesitated, then moved deeper into the room.
Her steps softened on the carpet. Her hand rose, almost unconsciously, to trace the edge of a familiar spine. Row upon row of names and volumes she recognized called to her, as did others she did not know. Then, nestled between two almanacs, she spotted a work she knew only by reputation. Voyages of the Eastern Botanists.
She reached for it, found it too high, and spied the narrow ladder against the corner. Without pause, she wheeled it into place and climbed. She could hear her aunt’s reprimand in her head about how ladies did not mount ladders. But Genevieve did, carefully, gripping the brass rails as she ascended. I am more a lady’s companion than I am a lady, she thought wryly as she balanced herself on the rungs. In her hands, the book was even more beautiful than she had ever imagined. Bound in green leather, the gilded lettering was still bright. She lifted it gently with both hands and steadied herself upon the rungs.
The illustration stole her breath. Orchids from the Malabar Coast, rendered in precise strokes of ink and watercolor. She studied the root systems, the delicate articulation of each petal, and the subtle veining on every leaf with the eye of one who understood the labor behind such exactitude. Her own sketches, done in solitude and without formal instruction, could not rival this. Her errand was quickly forgotten as she marveled at the glorious volume. What could ever be more important?
