Page 6 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
Gabriel said nothing, his jaw tightening.
“She will be ruined,” James said. There was nothing but matter-of-factness in his friend’s words, but that brought no relief to the irritation Gabriel felt.
“There remains only one course. You must wed her,” James said in his friend’s silence.
“No,” Gabriel said, shaking his head firmly. “I will not condemn her in such a fashion.”
Sophia caressed her brother’s scar, looking at him with sympathy.
“She did nothing wrong,” she said quietly. “It was not her fault. It was not your fault. Yet it happened, and that has already condemned her.”
Gabriel shook his head again, as if he could undo the truth in his sister’s words.
“She deserves a husband whose name is not dragged through mire,” he said. “Whose face does not provoke revulsion.”
James clapped him on the back, his expression fixed but outlined with understanding.
“She deserves protection,” he said. “You are the only one who can provide it now.”
Gabriel looked away. The door to the Harrington townhouse remained closed behind him. Somewhere beyond that wall, Miss Barrett was likely weeping because of him. He closed his eyes. He harbored no desire for matrimony, and he doubted that such a young woman would wish to endure being forced into the institution. But did they have a choice now?
***
The parlor had grown insufferably close, even though the fire had long since burned to embers. Genevieve sat on the narrow settee, her back rigid and her hands clasped in her lap to keep them from trembling. She fixed her eyes on the carpet, where the fringe of the hearthrug curled at one corner, a fault that might have seemed trivial at another time.
Victoria paced behind her in agitated circuits, the rustle of her gown was punctuated by the whisper of her silks. Her words spilled forth in a fretful cascade of speculation, reprimand, and lamentation, yet Genevieve heard none. Her mind throbbed dully as if it had sustained a blow. She recalled the feel of his coat beneath her fingers, the precise moment when her balance faltered, the warmth of his arms about her, and the intense heat throughout her body in the silence that followed.
The door opened without warning. Victoria halted in mid-step, her next reproach dying unspoken. Genevieve lifted her head in time to see the earl step into the room. He did not bow or offer any greeting.
“I will speak plainly,” he said with firmness that harbored neither apology nor tenderness. “There is no recovering what has occurred in your library. Whether or not it was innocent is irrelevant. Your niece’s name has already become the subject of furtive conversation. By tomorrow, the matter will be far worse.”
Victoria opened her mouth to reply, but the earl remarkably silenced her with a single look. He turned then to Genevieve, and something in her chest constricted. His eyes met hers, but they were cold, nothing at all like those of the nobleman who had held her so gently just moments before.
“I am prepared to enter into matrimony with you,” he said. “It is my duty to assume responsibility for your reputation after such impropriety, and I stand ready to do just that.”
A complete silence followed. Genevieve stared at him, uncertain whether she had misheard. Her fingers gripped one another more tightly, while her tongue remained silent. He had not asked; he had declared. It ought to have shocked her, yet she had passed the point of astonishment. Whispers had already taken root. Her former life, such as it was, was lost.
She scrutinized his face for some trace of the gentleman who had so passionately discussed horticulture with her. There was none. His jaw was set, his eyes were unreadable, and his posture was stiff with resolve. This was a duty, nothing more. He would take her as his wife, not out of affection, not even out of pity, but because scandal demanded it. To Genevieve, that was worse than an offer of pity.
Victoria stood motionless at her side, for once without counsel to give. Genevieve inhaled once and then again, slowly and with measured care. Her body began to shake, though only the faintest tremor reached her hands. She drew her shoulders back. If ruin had found her, she would not meet it with a bowed head. Her eyes lifted to his, and she gave him a curt nod.
“I understand,” she said. “I accept.”
Gabriel nodded once, curtly, but no more words were spoken. Genevieve’s fate had been sealed. The only question was how deeply she would come to regret it.
Chapter Three
Genevieve sat motionless before the dressing table, her posture upright through force of habit rather than conscious effort. The comb moved through her hair in smooth, practiced strokes, guided by the steady hands of her maid. A few pins were secured with care, and the final twist held fast. The modest chignon reflected in the glass was neither elaborate nor disheveled; it was merely serviceable, much like the gown that she wore.
The dress was dove gray instead of white. There had been no discussion of lace, no fitting for silk, and no indulgence in girlish dreams with regard to the selection of fabric or cut. The dress arrived on the second day, unwrapped without ceremony, its plain lines and somber hue had been chosen to convey precisely the nature of the occasion. It was a wedding, albeit in the most technical sense.
Genevieve turned her eyes to her reflection. The woman in the mirror sat as still as a statue, pale, her expression unreadable. Her eyes held none of the quiet anticipation that a bride might once have possessed. There was no delicate blush of happiness, nor any glimmer of hope. There remained only the faraway look of one who had surrendered every impulse to object.
She had not cried. Not once. Not when the arrangements were read aloud in dry, practical terms. Not when Lady Victoria handed her a list of items to be packed. Not even when the banns were waived and the date fixed by special license. There had been a single moment, alone in the stillness of her room, when her knees gave way; yet not a tear had been shed.
The hum from downstairs reached her faintly, a low murmur of hurried instructions and feigned cheer. Lady Victoria was, no doubt, moving briskly through the drawing-room to ensure that the vicar had been properly received and that tea would be served immediately after the ceremony. It was a ceremony for which no one would extend congratulations. It was to be a quiet affair, without the customary attendance of bridemaids, the charm of music, or the beauty of flowers. There was to be only, a small uncomfortable gathering of relatives and a scattering of acquaintances summoned by duty rather than goodwill.
Genevieve noticed the flicker in her maid’s eyes in the mirror. There had been no unkindness in the woman’s touch, but something gentler, perhaps pity. She recalled the same sentiment in the servants’ faces when they believed herattention was fixed elsewhere. Whispers had arisen. She had overheard them by chance, for gossip which had rarely waited for privacy. The remarks had been spoken clearly in the corridor two nights prior, about how she, the poor creature, had been irrevocably bound to ‘the beast.’
