In the early morn hour, with her maid hurrying about her room tucking her dresses and garments into her trunks, Genevieve lay on her side and stared at the opposite wall. With the brocade curtains tightly drawn, not even a hint of sunlight penetrated her chambers. The porcelain clock atop her mantel ticked the passing moments in a grating rhythm punctuated by Delores’ cheery whistling.
“Oh, I will be so sad with you gone,” Francesca said on a forlorn whisper.
Genevieve forced herself into a sitting position at the edge of her bed. It had been a fortnight since her world had fallen apart. But it wasn’t fair to wear her misery before Gillian and Francesca who’d been loyal, daily visitors.
“I still think it’s a rotten idea for you to leave,” Gillian grumbled, giving her a disappointed look. “It’s cowardly to leave. You should stay and fight for love.”
How beautifully innocent Gillian was. A believer in love triumphing over all. She gave her sister a gentle smile. “Sometimes love is not enough.”
A sound of impatience escaped her younger sister. “Rubbish. If you love one another then you can conquer all.” From where she stood at the vanity, Gillian planted her arms akimbo. “And I saw your husband. That man is in love with you.”
Francesca gave a concurring nod. “It is true. He’s seated like a stone statue outside your room whenever I come.”
Throughout the weeks, Cedric’s voice had penetrated the wood panel, but since he’d staggered into the room and then promptly out, she’d heard nothing more than his muffled words as he’d spoken to the doctor.
…will she live…?
…if anything happens to her, I will hold you accountable…
…By God, man, I do not care about a future heir, I care about her…
Her heart convulsed and she pressed her lids tightly closed to blot out the memory of those furious whispers; words that said so very much about Cedric’s regard for that now-gone life and also about her.
She’d never doubted Cedric cared for her in some way. Time had proven, however, they were friends and lovers, but never anything more. They’d never be a husband and wife in the truest sense. She’d held that dream ever since she had first arrived in London, bright-eyed and idyllic, seduced by the glittering world of London Society, all those years ago.
They would never be the bucolic couple upon the porcelain perfume bottle.
They would never be parents. Not because of the loss she’d suffered, but because she’d bound herself to a man who never wanted to be a father. The truth scoured her skin like jagged glass. But she’d not disabuse her friends of their romantic sentiments. “What has come to pass between Cedric and me…” she began softly. “It goes beyond love.” The chasm between them was a gulf so wide; of divergent dreams and wishes on every aspect of life.
She made the mistake of looking to the sketchpad on her nightstand. With her friend and sister debating the power of love, Genevieve leaned over and grabbed the book and flipped through the pages. Cedric’s visage danced along the fanning sheets. She paused. Her own countenance as she’d been on their wedding night, a lifetime ago, stared back. The clock continued to mark the passing moments and her heart squeezed painfully as she touched her fingertip to the face she’d sketched with Cedric’s hand guiding hers. The smile, the grin that reached all the way to her eyes, spoke of the naïve girl she’d been. Even with Aumere’s betrayal and her parents’ defection, there had been hope and laughter…and a dream for more.
Unable to stare into the reflection of now-dead innocence, Genevieve continued flipping the pages. And stopped.
A tiny little babe; an imagined being with his father’s eyes, hair, and mischievous grin that would never be. Agony sucked at her, threatening to pull her under an abyss of despair she’d never climb from. How was it possible to mourn so for a being she’d only just discovered she carried? With trembling fingers, she tugged the page out and brought it closer to her eyes, studying the fictional boy. She dusted her fingertips over the charcoal, faintly smudging the cherubic cheeks.
Because he’d been hers. Even as fleeting as the moment of knowing had been…he’d been real, a piece of her and Cedric combined, that created a miraculous life. Her fingers tightened reflexively on the corners of the sheet. A child that would never crawl or walk, or call her mama or mum or ride a horse or simply be. Despair brought her eyes closed again. With nothing more than an empty numbness inside, she pulled deeper into herself.
“Oh, Genevieve,” Gillian said, touching a hand to her shoulder.
Go away, she silently pleaded. She didn’t want any more of the pitying stares or the devastated tears or the words of sympathy from anyone. This had happened to her. It was an aching loss that had left her empty inside. It was an ache that could never, ever heal. Tears pressed behind her eyelids and leaked their familiar trail down her cheeks. For even as Cedric had never wanted their child and even as it would have been the height of selfishness to bring a child into the world already disdained by his father, she’d wanted the babe anyway. She’d wanted it for her. She’d wanted to cradle him close and sing him songs and she would have had enough love to make up for the parent who’d never care for him.
Genevieve was grateful for the interruption at the front of the room—until her gaze snagged on the plump, oft-frowning figure in the entranceway. Her mother pursed her lips, her gaze taking in Delores’ efforts and the darkened space. “If you’ll excuse us a moment,” Genevieve said to her two friends, hurriedly tucking the page inside the leather book and setting it aside.
In quick order, the two young ladies filed from the room. Gillian paused a moment and shot her a supportive look, before pulling the panel closed behind them.
“Your father sent me.” The marchioness spoke as though she needed to justify why she’d visit the daughter who’d left their family so scandalized.
“How touching,” she said with a mocking smile. Where most mothers would come to their daughter’s side through the loss Genevieve had suffered, her own parent could not be bothered to enter such a gross display…as she’d heard the day she’d come and remained outside the room. It was the first and last time she’d entered this house—until now.
Her mother took in the nearly packed trunks. “You are determined to steep this family in scandal,” she snapped. “Do you know the gossip that will come in leaving your husband?”
Probably not as great a scandal that came in visiting naughty parties and running out in tears. Then, she’d rather not discuss that particular scandal.
The older woman slapped her fingers into her opposite palm. “You do not attend the events your husband does. You do not show that gross display of emotion before Society because your husband carries on with another woman.” She made a sound of annoyance. “Did you truly expect your husband to be faithful to you?”
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “I did.” She’d demand nothing less. She was deserving of her husband’s fidelity.
“You are a fool.” Had there been malice there it would have been easier than that cold delivery. It spoke to a heartless woman who valued nothing more than her status and power.
All the years of resentment and fury at her parents’ disdain boiled to the surface and spilled over. She shoved to her feet. “How dare you?”
Her mother widened her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“As you should,” Genevieve said icily, deliberately misinterpreting the meaning of those words. “You have been nothing but condescending of me. You have shunned me because of the lies put forth by another man.” Her voice rose in pitch as she gave in to years of suppressed emotion. “I am your daughter. And yet you sent me away for something I’d never been guilty of.”
“There was your sister—”
“Bah, do not pretend you care for Gillian any more than you care for me,” she cut in and her mother’s cheeks blazed red. “And do not come into this house and scold me as though I’m a child. This is my home.” Or it had been. “I do not want your lectu
res and I do not want your disloyalty. Get out.”
From over her mother’s graying head, she caught the flash of approval gleaming in Delores’ eyes. Genevieve found strength in that slight, but meaningful, show of unspoken support from a woman who’d been more of a friend through the years than anything.
“Well,” her mother said on a huff and in an uncharacteristically undignified way, all but flew to the front of the room. She yanked the door open and collided with her son-in-law. The marchioness didn’t so much as bother with a greeting but continued walking.
Cedric ignored the older woman; his gaze fixed on Genevieve.
Unable to meet his eyes, she quietly excused Delores. The maid dropped the dress in her hands inside the trunk and quickly left.
Cedric closed the door, leaving them alone. “Genevieve,” he murmured.
Drained from her exertions, she slid onto the edge of the mattress, presenting him her back. Did he truly think to come in here after a fortnight with a casual greeting? After all they’d lost? After his betrayal and treachery? Emotion broiled in her breast.
The tread of heavy steps penetrated her misery as Cedric came to a stop beside her. Wordlessly, he dragged over a chair, the scratch of wood noisy in the quiet and then he slid into the delicate, upholstered seat.
His jacket discarded, he wore nothing more than his rumpled white shirt, breeches, and stockinged feet. He searched his gaze over her face, lingering his stare on the tracks of misery left by her earlier tears. She stiffened, hating that evidence of her despair.
“Are you…?” he grimaced.
“What do you want?” she asked tiredly, closing her eyes, unable to meet his unreadable gaze.
“Did you know you were with child?” he asked in a hoarse baritone.
At last they’d have this conversation. Of course, it had been inevitable. She managed an awkward, jerky nod.
“And you did not tell me.”
A half-laugh, half-sob escaped her and she opened her eyes. “You thought I should share the happy news with the expectant father to be?” She laughed, the sound ugly and sharp. She fixed on the healthy anger so as to not cave under the weight of all she’d lost. “Why should I have told the man who didn’t even want the babe, anyway?” A spasm contorted his face and she steeled her heart. “No. Your knowing would have changed nothing, Cedric. You never wanted to be a father and now you need never be one. So your life is the same today as it was yesterday.”
“Is that what you believe?” He dragged his chair closer to the edge of her bed. “Do you think me a monster who will casually carry on as though…”
As though they’d not created life together.
The muscles of his throat moved.
“Do you know what I believe, Cedric?” she asked softly.
He shook his head.
“I believe we were two people who met by chance in a library.” Tears popped up behind her eyes once more. That night, when he’d taken her bare foot in his hands, may as well have been a lifetime ago for all that had come to pass. “We were two people who felt a spark of passion, a-and who even became friends.” She bit her lower lip. “But artwork and gardening are hardly a foundation with which to support a marriage or sustain it.”
Cedric narrowed his eyes, his thick, golden lashes swallowing his irises. “What are you saying?” he demanded roughly.
“There was never anything more between us,” she whispered, the truth coming from deep inside, from a place where she’d long buried it. Now breathing it to existence cemented the reality she’d long denied. “I thought you were someone different than who you are.” She lifted shuttered eyes to his. “That is not your fault. That is mine. I wanted you to be something you can never, ever be.” A loving husband. A devoted father. Oh God, she hugged her arms close to dull the blade of agony twisting inside. “Ultimately, we are two very different people. You love London.”
“I would give this place up for you,” he rasped. “Tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you.” How could he realize, no material item could fix this? No gift could ever be enough. “Tell me who you want me to be.” His imploring words hinted at a desperation she’d never expected of the rakish lord.
“Oh, Cedric.” Genevieve pressed her fingers to her quivering mouth. “D-Don’t you see? I do not want you to give anything up for me. To force you to leave a place you love or to force you to have something you don’t want…” She sucked in a ragged breath and forced the words out. “A child. I don’t want you to become someone else for me. To expect you to be someone else or to want something else, simply because I do, will only make you hate me. I cannot tell you who I want you to be. You need to figure out the man you wish to be…for you.”
He dropped to a knee beside her bed and brushed his knuckles back and forth over her cheek as he’d done so many times before. “I want to begin again.” There was a faint entreaty in his ragged words. For a sliver of a heartbeat, she wanted to take everything he held out. She wanted to selfishly take for herself the sacrifice he’d make.
But that could never be. Genevieve looked at him and a lone tear slipped down her cheek. He easily caught it with the tip of his thumb. “Do you know there are some moments I wish I’d never stepped into that library, Cedric?” He froze mid-movement. “I wish I’d never entered that room because then you never, ever would have noticed me on the side of that ballroom and I’d never have allowed myself to hope for something that could never be.” His hand fell to his side. She looked over to her trunks. “I am leaving.”
Her husband jerked. “You are leaving?” he repeated his voice, hollow.
She nodded. “I am going to my grandfather’s.”
I am going to lose her.
Panic lapped at the edge of Cedric’s senses.
With every word, Genevieve slipped further and further away. There was an anchor weighting his chest. It threatened to drag him under, into a black, empty void.
Nay, I’ve already lost her. He’d lost her slowly with each day of their marriage when he’d spent those fleeting hours with her and left her at night. For even though there had never been another woman in his bed, there had been a growing divide between him and Genevieve, widened by the statement he made every time he visited his clubs or attended those wicked parties.
If he was capable of any emotion other than despair, he’d have found hilarity in the great irony of discovering that he, the man who’d believed himself incapable of loving and being loved, did, in fact, love. And it was a raw, powerful, piercing emotion that consumed him. How long he’d spent believing the sentiment weakened a person, only to find Genevieve had never made him weak. Rather, she’d made him stronger. She’d helped him see the life he lived as an empty one without purpose. There was no shame in this emotion.
He rose from his seat and perched on the edge of her bed. “Genevieve Grace,” he said gruffly. The words in his heart, the words of love she’d been deserving of, had belonged in another moment. In their garden. Over laughter. Or sketches. So many other instances, which had been full of joy and not this gripping agony of despair. It was just one more mistake he’d made that he’d do over…if that gift was, in fact, real. “I have made so many mistakes,” he said quietly. “Since I met you. I’ve faltered and will, no doubt, continue to stumble. But I need you to know, the day you stepped into that library and into my life, you transformed me.” She turned her head and he palmed her cheek, forcing her gaze back to his, willing her to see the truth that spilled deep from inside. “I want to try again, because I love you.”
Genevieve stilled and her green eyes, which had always been expressive windows into her soul, gave no hint of emotion.
I did this…
She caught her lip between her front teeth and gave a jerky shake of her head. “Sometimes love is not enough.” Her words emerged so faint, he strained to hear and when they reached him, it was like a lance had been thrust into his heart. He jerked. “Too much has come to pass. There is an ocean of differences between u
s that no bridge can close.”
“Genevieve,” he tried again, imploring her with his eyes.
“I am tired,” she whispered. “Please, go.”
Cedric searched his gaze over her treasured face. He took in the white drawn line at the corner of her lips, the despair in her eyes. He’d done this to her and the damage he’d wrought to them was not something he could ever repair in a single note; particularly not this one. He flexed his jaw and then gave a brusque nod. “Of course. When do you leave?” How was his voice steady? How, when he was breaking apart from the inside out?
She glanced down at her interlocked fingers. “Within a couple of hours.”
Two hours. He had two hours left with her, before she went and stole his every happiness. “Very well,” he said quietly as he came to his feet. “Do you require anything?” If you wish for the stars, I’ll climb to the heavens and gather them for you.
She shook her head. “No.”
Sketching a bow, he turned on his heel and started from the bed. He paused, staring at the oak panel and then wheeled slowly around. “I would have you know, it was never my intention to hurt you.” He’d rather lob off his limbs with a dull blade than be the root of her pain.
Tears welled in her eyes, glimmering like emerald pools of despair. “I know.” Her faint whisper barely reached him.
“I want you to be happy,” he said roughly. He’d never, ever worried over anyone’s happiness but his own. “I want you to smile again and laugh, even if I am not in your life.” For to imagine a world in which she was the broken, anguished creature before him would destroy him.
A tear slid down her cheek. And before he did something foolish and useless, like get down on his knees and beg her to take him back, he pressed the door handle and did the first honorable and selfless thing he’d done in his life—he left.
Chapter 27
Three weeks later
Cedric sat at the back table of White’s. A bottle of barely touched liquor sat beside a completely untouched snifter of brandy. He stared blankly about the club. Gentlemen seated about the club entertained friends, while others wagered with acquaintances. Laughter periodically rose up, filtering about, punctuated by the clink of coins hitting a pile of coins.
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