“Come inside,” Marianne said softly, looping her arm through Genevieve’s and guiding her toward the house. “Whatever it is, we will face it together.”
Owen appeared in the doorway, his brow furrowed as he took in Genevieve’s pale, tear-streaked face.
“Genevieve,” he greeted, his voice steady and reassuring, “I am so sorry, my dear. That bastard does not deserve you.”
Genevieve bit her lip.
“I hope you do not mind that I told Owen,” Marianne whispered to her.
Genevieve shook her head, “It is all right. Owen is my friend just as much as you are.”
Owen took a step closer, “I want you to know, my friend, one thing. You are safe here.”
The simple words undid her. A sob escaped her lips, and Marianne tightened her hold, steering her into the sitting room where a fire crackled in the hearth.
“Sit,” Marianne instructed, easing Genevieve onto a plush settee.
She perched beside her while Owen poured a glass of brandy from the sideboard and pressed it into Genevieve’s trembling hands.
“Drink,” he urged. “It will help steady your nerves.”
Genevieve obeyed, the liquid burning her throat and warming her chest. She clutched the glass as if it were a lifeline, her knuckles white against the crystal.
Marianne exchanged a glance with Owen before turning back to Genevieve.
“Now,” she said gently, “tell us what happened.”
Genevieve’s voice was barely audible. “He did not deny it.”
Marianne stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line.
“Of course he didn’t,” her friend mumbled, her voice laced with quiet fury.
Genevieve nodded, her shoulders trembling as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.
“He wanted my curse—my reputation—to manipulate his rivals. He said it was a means to an end, that it was necessary. I have been nothing more than a weapon, a tool, to him all along.”
Marianne’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
“Oh, my dear,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around Genevieve and pulling her close. “He is a vile, horrid man.”
Genevieve buried her face in Marianne’s shoulder, her sobs muffled by the fabric of her gown.
“I thought—I thought he saw me,” she sobbed into Marianne’s dress, “For who I really am. But he doesn’t. He never did.”
Owen sat across from them, his jaw tight with suppressed anger.
“The Duke has always been ruthless,” he said grimly. “Still, I never thought he would stoop so low as to hurt you like this. His own wife.”
Marianne pulled back, cupping Genevieve’s tear-streaked face in her hands.
“Listen to me, Genevieve. You are not a tool. You are not a weapon. You are a strong, intelligent, compassionate woman, and anyone who cannot see that is a fool.”
Genevieve sniffled, her lips trembling. “But what if—what if that is all I will ever be to anyone? The cursed duchess. The object of fear and gossip. What if that is all I am worth?”
Marianne’s eyes blazed with fierce determination. “No, Genevieve. You are worth so much more than that. And if the Duke cannot see it, then he does not deserve you.”
Genevieve’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of her. “I do not know what to do,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
