Chapter Twenty-Five
Genevieve sat by the window in her guest room at Clowefields, staring out at the sprawling countryside bathed in the soft golden light of morning.
The past days had blurred together, the ache in her chest unrelenting. Wilhelm’s words, his betrayal, and his calculated indifference replayed in her mind.
The sharp sting of it all had dulled slightly in Marianne and Owen’s comforting presence, but it still lurked in the quiet moments, like now, when her thoughts had nowhere else to go.
“Genevieve?” Marianne’s soft voice broke the silence, pulling her from her reverie.
Genevieve turned to see her friend standing in the doorway, her warm hazel eyes full of concern. Marianne’s hands were clasped together, her knuckles faintly white, betraying her worry.
“Marianne,” Genevieve said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You have been up here all morning,” Marianne said gently, stepping into the room. “Owen and I were worried. We thought you might like to join us at a tea party this afternoon. It is a small gathering—a few friends of mine from the village.”
Genevieve hesitated. “I do not know if I would be the best company at the moment.”
Marianne crossed the room and took her friend’s hand, her expression resolute yet kind.
“I know you are hurting, Genevieve, and I know it feels impossible to face the world right now. But a little fresh air, some pleasant conversation, and a distraction might do you good. You cannot let the Duke’s choices steal your spirit.”
Genevieve’s throat tightened, and she nodded reluctantly, “All right.”
Marianne squeezed her hand in approval, “Wonderful. We leave in an hour,” she said, her tone cheerful but firm.
“Wear something blue—it really is your color. And you always feel better when you look your best.”
When they arrived at Whitaker House, the sound of lively conversation and occasional laughter greeted them even before they stepped out of the carriage.
The estate was picturesque, with its ivy-covered stone facade and sweeping gardens filled with blooming roses and lilacs.
Guests strolled among the flower beds or sat at small tables draped with fine white linens, sipping tea and nibbling on pastries.
Lady Whitaker herself met them near the entrance to the garden, her plump frame draped in a gown of bright lavender that clashed boldly with the emerald ribbons in her hat. Her sparkling blue eyes danced with mischief as she spread her arms in greeting.
“Lord Clowefield! Lady Clowefield! And who is this lovely creature you have brought to my garden?” she exclaimed, seizing Genevieve’s hands in her own before Marianne could even make the introductions.
“This is my dear friend, the Duchess of Ravenshire,” Marianne said with a smile. “Genevieve, may I introduce Lady Whitaker?”
“My, my! A duchess, in my garden?” the woman said, her voice warm and brimming with energy.
She looked Genevieve up and down appraisingly.
“What a beauty you are, Your Grace! Though I see a hint of melancholy in those eyes. We cannot have that. Not in my garden.” She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “Nothing a good cup of tea—and perhaps a slide of cake—will not fix.”
Owen chuckled. “You have a way of cutting straight to the heart of things, Lady Whitaker.”
“Years of practice, My Lord,” she said with a wink. “Now, off you go! Find a table before all the best biscuits are gone. And if anyone offers you the rosewater macaroons, decline politely. My cook has been experimenting with recipes again, and, well, the results are somewhat divisive.”
Marianne guided Genevieve further into the garden, her husband trailing behind.
The gentle murmur of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter, filled the air. The scent of blooming roses mixed with freshly cut grass, and the warmth of the sun was softened by a light breeze.
It was idyllic, and yet Genevieve felt like an outsider looking in.
Genevieve also realized that for the first time, none of the guests were staring at her. No one was whispering, either behind fans or right in front of her face.
Not a single soul uttered the word ‘curse.’
