Chapter 1

Chapter One

TWO YEARS LATER

“Imust say, Marianne, this is the most delightful Earl Grey tea I have tasted in ages,” Genevieve remarked, her voice as smooth as the fine porcelain cup that rested in her hands. “Wherever did you purchase it?”

Marianne, the Countess of Clowefield, leaned back in her chair with an amused grin. “It is merely Earl Grey, my dear Genevieve. Not much to it.”

Genevieve chuckled, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “Indeed, but it seems to have worked wonders on my spirits. I have not felt this light in ages.”

“As it should,” Owen, the Earl of Clowefield and Marianne’s husband, chimed in. “A cup of tea and good company is the perfect remedy for any ailment.”

The trio sat together in the elegant drawing room of Marianne’s London townhouse, enjoying a quiet afternoon tea as sunlight streamed through the tall windows and cast a warm glow on the plush furnishings and delicate floral arrangements.

Genevieve cherished these moments, grateful for their company after spending far too much time cloistered within the confines of her London residence.

“Shall we take a stroll through Hyde Park?” Marianne suggested, her gaze drifting towards the window. “The weather is simply divine. It is a sin to remain indoors.”

Genevieve hesitated, a shadow of apprehension crossing her face. “Perhaps a walk would not be the wisest decision. We could do it… another time.”

“Oh, come now, Genevieve,” Owen urged. “You cannot hide indoors forever.”

Marianne nodded in agreement. “A bit of fresh air will do you a world of good.”

Genevieve nodded with a resigned sigh, knowing they were right. She had been avoiding the Ton for far too long, overwhelmed by their constant whispers and stares. Even the thought of mingling with them had become unbearable.

“Very well,” she conceded, rising from her seat. “A short walk, then.”

As they stepped outside and began to traverse the bustling streets of London, the sun gently bathed Genevieve’s face in its warmth.

However, her heart began to race, and her cheeks flushed nervously as they crossed Hyde Park’s threshold.

She shrank in on herself as she listened to the whispers that followed them.

A familiar face passed her by. Her heart swelled at the sight, but it seemed he hadn’t noticed her.

“Alfred,” she called softly.

He turned his head briefly, his eyes meeting hers for a fleeting moment, a nervous tension evident in his gaze.

“Lady Mirfield,” he muttered, tipping his hat.

“How have you—” Genevieve began, but he was already gone, his pace far more rushed than it had been when she’d spotted him.

He hadn’t even spared her another glance.

Alfred—Lord Shelton now—was her childhood friend. Their families had summered in neighboring estates for many years.

But now…

He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her for more than an instant. Their shared history meant nothing to him now.

The rumors had already cast their shadow, and he, like everyone else, seemed repelled, as though their past had been erased.

The people who had once openly admired her now quickly averted their gazes and spoke in hushed tones behind cupped, gloved hands and fluttering fans.

A group of three women dressed in vibrant colors lowered their eyes as they passed, subtly taking another path to avoid being too close to her.

This occurred each time she neared someone she recognized. Members of the Ton would give her a wide berth and look elsewhere as they moved past, as though she carried some incurable disease.

“It is her curse that killed the late Lord Mirfield, may God rest his poor, departed soul,” a voice hissed loudly behind them.

Genevieve stiffened and turned around to see an older woman speaking to a girl who appeared to be no more than fourteen—an age that echoed painfully in Genevieve’s memory, reminding her of her twin sisters.

Her hand instinctively reached for the locket around her neck. It contained miniature portraits of her parents and was a constant reminder of the tragedy that had befallen her family four years ago. The vivid memories of that gruesome evening permeated every facet of her life, including her marriage bed.

“They say she is a witch,” another voice added with a barely concealed giggle.

“Well, I heard that she poisoned him,” offered a third malicious voice.

“Perhaps she used her dark magic to curse him,” a fourth voice suggested, the lady gasping as though she had made a shocking revelation.

“Ignore them, Genevieve,” Marianne urged, her voice firm. “Their ignorance will become their downfall. Just you wait and see.”

Despite Marianne’s reassuring words, the weight of their stares and whispers pressed heavily on Genevieve, and she could not shake the feeling that perhaps they had every right to judge her.

Could she truly be cursed? Was it really her fault—her curse—that her husband had died so suddenly, mere hours after their wedding?

Despite putting on a brave face, she could not completely ignore the sting of their accusations. Each sidelong glance and hushed conversation not only chipped away at her confidence but also reminded her of her loss every single day.

As they strolled through Hyde Park, Genevieve’s heart sank further with each curious glance and hushed whisper, her cheeks burning as she lowered her head and wished she could simply disappear.

She felt like an outcast, and it struck her as foolish to have agreed to go on this walk. Although Marianne and Owen meant well, she had known this would happen as soon as she ventured outside.

A pair of brightly polished black shoes suddenly stopped in front of the trio, effectively blocking their path. She looked up to see the new Lord Mirfield, her late husband’s cousin. Even before she had wed, his presence had always unnerved her.

“Lady Mirfield,” he drawled, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “I trust you are enjoying your stay as the mistress of my late cousin’s home?”

Genevieve’s breath hitched. “It is also my home, Lord Mirfield.”

“Mmm.” A sly smile spread across his face, his thin black mustache curling over his lips. “You are no doubt relishing your newfound circumstances. I dare say that my cousin’s sudden demise was quite convenient for you, was it not? You’d hope the next heir would let you some handsome part of his fortune and a comfortable estate for yourself. Perhaps that is why you killed him.”

Outrage surged through Genevieve’s veins, and she felt her blood boil at his blatant and unfounded accusation. He was the one who had benefited from his cousin’s death—acquiring her late husband’s title and his position as the head of the family.

“How dare you? To accuse me of killing him is as foolish as believing in fairytales,” she replied icily as her eyes narrowed on him.

He chuckled coldly. “You cannot pretend that you are unaware of the rumors about your… unfortunate situation.”

“I am not to blame for the idle gossip of the Ton,” Genevieve retorted, her voice trembling slightly. “I cannot claim responsibility for the fantastic tales that have been spun to entertain others at my expense.”

“No, but you are responsible for the deaths that seem to follow you like a plague,” he hissed. “First your family, then my cousin. Who will be next, I wonder?”

His gaze lingered on Marianne and Owen.

Marianne stepped forward, her eyes blazing with anger. “How dare you accuse Genevieve of such a thing? She is a victim of her unfortunate circumstances, not a perpetrator. In fact, she is the one who has suffered the most in the wake of losing everyone she has ever loved, coupled with the added insult of having to endure all this nonsense.”

Lord Mirfield raised an eyebrow and smirked at her cagily. “Careful, My Lady—you might well be next.”

Owen placed a protective arm around his wife. “You are out of line, Lord Mirfield. I suggest you apologize to Lady Mirfield at once.”

Lord Mirfield laughed derisively, his eyes glinting with malice. “Apologize? I think not. I am simply grateful that she will soon become someone else’s problem. The house in which she is staying belongs to me. I want her and her belongings removed from the premises within a few days.”

Genevieve’s heart pounded in her chest. “What do you mean?”

He smirked. “I mean that you will be vacating Mirfield House by the end of this week. I have already made arrangements for it to be sold.”

Genevieve’s mind reeled. “Sold? But… where will I go?”

Lord Mirfield shrugged, his expression callous. “That, my dear Lady Mirfield, is no longer my concern. I have washed my hands of you. Enjoy your walk.”

He abruptly turned around and strode away, leaving Genevieve frozen in shock, her heart heavy with despair.

The world seemed to tilt as Hyde Park’s vibrant hues, bustling crowds, and lively voices merged into an indiscernible mass. Genevieve’s breathing became rapid and uncontrolled as the panic and anxiety overcame her and a suffocating weight constricted her chest. The ground beneath her feet felt unsteady, as though the earth itself was collapsing from the force of an earthquake.

She could not make sense of Lord Mirfield’s announcement. His words echoed in her ears, each syllable a venomous barb piercing her heart.

He believes that I killed my husband. He believes me to be cursed. He holds me responsible. Death follows me like a plague. I will have nowhere to go, no one I can turn to, and no home to keep me safe.

She pressed her hands tightly over her ears. She had heard enough, yet the words continued to seep into her mind, reverberating in a vile chorus that would not stop. The whispers, stares, and accusations all coalesced into an unbearable burden that threatened to crush her beneath its weight.

Unexpectedly, amidst the clamor of her panic, a small flame of defiance ignited within her.

Genevieve pulled her hands away from her ears, lifted her head, and straightened her spine. At that moment, she resolved not to allow the cruelty of Lord Mirfield and the Ton to break her.

She would find a way, as she always had. Until that moment, she had suffered their rumors, whispers, and cruelty with the belief that circumstances beyond her control had caused her current misfortune. The Ton had cursed her and condemned her to a life of loneliness. If that was to be her fate, she would endure it.

A faint sigh escaped her lips. “Marianne, Owen, I apologize, but I must return home,” she said in a strained voice, although her resolve remained firm. “The fresh air seems to have lost its charm. Thank you for the delightful afternoon and the tea. I quite enjoyed our time together.”

Marianne, ever perceptive, nodded sympathetically. “Of course, dear Genevieve. We completely understand.”

Owen cordially offered her his arm. His warmth was a needed comfort amidst the chaos in her mind. “Allow us to escort you home.”

Upon reaching her townhouse, Genevieve paused, steeling herself for the unbearable solitude that would follow their departure. As she bid Marianne and Owen farewell, she wished she could ask them to stay with her a while longer, if only to distract herself from the precariousness of her current situation.

She took a deep breath and summoned her inner strength.

As she stepped across the threshold and into the familiar sanctuary of her townhouse, she felt a weight lift off her shoulders. The bustling streets of London, with their whispers and stares, faded into the background, and at last, she could breathe freely.

“My Lady,” a voice called, startling her.

Her dependable butler, Thomas, greeted her with the warm smile that always seemed to grace his lined face.

“Thomas.” Genevieve managed a faint smile. “It is good to see you.”

“And you, My Lady,” Thomas replied, his voice a soothing balm to her racing thoughts. “I trust your outing was pleasant?”

Genevieve hesitated, debating whether or not to confide in him, then decided against it, unwilling to burden him with her troubles.

“It was… eventful,” she replied.

Thomas nodded, his gentle brown eyes unreadable. “I see, My Lady. Well, I am pleased to inform you that a package has arrived.”

Genevieve furrowed her brow. “A package? I am not expecting anything.”

“Indeed, My Lady. A rather large white package arrived only moments ago.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh… very well, show me then.”

Genevieve followed Thomas to the parlor, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpets. A large box sat on the elegant settee, its plain exterior giving no hint of its contents.

“Thank you, Thomas,” Genevieve said, her curiosity mounting. “You may go.”

Thomas bowed and discreetly withdrew, closing the doors behind him.

Genevieve turned back to the box, her fingers tracing its smooth surface. With a hesitant breath, she lifted the lid, and her heart leaped in surprise.

“A wedding dress?” she gasped.

Inside, nestled amongst layers of tissue paper, lay a pristine ivory wedding dress, its delicate lace shimmering in the soft light. The gown was exquisite, a masterpiece of intricate needlework and luxurious fabric.

Genevieve’s fingers gently traced the delicate patterns of the lace. The gown was breathtakingly magnificent, its beauty both captivating and unsettling.

Who would send me such a thing? And why?

Just as she reached out to touch the embroidered sleeves, a folded white card slipped from beneath the tissue paper.

It was from the Duke of Ravenshire.

Lady Mirfield,

I write to inform you that I intend to make you my wife. Our match promises success, and I have arranged our wedding accordingly.

Enclosed is your dress. I trust that you like it. We will meet at St. George’s at noon, in two days.

Wilhelm Addington, Duke of Ravenshire.