Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

“We have arrived at Clowefield Hall, Your Grace,” the driver announced.

The carriage rolled to a stop before the grand estate of Clowefields, its stately façade gleaming in the late afternoon sun.

Genevieve sat frozen in her seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as the weight of her emotions threatened to crush her.

She barely noticed the footman opening the door until the cool breeze brushed against her flushed cheeks.

“Your Grace?” he prompted gently, offering his hand.

Genevieve swallowed hard and accepted his help, stepping onto the gravel drive with unsteady feet.

She glanced toward the entrance, where Marianne stood waiting, her pale blue gown fluttering in the breeze. Her friend’s face was etched with concern, and in that moment, Genevieve felt the first crack in the dam of her composure.

“Genevieve!” Marianne called, rushing forward and grasped Genevieve’s hands, her touch warm and grounding. “What did he say?”

Genevieve shook her head, unable to speak. Her throat burned with the effort of holding back tears, and she bit her lip until she tasted copper.

“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.

Owen leaned forward, his expression softening. “You do not have to decide anything right now,” he said. “Stay here as long as you need. Clowefield is your home for as long as you want it to be.”

Marianne nodded, squeezing Genevieve’s hands. “We will take care of you, darling. You are not alone in this.”

Genevieve looked between them, a fragile hope flickering in her chest. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she allowed herself to believe it.

“I do not know how to thank you,” she whispered.

“You do not need to,” Marianne said with a gentle smile. “That is what friends are for.”

As the fire crackled and the weight of her grief began to ease, Genevieve realized that, despite everything, she was not as powerless as Wilhelm had made her feel.

With Marianne and Owen by her side, she could begin to rebuild herself—piece by shattered piece.

“Your Grace.” Mrs. Hughes’s concerned voice broke the tense silence that hung in the air. “What has happened?”

Wilhelm did not immediately respond as he looked down at the shattered vase that littered the floor, his thoughts swirling in an incoherent fog. His hand throbbed, yet he felt nothing.

“I am… well, Mrs. Hughes,” he replied, his voice hollow.

Mrs. Hughes, her brow furrowed with worry, took a hesitant step closer. “But Your Grace,” she began. “Your hand…”

Wilhelm glanced down at the deep gash that marred his skin, the blood flowing freely and staining his formerly pristine white shirt.

“It is nothing,” he muttered as if his wounds could somehow erase the damage he had done to Genevieve.

“You should tend to that with haste, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hughes insisted. “The wound appears to be quite deep.”

Wilhelm waved his uninjured hand dismissively. “I shall in due course,” he assured her. “But for now, I require some solitude.”

Mrs. Hughes hesitated for a moment before curtsying respectfully. “Very well, Your Grace, as you wish,” she murmured, her voice laced with concern. “I shall… leave you to your thoughts.”

With a final glance at the Duke, she turned and exited the study, closing the heavy oak door behind her.

Wilhelm poured himself a glass of brandy and sank into his chair with a loud thud. The blood continued to flow unchecked onto his shirt, but he felt no pain.

His thoughts churned relentlessly. Genevieve’s voice echoed in his mind.

He had tried to push it aside, tried to silence it. But the words refused to stop.

Yes, he had used her. The woman who had brought warmth to his dark, empty life. He had selfishly leveraged her reputation, her curse, to attain his goals. She had trusted him, and in return for her unwavering trust, he had failed her.

I am no better than my father.

How ironic that he had worked so hard to earn her trust, only to destroy it with a single selfish act.

You are weak.

His father’s voice broke into his brooding.

Wilhelm closed his eyes, exhaling as the weight of his father’s words bore down on him once again.

Perhaps his father had been right all along, and Wilhelm had deserved every scolding and punishment.

She is better off without me. I do not deserve her love, her trust, or her presence in my life. I have failed her, and there is no coming back from what I have done to her. I have ruined everything.

And his selfishness had driven the one pure thing in his life away.

For good.