Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Lady Clowefield,” Wilhelm greeted, his voice raw with desperation, cracking under the weight of his turmoil. “Where is my wife?”

His gaze darted frantically across the dimly lit entrance hall, his chest heaving with the effort of holding himself upright. The stately grandeur of the room felt suffocating. Every nerve in his body screamed with each movement.

Genevieve’s friend stiffened, her back straightening as she stepped forward. The flicker of surprise that crossed her face was fleeting, replaced instantly by a hard stare.

Her dark and unyielding eyes locked onto his and stared him down. Her lips, pressed together into a thin line, twitched as though she was struggling to hold back harsh words.

“Your Grace,” she said at last, her voice crisp, though it wavered ever so slightly.

Her carefully chosen words carried an air of cold precision, seemingly in an effort to preserve a fragile peace. Yet, the glint in her eyes betrayed her disapproval, a flash of cold steel behind the veneer.

“You should not be here,” she insisted.

“Where is she?” Wilhelm’s voice cracked, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths.

His chest tightened as though the very air in the room conspired against him, squeezing his lungs. His wild eyes darted around the entrance hall as though he might catch a glimpse of Genevieve’s silhouette.

“Where is who, Your Grace?” Marianne asked, her words clipped, her tone challenging.

“Genevieve,” Wilhelm said, his voice trembling on the cusp of a plea.

The name left his lips like a lifeline, a fragile thread tethering him to hope. His hands clenched at his sides, the urgency in his voice rising with each syllable.

“I must speak with her.”

Marianne’s face twisted into a sneer, her upper lip curling as she lifted her chin, her disdain evident in every movement.

“With all due respect, Your Grace, I care little for what you need. I do, however, believe you have some nerve, showing up here after what you did,” she said in a cutting tone, a dagger of judgment aimed directly at his heart.

“I must see her,” Wilhelm repeated, his voice strained and hoarse, each word imbued with frantic determination.

His chest heaved with each strained breath, his hands trembling so violently that he continuously clenched and unclenched his fists to stop them from shaking.

His breath hitched as he craned his neck to peer past Marianne, his gaze darting towards the dim recesses of the room behind her, desperate for even the smallest glimpse of Genevieve.

“Genevieve!” he called out, his voice rising.

The name reverberated through the entrance hall like a plea torn straight from his soul.

Marianne did not budge, unyielding in her refusal. Her arms remained firmly crossed over her chest, her glare sharpened to a blade’s edge. She did not flinch, did not so much as blink at his outburst. Instead, she tilted her head ever so slightly, her eyes narrowing further, her disapproval pressing down on him like a stone.

“You are not permitted to come inside,” she declared in a tone that left no room for argument.

She took a deliberate step forward, as though daring him to test her resolve.

“I must see her,” he growled. Then, he yelled again, “Genevieve!”

Marianne’s gaze sharpened, her disapproval carving deep lines into her otherwise composed face. She stood tall, her shoulders squared, daring him to try her.

“I will not allow you to hurt her further,” she declared.

Her unwavering stance made it clear that she would not be moved without a fight.

Wilhelm’s desperation surged, an unbearable pressure tightening his chest. His eyes flicked to the stairs at the far end of the hall, a glimmer of hope sparking amidst his turmoil. He stepped closer, the tension crackling in the air like the moments before a storm.

“Genevieve!” he yelled again, his voice raw, teetering between a command and a plea.

Marianne’s arm shot out to block him, but he was relentless. He laid his hand on her arm and pushed past her.

“Forgive me,” he mumbled, his voice nearly inaudible beneath his ragged breaths.

The gesture was not one of dominance but of necessity, his focus fixed entirely on finding the woman who haunted his every thought.

As he broke free of Marianne’s barrier, his boots echoed against the polished floors, each step loud in the grand hallway.

The ornate staircase loomed ahead, its curves an unyielding path to where he believed Genevieve waited. His fingers grazed the banister as he ascended, his pace increasing in his anxious need to locate her.

“Genevieve!” he called out.

Her name bounced off the lofty ceilings as though his very soul was calling out to her. His eyes darted to every shadowed corner, every closed door, searching for any sign of her presence, his need to see her eclipsing all else.

He reached the closed door of the guest room, his knuckles rapping at the wood, his voice echoing through the stillness.

“Genevieve,” he called, his voice soft and pleading.

“Go away, Your Grace,” Genevieve said, her words muffled by the thick oak door that separated them.

Wilhelm’s heart ached, his guilt intensifying.

“Please, Genevieve,” he begged. “I need to speak with you.”

“There is nothing left to say, Wilhelm,” Genevieve retorted, her voice carrying a hint of finality.

Wilhelm’s desperation grew as his hand reached for the doorknob. “Please, Genevieve,” he begged, his voice cracking with emotion. “I need to explain.”

But the door remained closed.

“Genevieve,” Wilhelm called again, his voice thick with emotion, each syllable wrapped in a plea. “Please… let me speak to you.”

Inside the room, Genevieve had frozen in place. Her fingers clutched the folds of her skirts as though holding them tightly might somehow keep her steady.

“Leave me be, Wilhelm,” she managed, her voice wavering, though she willed it to be firm.

She was sitting on the floor by the far window, the soft light from the cloudy morning tentatively brushing against her. Her knees were tightly drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped around them as she anxiously rocked and willed herself to disappear.

“Genevieve, please,” Wilhelm implored, his voice cracking as his knuckles knocked desperately on the oak door.

Genevieve’s gaze dropped to the ornate rug beneath her and began tracing its intricate patterns to keep her eyes from wandering to the door. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, each one tighter than the last.

She bit her lip hard, holding back the tears that threatened to spill over. The faint tremor in her hands betrayed her resolve, though she tried to steady them by clutching the folds of her dress tighter.

“Genevieve…” his voice came again, quieter this time but no less desperate.

She held her breath. Each time Wilhelm called her name, he was stirring a fresh ache inside of her. But she refused to let herself feel it. Never again.

“Genevieve, please. I need to explain… I need you to understand.”

“There is nothing left for you to say, Wilhelm,” Genevieve retorted, her voice carrying a hint of finality.

Wilhelm’s desperation grew, his voice a desperate plea. “Please, Genevieve,” he begged, “I need to explain.”

She did not move from where she sat.

“Genevieve,” he pleaded, his voice now barely above a whisper, “please, please open the door.”

Her heart clenched painfully at the defeated tone of his voice. She wanted to harden herself against it, to pretend that his words could not reach her, but the raw emotion in his plea chipped away at the walls she had so carefully built.

Why does he have to sound so sincere?

The storm of emotions inside her was unbearable: hurt, anger, confusion, and, beneath it all, the faint whisper of the love she had once felt for him. It was that whisper that made her chest tighten and her resolve falter.

Maybe, just maybe, I should hear him out and put an end to this.

Perhaps hearing his explanation, whatever it might be, would give her some peace and clarity.

With trembling legs, she pushed herself upright, one hand clutching the wall for balance. The cool plaster steadied her shaking limbs as she took a hesitant step forward, then another.

Each movement felt monumental, her breath quickening with every inch she closed between herself and the door.

As her hand reached for the door, a brief moment of doubt gripped her. Should she hear him out? The indecision tormented her as she pulled open the door.

“What do you want?” she finally demanded, her voice sharper than she had intended, her trembling hand poised over the handle.

Wilhelm looked at her, his voice overflowing with shame and remorse. “I… I have come to apologize,” he stammered.

Genevieve’s eyes narrowed, her arms crossed over her chest defensively. “Apologize?” she echoed, her voice laced with disbelief. “For what?”

Wilhelm’s shoulders slumped, his gaze dropping to the floor. “For… everything,” he admitted.

He took a step closer, his eyes pleading. “I was a fool, Genevieve,” he confessed, his voice laced with regret. “I let my insecurities and ambitions cloud my judgment. I used your reputation and the Ton’s superstition to intimidate my rivals. I… I did not stop to think about the consequences… or the pain it would cause you.” He paused, his gaze searching hers. “I was a selfish coward,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion.

He reached for her hand, his touch gentle and hesitant.

“I was wrong, Genevieve, so terribly wrong.” His voice trembled with shame. “I used you, and I betrayed your trust. I feel nothing but contempt for what I did. I-I was wrong to shut you out, to keep you at arm’s length.”

He drew in a shuddering breath, his eyes locked onto hers.

“I love you, Genevieve,” he said, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I love you more than anything or anyone in this world.”

In a gesture of raw vulnerability, he sank to his knees before her, his usually composed facade stripped bare. His eyes, brimming with desperation, searched hers for even the smallest glimmer of hope.

“Please, Genevieve,” he implored, his voice breaking. “Forgive me.”

Genevieve’s chest tightened, her heart a storm of emotions that she could not untangle.

The pain of his betrayal warred with the undeniable love she still felt for him—a love she wished she could simply cast aside.

Her voice trembled as she spoke, her words barely louder than a whisper. “It will take time, Wilhelm,” she said. “Trust takes time. And it will take us time to rebuild everything we have lost.”

His shoulders sagged slightly, but the hope that now lit up his eyes was unmistakable.

“I understand,” he said, his voice now steady and filled with sincerity and determination. “I will wait for you, Genevieve. For as long as it takes. I will do anything—everything—to earn your forgiveness and win back your love.”