Chapter 4

Chapter Four

“Are you ready, Genevieve?” Owen asked, his voice gentle but unsteady as he reached for her hand, once again a comforting cloak against the storm swirling around her.

Genevieve looked nervously at the heavy oak doors of St. George’s church looming over her. She examined the dark, weathered surface that appeared to absorb the weak sunlight that filtered through the stained-glass windows.

A shiver ran down her spine—a tremor of apprehension that had nothing to do with the chill of the stone steps beneath her feet. She was there, but it felt like she had become trapped in a bad dream. Everything had happened so quickly.

Genevieve drew a shaky breath as she took in the church’s dimly lit interior.

It was a modest building, devoid of the grandeur and opulence she had always associated with weddings. Through a crack in the door, she peered at the handful of people seated in the pews, their faces shrouded by shadows.

Thomas sat among the group, a small beacon of familiarity. Her maids were there as well, as was Marianne. But on Wilhelm’s side, not a single soul was in attendance.

“Genevieve?” Owen’s voice broke through her thoughts, a hint of concern coloring his tone. “Are you certain about this? I mean, the Duke… well, he seems a bit…” He hesitated. “Odd.”

Genevieve forced a smile. “So am I, Owen,” she replied, her voice a touch too bright. “I was deemed cursed and shunned by the Ton.” A dry, humorless laugh escaped her lips. “The Duke was right, after all. We are remarkably alike in that respect.”

Owen drew in a breath. “I am aware, Genevieve, but⁠—”

“What choice do I have?” she interrupted him, putting a hand on his arm.

A penniless widow, cast aside by Society, with a vengeful cousin-in-law determined to strip me of everything I have left.

Owen furrowed his brow. “You always have a choice, Genevieve. Marianne and I would gladly⁠—”

“No,” Genevieve cut him off, her voice firm. “I will not burden you further. You have already risked enough by associating with me. The whispers, the stares, the accusations… they follow me like a shadow. I will not drag you further into it.”

Owen’s gaze softened. “Genevieve⁠—”

“Please, Owen.” She gave him a soft smile, her breath catching as she swallowed. “This is my only chance—my only hope—of escaping the clutches of Lord Mirfield.”

And with any luck, this will be my chance to forge a new path and create a life of my own.

Owen sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Very well, Genevieve. But if you ever need anything—anything at all—you know where to find us.”

Genevieve nodded as a lump formed in her throat. “I know, Owen. From the very bottom of my heart, thank you both for your kindness. For everything.”

He offered her his arm in a gesture of support and understanding. “Shall we?”

Genevieve took a deep breath, bracing herself for the unknown. “Yes,” she replied, her voice firm. “Let us get this over with.”

And pray that I am not making a grave mistake.

With a final glance at the church doors, she stepped forward, her heart pounding in her chest as she walked towards her uncertain future.

The church doors creaked open as she entered, and a hush fell over the small gathering as she stepped into the dimly lit sanctuary.

Her footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor, each of them heavy with the weight of the decision she had made. Her gaze swept over the sparse attendees and landed on the figure standing at the altar.

The Duke of Ravenshire. Even his name seemed to reverberate through the hallowed space. He stood tall, his broad shoulders accentuated by the cut of his dark coat. His features were sharp and defined, his jaw set firmly beneath a neatly trimmed beard, his lips pressed together in a determined line.

As he turned towards Genevieve and watched her walk towards him, his eyes instantly held her captive. They were a radiant emerald green, piercing and intense. He offered her a small smile of encouragement as she drew closer.

Genevieve’s breath caught in her throat as she took him in. Despite her apprehension, she could not deny his magnetism.

The musty, damp scent of the aged stone and the faint rustle of her skirts were the only things that infiltrated the stillness. She could feel Marianne and Owen watching her, their unspoken worries mirroring her own.

“Are you ready?” the Duke asked, his eyes fixed on her as he gave her a genuine smile.

Despite her inner turmoil and raging thoughts, Genevieve nodded. “Yes.”

The ceremony commenced, and the vicar recited the familiar vows.

The Duke took her hand as he recited his vows, his voice cutting through her thoughts. His gaze never wavered from hers as he spoke. His intensity unnerved her and stirred a strange sensation of longing deep within her chest.

She recited her vows in turn, but her voice sounded distant even to her own ears, as if the words were coming from someone else.

And just like that, it was over.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the vicar declared. “You may kiss the bride.”

The Duke turned to her, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He leaned in, his hand gently cupping her cheek, and kissed her.

The kiss took her by surprise. A warmth spread through her, contrasting sharply with the cold formality of the moment. His lips were firm yet soft, and they moved against hers with a gentleness that left her breathless.

She caught the faint scent of sandalwood and a hint of smoky cedar emanating from him, laced with something earthy and unexpectedly comforting.

Her pulse quickened, and a flurry of butterflies circled wildly within her stomach.

She leaned deeper into the kiss, feeling his hand slide to the small of her back, his fingers splayed, firm yet gentle, spreading a satisfying heat through her core. His other hand cradled her jaw as his thumb brushed lightly against her cheek.

A warmth blossomed in her chest and spread outward, and her skin tingled under the heat of his touch. Genevieve gasped at the slight but thrilling pressure in her groin that grew as he pulled her even closer, erasing her drifting thoughts as she became lost in the passion of the moment.

The world around her faded away, and the moment stretched into an eternity from which she did not want to escape.

He broke the kiss and pulled away slightly, his eyes scrutinizing her expression.

“My Duchess,” he murmured, his voice a caress.

Genevieve’s fingers tightened around the fabric of her gown as the word Duchess lingered in the air. It was a weighty, unfamiliar title that carried an air of authority she was uncertain she could shoulder.

The guests rose from their seats and made their way to the yard, where a carriage awaited the newlyweds, its polished wood gleaming in the fading light of the afternoon.

Genevieve’s throat constricted as she clasped Marianne’s hands, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Her words of farewell sounded hollow in her ears, rendered insufficient by the ache in her heart. Owen stood beside her, his gaze soft but distant.

“My sincerest thanks,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “For everything you have both done for me.”

Marianne pulled her into a tight and comforting embrace. Her voice trembled as she whispered, “We will miss you terribly, dear Genevieve.” Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but a faint smile still clung to her lips. “Always remember, although we will be returning to Clowefield next week, it is only a short distance from Ravenshire. You must visit us often. Promise me that you will.”

Genevieve offered her a wobbly smile, and before she could stop it, a tear rolled down her cheek. “I give you my solemn promise,” she whispered.

Owen stepped forward, his gaze filled with concern. “Take care, Genevieve,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “And remember, if you ever need anything, do not hesitate to reach out to us.”

Genevieve managed a weak smile. “I shall,” she repeated.

She stood still and watched as Marianne and Owen’s carriage disappeared into the distance. The world seemed to shrink around her, leaving only a dense silence that filled her chest.

I am, once again, alone.

“Shall we, Duchess?” Wilhelm’s gentle yet firm voice broke through her deep rumination.

He took her hand, his touch warm in the cool air. His eyes held a trace of something akin to affection or encouragement.

With a small but reassuring smile, he guided her to the waiting carriage.