Ellsworth’s words.
Genevieve picked her gaze up from the contents of her dish and looked to her balding, oft-scowling father. She finished her bite and then dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “Father?” Mayhap Gillian had also danced with that respective gentleman? She stole a sideways glance at her sister, who resumed her rapt study of the kippers on her plate.
The marquess narrowed his eyes and strode over to the head of the table. He motioned to a servant who rushed forward with his usual morning fare.
“St. Albans,” he repeated, his tone harsh. If he was livid about her waltz with Cedric, what would he say about their chance meeting and talks of friendship, no less? “You were instructed not to dance.”
“I had no choice,” she said through tight lips.
“She really didn’t, Father,” Gillian piped in. She gave her an encouraging smile. “He was quite adamant that she partner him.”
At her sister’s attempt at a helpful response, Genevieve winced. She knew Gillian meant to be helpful. She really did and she loved her for that…
“Of course he did,” he boomed.
Fury melded with shame and set her cheeks ablaze. “I could not very well say no,” she bit out. “What a scandal that would be.” Genevieve looked to her mother; her cheeks waxen, the marchioness wetted her lips. The woman, with her seeming inability to smile and her tendency to scowl at members she’d deemed beneath her notice, was undaunted by all—except her husband.
“S-St. Albans is in the market for a wife,” the marchioness put in.
A memory entered of Cedric kneeling at her feet while he slid on her slippers. Her toes curled at the still erotic moment. No, a man such as St. Albans would marry no time soon. Nor did a gentleman who spoke candidly of friendship demonstrate any real husband material.
“Quite a catch, quite a catch,” her mother rambled on. “He will be a future duke, you know.” Goodness, the things she’d said to the man last evening about his title, his library. Gillian cringed. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful to have a duke for our girl, Lord Ellsworth?”
Lord Ellsworth. At that stiff formality, the two sisters exchanged a look and Gillian gave a quick, discreet roll of her eyes. Even as Genevieve knew with her hope for love from a good, honorable gentleman that her requirements in a husband were going to be as difficult as finding the end of a proverbial rainbow, she’d at the very least hope for more than a union where one was so restricted by politeness that they couldn’t bear to use one another’s Christian names.
“I know St. Albans will be a duke.” Father leaned forward and thumped his hand on the table, rattling the glass of water at his side. A servant gulped audibly and set the marquess’ plate down before him. “But surely you do not believe he’d make her an honorable offer.” That slight emphasis sent her shoulders back. “The man is a rake.”
Mother cleared her throat and then with a surprising courage, she met her husband’s gaze. “I know you said the marquess was to be avoided, Lord Ellsworth… but even rakes must wed.”
Would a man such as Cedric take a wife and a respectable one at that? From their brief meeting and one waltz she took him as one who would do exactly as he pleased, societal expectations be damned. She curled her fingers hard around her fork.
Blatantly ignoring his wife’s opinion, the marquess looked to the servants and, interpreting that silent cue, they filed quickly out of the room.
Genevieve would never bind herself to the manner of gentleman who stripped her of her voice. Ever.
“You had strict orders to attract no attention,” he barked, snapping that shaking digit at her. “Yet again you’ve proven your harlotry.”
Her gasp blended with Gillian’s.
“Lord Ellsworth,” their mother scolded, in an uncharacteristic show of defiance.
“It was merely one dance,” Genevieve bit out. Why would he force her back to this place?
Genevieve picked her gaze up from the contents of her dish and looked to her balding, oft-scowling father. She finished her bite and then dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “Father?” Mayhap Gillian had also danced with that respective gentleman? She stole a sideways glance at her sister, who resumed her rapt study of the kippers on her plate.
The marquess narrowed his eyes and strode over to the head of the table. He motioned to a servant who rushed forward with his usual morning fare.
“St. Albans,” he repeated, his tone harsh. If he was livid about her waltz with Cedric, what would he say about their chance meeting and talks of friendship, no less? “You were instructed not to dance.”
“I had no choice,” she said through tight lips.
“She really didn’t, Father,” Gillian piped in. She gave her an encouraging smile. “He was quite adamant that she partner him.”
At her sister’s attempt at a helpful response, Genevieve winced. She knew Gillian meant to be helpful. She really did and she loved her for that…
“Of course he did,” he boomed.
Fury melded with shame and set her cheeks ablaze. “I could not very well say no,” she bit out. “What a scandal that would be.” Genevieve looked to her mother; her cheeks waxen, the marchioness wetted her lips. The woman, with her seeming inability to smile and her tendency to scowl at members she’d deemed beneath her notice, was undaunted by all—except her husband.
“S-St. Albans is in the market for a wife,” the marchioness put in.
A memory entered of Cedric kneeling at her feet while he slid on her slippers. Her toes curled at the still erotic moment. No, a man such as St. Albans would marry no time soon. Nor did a gentleman who spoke candidly of friendship demonstrate any real husband material.
“Quite a catch, quite a catch,” her mother rambled on. “He will be a future duke, you know.” Goodness, the things she’d said to the man last evening about his title, his library. Gillian cringed. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful to have a duke for our girl, Lord Ellsworth?”
Lord Ellsworth. At that stiff formality, the two sisters exchanged a look and Gillian gave a quick, discreet roll of her eyes. Even as Genevieve knew with her hope for love from a good, honorable gentleman that her requirements in a husband were going to be as difficult as finding the end of a proverbial rainbow, she’d at the very least hope for more than a union where one was so restricted by politeness that they couldn’t bear to use one another’s Christian names.
“I know St. Albans will be a duke.” Father leaned forward and thumped his hand on the table, rattling the glass of water at his side. A servant gulped audibly and set the marquess’ plate down before him. “But surely you do not believe he’d make her an honorable offer.” That slight emphasis sent her shoulders back. “The man is a rake.”
Mother cleared her throat and then with a surprising courage, she met her husband’s gaze. “I know you said the marquess was to be avoided, Lord Ellsworth… but even rakes must wed.”
Would a man such as Cedric take a wife and a respectable one at that? From their brief meeting and one waltz she took him as one who would do exactly as he pleased, societal expectations be damned. She curled her fingers hard around her fork.
Blatantly ignoring his wife’s opinion, the marquess looked to the servants and, interpreting that silent cue, they filed quickly out of the room.
Genevieve would never bind herself to the manner of gentleman who stripped her of her voice. Ever.
“You had strict orders to attract no attention,” he barked, snapping that shaking digit at her. “Yet again you’ve proven your harlotry.”
Her gasp blended with Gillian’s.
“Lord Ellsworth,” their mother scolded, in an uncharacteristic show of defiance.
“It was merely one dance,” Genevieve bit out. Why would he force her back to this place?
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