Why, if he could not accept her past was just that…her past? Because he doesn’t believe it. He thinks I’m irredeemable and a blight on the family. “You are making more of it than it is.”
Father flared his nostrils. “I do not want another scandal attached to this family,” he boomed and the three ladies again jumped.
No, he’d tolerate not a misstep. Not after Genevieve’s scandal. She gritted her teeth at what Cedric had wrought with his careless waltz. “There will be no scandal,” she said in more even tones. Not even as she craved more excitement from life than the staid, stilted existence.
A wide smile quivered in her mother’s fleshy cheeks. “See, my lord? There is nothing to worry after. Genevieve will be a good girl.” She whipped her head around so quickly, her jowls jiggled. “Isn’t that right, Genevieve?” Without allowing for a reply, the wife leaned over and patted her still scowling husband. “She’ll not encourage any gentleman.”
Nauseated by the mollifying exchange, Genevieve looked away. Unable to stomach any more, she shoved back her seat. It scraped noisily on the floor. “I am going to Hyde Park,” she seethed.
“You are to bring your maid,” her father thundered.
“Of course,” she said, pasting on a patently false smile. “I am nothing if not proper.” With that, she proceeded from the room with a decorum and grace both of her parents would have been hard-pressed to fault. When she’d put the breakfast room behind her, Genevieve lengthened her strides until she’d disappeared around the corridor where she broke into a sprint, wanting to keep running. Away from this place. Away from the weight of her parents’ unending fury. Her skirts snapped about her ankles as she took the stairs and made her way to her chambers. Within the sanctuary of her rooms, she closed the door and leaned against the panel. Her breath came hard and fast from her exertion. Panting, Genevieve slumped against the door.
She stared blankly about the room; a room that may as well have belonged to a stranger. Was this what her life was to be then? Was she to be relegated to the role of distantly removed member of the family, constantly being reminded of the mistakes of her past and never free to move beyond them? Her gaze snagged on the cheerful blue of the sky peeking through the gaping fabric of her curtains. Where was the joy in a life such as this? She wanted…more. Because to remain here, would crush her, destroying her in ways that her exile never could.
Shoving away from the door, Genevieve wandered over to the escritoire. The sketchpads, so precious these years, now forgotten in this fortnight. She pulled out the velvet-upholstered chair and slid into the seat. With numb fingers, she flipped the pages. She paused to steal a glance at the doorway. Should her father see…
Her grandfather’s visage. Delores. The maids and servants who’d been more family than her own parents. She turned to a blank sheet. Of their own volition, her fingers, long denied the pleasure she’d found these years at the encouragement of her grandfather, moved. She picked up the pastels and set her fingers to work upon the pages. She sat hunched over the book, chewing her lower lip, as she let her fingers fly frantically over the blank sheet. A strand broke free from the painfully tight chignon worked by her maid that morn and she blew at the errant curl. With each stroke of the pastel, an exhilarating calm stole through her. The beautiful peace that came in this wholly freeing experience was relaxing.
Minutes? Hours later she set the pastel down. Her chest heaved as she stared at the visage reflected back; the dangerously alluring half-grin, the chiseled cheeks befitting an expertly carved stone masterpiece.
A knock sounded at the door and she jumped. Heart pounding, Genevieve slammed the book closed and then cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “E-Enter,” she called and coming to her feet, she
Father flared his nostrils. “I do not want another scandal attached to this family,” he boomed and the three ladies again jumped.
No, he’d tolerate not a misstep. Not after Genevieve’s scandal. She gritted her teeth at what Cedric had wrought with his careless waltz. “There will be no scandal,” she said in more even tones. Not even as she craved more excitement from life than the staid, stilted existence.
A wide smile quivered in her mother’s fleshy cheeks. “See, my lord? There is nothing to worry after. Genevieve will be a good girl.” She whipped her head around so quickly, her jowls jiggled. “Isn’t that right, Genevieve?” Without allowing for a reply, the wife leaned over and patted her still scowling husband. “She’ll not encourage any gentleman.”
Nauseated by the mollifying exchange, Genevieve looked away. Unable to stomach any more, she shoved back her seat. It scraped noisily on the floor. “I am going to Hyde Park,” she seethed.
“You are to bring your maid,” her father thundered.
“Of course,” she said, pasting on a patently false smile. “I am nothing if not proper.” With that, she proceeded from the room with a decorum and grace both of her parents would have been hard-pressed to fault. When she’d put the breakfast room behind her, Genevieve lengthened her strides until she’d disappeared around the corridor where she broke into a sprint, wanting to keep running. Away from this place. Away from the weight of her parents’ unending fury. Her skirts snapped about her ankles as she took the stairs and made her way to her chambers. Within the sanctuary of her rooms, she closed the door and leaned against the panel. Her breath came hard and fast from her exertion. Panting, Genevieve slumped against the door.
She stared blankly about the room; a room that may as well have belonged to a stranger. Was this what her life was to be then? Was she to be relegated to the role of distantly removed member of the family, constantly being reminded of the mistakes of her past and never free to move beyond them? Her gaze snagged on the cheerful blue of the sky peeking through the gaping fabric of her curtains. Where was the joy in a life such as this? She wanted…more. Because to remain here, would crush her, destroying her in ways that her exile never could.
Shoving away from the door, Genevieve wandered over to the escritoire. The sketchpads, so precious these years, now forgotten in this fortnight. She pulled out the velvet-upholstered chair and slid into the seat. With numb fingers, she flipped the pages. She paused to steal a glance at the doorway. Should her father see…
Her grandfather’s visage. Delores. The maids and servants who’d been more family than her own parents. She turned to a blank sheet. Of their own volition, her fingers, long denied the pleasure she’d found these years at the encouragement of her grandfather, moved. She picked up the pastels and set her fingers to work upon the pages. She sat hunched over the book, chewing her lower lip, as she let her fingers fly frantically over the blank sheet. A strand broke free from the painfully tight chignon worked by her maid that morn and she blew at the errant curl. With each stroke of the pastel, an exhilarating calm stole through her. The beautiful peace that came in this wholly freeing experience was relaxing.
Minutes? Hours later she set the pastel down. Her chest heaved as she stared at the visage reflected back; the dangerously alluring half-grin, the chiseled cheeks befitting an expertly carved stone masterpiece.
A knock sounded at the door and she jumped. Heart pounding, Genevieve slammed the book closed and then cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “E-Enter,” she called and coming to her feet, she
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