The Lure of a Rake (The Heart of a Duke #9)(2)

Her mother brandished the page. “You’ve done nothing?” she squeaked. “You lay with the duke—”

“I did not lie with anyone,” she bit out. She’d had but two kisses from the man who’d been her betrothed and those were brief, chaste ones upon her lips. Never anything more.

Her mother scoffed. “Are you calling the duke a liar?”

She stiffened. Is that the way of this coldly reserved world they lived in? A mother would believe lies upon a page over her own daughter’s words? “I am.”

Her mother’s broad nose flared and she studied Genevieve. Fury burned from within her eyes. Then, she quickly smoothed her features. Of course, one must never show emotion. How shameful for her mother to drop that mask for even a sliver of a moment. “You are ruined.”

Yes, she was quite ruined. Beyond marriageable. What happened to women such as that? Rumored virtue-less, may as well, in fact, be truly without virtue. What happened to those ladies? A panicky laugh built in her chest.

“You cannot stay here.”

That decisive, emotionless statement snapped her back from the precipice of her silent ramblings. “No,” she agreed. There had, however, been something oddly comforting in the schoolroom. A peace. A quiet. The schoolroom had been the one place she’d felt accomplished. She’d earned the praise and pride of her nursemaids and governesses. Of course, on the day of her greatest failure, this place harkened to the time in her life when she’d done right. Genevieve made to step around her mother, when the woman shot a hand out, and wrapped it around her forearm. “I am leaving,” she said with a frown, wincing at her mother’s painful grip.

“Not this room, Genevieve.”

A pebble of dread knotted in her belly. Perhaps it was the events of the morn. Perhaps it was the shock of betrayal. And yet, she could not make sense of those decisive four words. “I don’t understand.”

“Surely you see that you cannot remain here. You will be a visible blight upon your sister’s future. As long as you are here, people will talk and whisper. But your sister is young enough that she might make a respectable match in four years.”

Did her mother truly believe her absence would make all of that go away? It was madness. Her mother spoke as though, in leaving, Genevieve’s very existence would be forgotten. By the firm set to her mother’s mouth, she knew. She’d be banished to the country. She smoothed her shaking palms over the front of her rumpled wedding dress. “Very well,” she said, proud of the steady quality of those words. But inside, she was shaking with equal parts rage and hurt betrayal—first her betrothed and now her mother. Was there loyalty, anywhere? “We will return to the country and when we return—”

“Not us,” her mother put in impatiently. “You need to leave.”

A dull humming filled her ears. She shook her head. No.

“Yes.” The marchioness took a step closer.

She imagined living in a world away from Gillian and tears flooded her eyes. Even though she’d so often deliberately needled her sister through the years, those bothersome sibling behaviors were now gifts she’d not give up. Ice traveled along her spine. Her teeth clattered noisily and she hugged her arms close. “Wh-where would you send me?” she croaked as the reality of her mother’s cold disdain stole the last of her logic. Her mother sought to snip her from the fabric of the family as though she was nothing more than a bothersome thread dangling from an embroidery frame.

“Your grandfather’s property in Kent.” Her mother pursed her lips. Rumored to be as frigid and unyielding as a winter freeze, her parents would send her there. “I do not hold you entirely to blame. I attended Mrs. Belden’s when I was young.” She peeled her lip back in a disappointed sneer. “Perhaps you would have been best served by attending that institution. Instead, we indulged you with lax governesses and nursemaids.” She gave a flick of her hand. “Regardless, the mistake was mine for allowing you to remain here with those who encouraged your flights of fancy. Now we are to live with those circumstances.”

We. A familial equation Genevieve no longer fit within. She turned her hands up and managed but one word. “Please.” The entreaty emerged garbled and hoarse.

Her mother scowled and ignored the outstretched offering. “Would you be so selfish as to steal your sister’s right to a respectable marriage?”

Guilt sliced at her heart. Even though it wasn’t her fault. Even though the duke’s words were all lies. They belonged to a Society where women had no voice and certainly one that would never be believed against a duke. And yet, for that, she would be sent away and never again see Gillian. She let her arm fall to her side. “I cannot leave,” she whispered.

“Of course you will,” her mother said with a matter-of-factness that froze her on the inside. “For Gillian, you will.” Then, turning on her heel, she started for the door.

A burgeoning panic clogged Genevieve’s throat. “Wait,” she managed to cry out, as her mother gripped the door handle. “When can I return?” Her body trembled with the force of terror spreading through her.

Her mother cast a look over her shoulder. “Why, when your sister makes a respectable match.” On that sure pronouncement, the marchioness left, closing the door behind her.

And just like that, the thread was cut.