Summer's Bride. Catherine Archer
bed hangings and draperies, the massive dark furnishings, the chests that contained her many garments, shoes and fine jewels. There was gold in the velvet purse she kept in her jewel chest. Though Benedict oversaw her inheritance, she had complete and unfettered access to all.
These signs of wealth offered little comfort this night. All she could think on was the fact that Marcel was home, that he seemed to have made no more than casual note of her existence. While she was as—
She started as a knock sounded upon the door. She called out, “Who is there?”
She recognized Lily’s voice as the other woman spoke. “It is me, Lily.”
Genevieve answered the door, her wary eyes meeting Lily’s gray ones. She said hesitantly, “Enter, Lily. You know there is no need for you to knock.” Though she had come to love the gentle black-haired woman in the past two years, she was not anxious to discuss what had occurred in the hall, which was exactly what she feared the other’s presence foretold.
Genevieve attempted to hide her agitation as Lily came in and stood quietly, her hands folded before her. Her demeanor only further convinced her that the other woman had something difficult she wished to say. At long last she asked, “Are you well, Genevieve? In the hall you seemed…”
Realizing that she simply could not speak of her confused feelings about Marcel, Genevieve quickly forestalled her. “Please, Lily, you came to Brackenmoore with your own secrets. I respected that. I ask that you respect my need to keep some things to myself, as well.”
The other woman bowed her elegant dark head, her gray eyes soft. “As you wish. Should you ever wish to talk I will listen.”
Genevieve nodded, her gaze grateful but resolute. “There is naught to tell. I am well and will be so.”
Lily met her gaze once more. “You are loved by all of us, Genevieve, will always be the sister of our hearts.”
With that Lily left the room.
Genevieve was glad, for she would not wish Lily to see her sadness. How easily those last words had fallen from her lips. How Genevieve wished that she was indeed a sister to this family.
She had first visited Brackenmoore with her parents when they stopped here on a journey north from their own holdings. Benedict’s family had been friend to hers. That brief stay had been one of the happiest times of her life. She did not well recall Marcel’s parents. Her memories were of the boys and the joy and freedom she had known with them, wandering the forest, wading in the sea, exploring the cliffs. She had never forgotten those experiences though she had been no more than seven.
At that time, she had not taken any particular note of Marcel. He had been one of the four magical and carefree creatures who had played with her and shown her their world for two whole days. Two days in which she had not heard her mother cry even once.
It had not been until just over two years ago, long after Benedict had taken her in and made her his ward that she had begun to see Marcel as anything but one of the Ainsworth brothers. He had been kind to her, shown concern for her when others were lost in their own troubles. And her feelings for him had changed. She had found herself looking at him in a new way, feeling a strange stirring when he was near.
She had never felt anything like that toward Tristan, no matter how certain she had been that their marrying was a good idea. To be an Ainsworth was all she had really wished for in her life. Until she had come to care for Marcel.
Though Genevieve knew the Ainsworths loved her, none of them could ever understand how it felt to be on the outside, to want above all else to truly be one of them.
But she was not.
Before she had run away to Brackenmoore, her life had been very different from what it was now. And more unhappy than she had ever admitted to anyone. Somewhere in her mind was the belief that if she could only become an Ainsworth, she would be able to finally and completely erase the years before she had come to live here.
It had been for this reason that she had felt distress at learning Tristan was still in love with Lily, whom he had believed dead. Genevieve had never begrudged them their happiness, not for one moment, only mourned the death of her own dream.
Yet when she had realized her feelings for Marcel, her hope to be an Ainsworth in truth had once more come to life. Not that this was the reason for her feelings for him. That she knew. It had simply meant that her hope was reborn.
Now Marcel had returned, a Marcel she no longer felt she knew. Yet he was so very handsome and even more compelling than before. She had made a complete fool of herself by spilling wine all over his lap. Her cheeks burned at the very thought.
Hearing the door open again, Genevieve did not turn from the window. “I am fine, Lily. As I told you, you need have no concern for me.”
A deep voice replied, “It is not Lily.”
Swinging around with a gasp, Genevieve saw none other than Marcel standing just inside the doorway. “What are you doing here?” Her eager gaze ran over him, so tall, so strange and familiar at the same time, so very handsome with his black hair, the color of which seemed to intensify the blue of his eyes.
He took a deep breath, closing the door behind him before he said, “Genevieve…” He took a step toward her then stopped. “I had to come to see you.”
She caught her own breath, the sound of her name on his lips making her realize anew just how much she had missed him, the sound of his voice, his gentle strength. She tried to answer evenly, but her own hopes, her irrepressible reactions to him brought a huskiness to her voice. “Why, Marcel?”
Marcel came toward her. “There are things I wish to say to you. Things that, I believe, must be said.”
What was he talking about? Could it be what she most desired in the secret recesses of her heart? Did he feel what she did?
As he began to speak, she understood that all these thoughts had simply been wishful thinking on her part. “Firstly, let me say that I want you to know that my presence here at Brackenmoore need not make you uncomfortable. There is no need to avoid me or to be nervous of my presence.”
She drew herself up, her heart thumping as she blushed. “What makes you think I am nervous of your presence?”
He shrugged. “Your spilling the wine.” Inwardly she cringed. As he continued, she felt torn between pleasure and embarrassment. “In all the time I have known you, you have never been aught but graceful in your every movement. Even when you first visited Brackenmoore at seven.”
Genevieve settled on incredulity. She was not usually awkward, but she had to have been so at times as a normal seven-year-old. She took his statement as an overzealous effort to put her at ease with her clumsiness in the hall.
Yet as Marcel went on, she forgot all but the utter embarrassment caused by what he was saying. “I know that before I left we had a particular…that we had certain feelings for one another. I realized soon after my departure from Brackenmoore that we had simply been drawn together through your troubles over your engagement to Tristan. I want you to know that all is forgotten. I do not harbor any feelings that would make our having a friendship difficult and my hope is that you feel the same. Any fear that you might have about my having feelings for you that are more than brotherly may be laid to rest.”
Genevieve could say nothing as his meaning found purchase in her mind, feeling as though a dagger had been stuck into her heart. He was letting her know in clear terms that he had no romantic feelings for her and that she should not harbor any such feelings.
How could he talk to her this way? Did Marcel think to put her in her place, to make certain that she did not pursue him and cause him embarrassment?
Well, he need not worry there. She had no intention of pressing herself upon him.
It was, in fact, the last thing she would do.
She drew herself up to her full height, which unfortunately was not great. “Have no worry on that