"Sit down," Richard said.
"I will ruin the upholstery," she replied, her voice tight. She kept her hands clasped strictly in front of her, a perfect mimicry of a servant standing before a master. It made his skin crawl.
"I do not care about the damn chairs, Genevieve."
He walked over to the hearth. The fire had died down to embers. He grabbed an iron poker and violently stabbed at the coals, throwing three heavy oak logs onto the grate. He needed something to do with his hands. He needed to hit something. The flames caught quickly, casting dancing orange shadows across the spines of the books.
When he turned back, she hadn't moved. She was shivering.
He went to the small side table, grabbed a clean crystal glass, and poured a generous measure of brandy. He walked over and held it out to her. She stared at the amber liquid for a long moment before taking the glass. Her fingers brushed his. They were icy.
She didn't sip the expensive liquor. She tossed it back in one quick, practiced motion, swallowing the burn without a single cough. It was the way a dockworker drank to stay warm.
"Better?" he asked.
"Yes." She handed the glass back.
She finally allowed herself to look around the room. Her gaze swept over the desk, the scattered papers, the unlit cigars. "You haven't changed the curtains. I always hated that heavy green velvet."
"I haven't changed anything," he said quietly. "I haven't lived in most of this house since you left."
She looked at him, then truly looked at him. The guarded, feral instinct faded from her hazel eyes, replaced by a deep, weary sorrow. "You look tired, Richard."
"I buried my wife," he said, the words sharp and brittle. "I spent seven years waking up in an empty bed, listening to the rain, wondering if you suffered, wondering if I could have stopped you from taking that ship."
"You couldn't have." She finally moved, walking slowly toward the roaring fire. She held her rough hands out to the heat. "I had to go to York to see my solicitor. We both know that ship was the fastest route."
"And Gregory knew your schedule. Gregory knew everything."
"He always kept close tabs on the St. Claire money. He knew my trust would transfer to him if I died childless." She rubbed her arms, though the heat from the fire was intense. "I spent the first year looking over my shoulder. I jumped at every shadow. I worked in taverns, in inns, anywhere loud and dirty where no one looked closely at faces."
"You could have come to me," he said. The betrayal stung, a fresh, raw wound beneath the shock. "You thought I would let him harm you? You thought I wouldn't tear him apart with my bare hands?"
"I thought," she said, turning to face him, her voice suddenly fierce, "that if I came back, he would simply try again, and next time he might not miss, or worse, he might arrange an accident for you."
Richard froze.
"You are a powerful duke," Genevieve said, her tone softening, though her eyes remained hard. "But Gregory is a snake. He doesn't challenge men to duels. He pays desperate people to cut steering lines and wedge doors shut in the dead of night. If he knew I survived, he would have realized you were the only thing standing between him and the money. I didn't stay dead to protect myself, Richard. I stayed dead to protect you."
The silence in the study became absolute. The only sound was the crackle of the oak logs breaking apart in the grate.
Richard looked at her. He stripped away the dirty apron, the rough dress, the calluses, and the exhaustion. Beneath it all was the terrifying, brilliant logic of the woman he had loved. She had calculated the odds, weighed the risks, and decided that breaking his heart was the only mathematically certain way to keep him breathing.
He didn't know whether to fall to his knees and weep or strangle her.
He walked slowly toward her. She held her ground. He stopped inches away, looking down into her upturned face. He reached out, his movements deliberately slow, and traced the line of her jaw with the back of his knuckles. He felt the raised, jagged edge of her scar.
"You arrogant, foolish woman," he breathed.
"I kept you alive," she whispered back, refusing to break his gaze.
"You kept a ghost alive."
He dropped his hand. "Look around you, Genevieve. Look at me. This isn't living. It hasn't been for 7 years."
He turned away from her, walking back to the heavy mahogany desk. The shock was finally settling into a cold, hard resolve. The world had shifted on its axis this morning. He was no longer a grieving widower. He was a man with a wife who was currently a target.
"Gregory currently resides in London," Richard stated, shuffling through a stack of correspondence until he found a blank sheet of heavy parchment. "He has been spending the St. Claire fortune on racehorses and mistresses. If he has spies in this county, they will hear about a scullery maid who remarkably resembles the late Duchess by nightfall."
Genevieve stiffened. "Then I need to leave now before the rumor spreads."