He poured another drink, then another, until the edges of his rage softened into something duller, more sustainable. Indifference, yes, that was the answer. He would simply pretend she did not exist, a ghost haunting the East Wing, irrelevant and unseen. It would be easy, he told himself, ignoring the memory of her eyes, green as spring leaves, pooling with carefully restrained tears. So damnedly easy.
Three days passed in suffocating silence. Genevieve took her meals alone, walked the portrait gallery alone, sat in the music room before a pianoforte she dared not play. The servants treated her with cautious courtesy, but she saw the questions in their eyes. What sort of marriage was this, where husband and wife existed as strangers in separate wings? She had tried that first morning to approach Lord Ashford at breakfast. She had descended early, hope fluttering foolishly in her chest, thinking perhaps daylight and duty might soften his resolve. But when she entered the dining room, he had looked up from his correspondence with such naked hostility that words died unspoken on her tongue. He had risen, folded his newspaper with deliberate precision, and left without a single syllable passing his lips. The message was clear. She was unwelcome even in shared spaces.
So she retreated as she had learned to do in her father's house when his temper darkened. Invisibility was a skill she had perfected long before this marriage. Be quiet. Be small. Be nothing at all. Survive. On the fourth morning she woke to discover a note slipped beneath her door. The handwriting was sharp, masculine, unforgiving. You will attend dinner tonight. We have guests. Present yourself appropriately. Do not embarrass me.
Genevieve's hands trembled as she read it once, twice, three times. He required her presence, but only as ornament, only as proof of respectability before witnesses. She was to be trotted out like a prize mare, displayed and dismissed. Very well. If Lord Ashford wanted a decorative wife who spoke only when spoken to, she would give him exactly that. She had survived worse than indifference. She would survive this, too, even if it hollowed her out completely.
The gown laid out for her was exquisite, pale blue silk with ivory lace, cut to flatter without drawing undue attention. Genevieve wondered who had selected it. Surely not her husband, who could barely stand to acknowledge her existence. Perhaps the housekeeper, Mrs. Daventry, who had shown her small kindnesses these past days. She dressed with care, pinning her dark hair in a simple style that would not invite criticism. No jewels adorned her throat. She owned none, but the candlelight would be forgiving. She studied her reflection with detachment, seeing what Lord Ashford would see: an adequate wife, properly attired, sufficiently invisible.
When she descended the stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs, she found him waiting in the entrance hall. He wore evening blacks that emphasized the harsh lines of his face, the military precision of his bearing. He did not smile. He did not offer his arm. He simply