assessed her with those winter-storm eyes, looking for flaws he might catalog and resent. "The Carwells are old family friends," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "You will be polite, demure, and speak only if directly addressed. You will not mention your father. You will not embarrass me. Do you understand?" Each word was a small violence.
Genevieve lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with hard-won composure. "Perfectly, my lord." Something flickered in his expression, surprise perhaps that she did not cower or weep, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by that impenetrable coldness. "Good," he said, and finally, grudgingly, offered his arm. She placed her hand upon his sleeve, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles, the heat of him burning through expensive fabric. For one breath, two, they stood suspended in mutual awareness before he moved, guiding her toward the drawing room where voices and laughter waited, sounds foreign in this house of ghosts.
The Carwells proved to be exactly as Genevieve expected: a jovial baronet with a fondness for port, and his wife, a pleasant woman who smiled too much and noticed too keenly. Their daughter, a striking blonde named Cecilia, watched Lord Ashford with barely concealed longing that made Genevieve's stomach twist with something she refused to name as jealousy. Dinner unfolded with agonizing formality. Genevieve sat at the far end of the table, her husband a distant, forbidding presence at its head. She spoke when addressed. Yes, the weather was fine. No, she had not yet explored the gardens. Yes, Ashford Hall was quite grand. And otherwise remained silent, a decorative statue in blue silk.
Lord Ashford ignored her completely, directing all conversation toward Sir Carwell and his daughter. When Cecilia laughed at something he said, touching his arm with casual intimacy, Genevieve felt each breath grow sharper, more difficult. "And how are you finding married life, Lady Ashford?" Lady Carwell asked suddenly, her keen eyes studying Genevieve with unsettling focus. The table fell silent. Genevieve felt her husband's gaze upon her, heavy with unspoken warning. She set down her fork with careful precision, summoning every lesson in deportment her governess had beaten into her. "It is an adjustment, Lady Carwell," she said softly, truthfully. "But Ashford Hall is beautiful, and I am grateful for Lord Ashford's..." She paused, searching for a word that was not quite a lie. "...generosity."
Dominic's jaw tightened. Something dangerous flashed in his eyes: anger, perhaps, that she had not played her part with more enthusiasm, or perhaps recognition that her words held multiple meanings, none of them complimentary. "How lovely," Lady Carwell murmured, though her tone suggested she believed nothing of the sort. The remainder of dinner stretched like eternity, each course another small torture, until Genevieve thought she might shatter from the weight of pretending.