"God, no," Arlo scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You are to sit there, try not to spill wine on your gown, and smile. Speak only if spoken to, which, given your utter lack of French, should be entirely avoidable. Wear something decent — not one of those drab Yorkshire rags."
He turned on his heel and left without waiting for a reply.
When the door clicked shut, Genevieve slowly retrieved her book. It was a dense political treatise on European borders, written in French. A small, cold smile touched her lips.
The night of the dinner arrived with a heavy, nervous energy in the Somerset townhouse. The dining room was a blinding display of wealth. Hundreds of beeswax candles reflected off imported crystal, and the table groaned under the weight of silver centerpieces. The guests arrived promptly at eight o'clock. Lord Fitzroy, Count Orlov, and Lady Sue were sipping champagne in the drawing room when Arlo realized Genevieve had not yet come down. He clenched his jaw, already imagining her cowering in her room, terrified of the glittering company.
"I shall fetch her," Arlo muttered to Sue, entirely prepared to drag his wife down the stairs by her wrist.
But before he could reach the door, it opened. The room went entirely silent.
Genevieve did not look like a country mouse. She wore a gown of deep midnight-blue velvet that left her shoulders bare. It was completely devoid of the fussy ruffles and heavy jewels the London women favored. The cut was inherently Parisian — sleek, dangerous, and impossibly elegant. Her dark hair was swept up in a sophisticated style, held by a single gleaming sapphire comb. But it wasn't just the dress. It was the way she held herself. The nervous, hunched posture was gone. She stood tall, her chin perfectly level, her eyes sweeping over the room with an air of absolute, terrifying command. Arlo felt a sudden, icy knot form in his stomach. This was not the girl he had married.
Before Arlo could process the change, the heavy double doors of the drawing room were thrown open by the butler. "His Excellency, the Marquis Henri de la Tour," the butler announced, his voice trembling slightly.
The French ambassador stepped into the room. He was a tall, silver-haired man with sharp, predatory eyes and the elegant, weary posture of a man who held the fates of nations in his pocket. He carried a silver-tipped cane and wore the unmistakable air of a man entirely unimpressed by his surroundings. Arlo immediately stepped forward, painting on a sycophantic smile, ready to deliver the carefully rehearsed French greeting he had spent three days memorizing.
But the Marquis never looked at Arlo. The ambassador's sharp eyes swept the room and landed on Genevieve. He stopped dead. The silver-tipped cane clattered loudly to the polished mahogany floor, slipping from his suddenly slack grip.
The Marquis de la Tour, a man who had famously refused to bow to the Tsar of Russia, took three hurried, almost frantic steps toward the Duchess of Somerset. He sank into a deep, sweeping, flawlessly executed court bow, his knees practically brushing the floor. When he looked up, there were actual tears welling in the old diplomat's eyes.
"Mademoiselle Genevieve," the Marquis whispered, his voice trembling in flawless, emotionally thick French. "I — I had heard a rumor you were in London. I did not dare to hope it was true."
The silence in the drawing room was so absolute that the soft crackle of the fireplace sounded like cannon fire. Arlo Pendleton stood frozen, his hand still suspended in the air, his rehearsed French greeting dying in his throat. Lady Sue's painted smile fractured, her fan halting mid-flutter. Lord Fitzroy and Count Orlov exchanged bewildered glances, completely derailed by the sight of the most feared diplomat in Europe bowing to a girl society deemed a simpleton.
Genevieve did not flinch. She did not blush. She extended her gloved hand with the effortless grace of a born sovereign.
"Please rise, Henri," Genevieve said. Her voice, usually a meek whisper, now rang with quiet, devastating authority. She spoke in French — not the stumbling, textbook French of an English schoolgirl, but the sharp, melodic, fiercely aristocratic dialect of the pre-revolution Parisian court. "You are far too old to be bowing so low. I fear for your knees."
A breathless, delighted laugh escaped the Marquis. He took her hand, pressing it to his lips. "For you, petite chouette, I would gladly shatter them." He straightened, his eyes tracing the elegant lines of her face, ignoring the rest of the room entirely. "When Charles Maurice de Talleyrand wrote to me that the Caldwell estate had finally sent its greatest treasure to London, I thought he was merely being poetic. I should have known better."
Arlo felt the floor tilt beneath his polished boots. Talleyrand? The legendary French prime minister? How in God's name did his uneducated wife know the Marquis de la Tour, let alone the most powerful statesman in France?
"Forgive me, Your Excellency," Arlo stammered, stepping forward, his voice tight with a mixture of panic and indignation. He attempted his practiced French, the accent thick and clumsy. "I was not aware you were acquainted with my — with my wife."
The Marquis slowly turned his head. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by the cold, reptilian stare that had ended a dozen political careers. He looked Arlo up and down as if inspecting a particularly disappointing horse.
"Acquainted?" The Marquis switched to flawless, cutting English. "Your Grace, when the Jacobins were burning my ancestral home and hunting my family through the streets of Paris in 1793, it was Sir William Caldwell who smuggled me across the Channel. And it was in the library of his Yorkshire estate that I spent seven years of my exile." The Marquis gestured to Genevieve with a look of profound reverence. "While you English lords were placing wagers at White's, this young woman was sitting at the feet of exiled ministers, generals, and philosophers. By the time she was fourteen, she was proofreading Talleyrand's secret correspondence to King Louis the Eighteenth. She is not merely my acquaintance, Somerset. She is the intellect that kept the French royalist cause breathing in the dark."
Sue Harrington let out a short, hysterical giggle, desperately trying to reclaim control of the narrative. "Oh, surely you exaggerate, Excellency. Our dear Genevieve is wonderfully sweet, but she could barely read the dinner menu yesterday."
The Marquis did not even look at Sue. He merely raised a single arrogant silver eyebrow and addressed Genevieve in French. "Who is the painted courtesan, and why is she speaking to me?"