Page 4 of The Duke’s Return (Dukes of the Compass Rose #2)

G enevieve fanned herself in the warm room as she studied a lovely landscape painting that felt slightly at odds with the lighting in the gallery. She didn’t like it but couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The golden hay, perhaps, or the farmer’s cap didn’t settle right with the candlelight.

“Art like this needs to be seen in proper daylight,” she said decidedly. “I understand how sunlight risks the integrity of the paint, but truly, I do think the candlelight ruins it. Don’t you?”

But Phoebe Delacourt, the only daughter of the Earl of Denshire, wasn’t paying attention. So Genevieve elbowed her. “Oh! Sorry, dear, what was it?”

She forced a smile as she eyed her hands. “Don’t worry about it, Phoebe, I know I can go on for hours in a space like this. You’re a proper dear for letting me ramble on. But is something amiss to have you so distracted? You don’t usually start complaining until after two hours.”

“Yes, I suppose. It only feels like there are people watching us,” her friend said after a wary moment. “Do I have something in my hair?”

“A peacock,” Genevieve responded automatically and received a rap of a fan on her shoulder. “I told you not to put the feather in.”

Phoebe was forever trying out a new style, never comfortable with what she picked for herself.

She’d seen someone wearing a colorful turban on their carriage ride to the gallery, and had forced a detour to find herself something.

It was only an extra feather in her hair, but it was certainly… colorful.

As Genevieve eyed it warily, she hoped it wouldn’t fall over on her. The colors were vibrant, true, but the setting of the feather was far from reassuring.

Forcing herself to look away, she glanced around the gallery to spot three matrons of society in the corner.

All three of them were hiding the lower halves of their faces behind their fans.

Not out of the ordinary should they be attending a ball or wandering through a park, but definitely odd in a gallery.

They weren’t even looking at the nearby art.

When she looked, all three of them hastily turned away and toward one another. She frowned before turning back to Phoebe.

Her friend was pouting. “It will be all the rage soon, I do believe. That must be it. They’re admiring the colors.

It helps with the red hair, you see. Can you believe my mother thought I should wear pink today?

What a lark! She believes that if I only wore pink once, I should finally find a proper gentleman to marry.

” Then she snorted and waved spiritedly at the matrons.

The attention was too much for Genevieve, who flushed.

Her dearest friend since childhood had always been opinionated.

Clever and protective, Phoebe was the youngest of three children.

She knew nothing but boldness, such as feathers in her already bright hair, though sometimes Genevieve wondered what else she hid.

I know she dreams of romance. She’s always telling me to read those books, sharing her favorites. But her father says there is no rush for her to wed, so she might do as she likes. Is she truly happy, I wonder, to be as she is now?

“I think we have bigger concerns in life than the presence or absence of pink,” she said at last. “Come, let’s find another room. We can enjoy the art there.”

“Perfect!”

Except it was difficult to return to that state of mind to enjoy the art once they found a small and empty exhibit room. It had taken the last forty minutes for Genevieve to properly look at any of the paintings. After noticing the stares, she couldn’t help but let her mind wander.

What if they know the duke has returned? My husband has only just returned but there is no telling who else might know. Perhaps they know I’m a recluse. They couldn’t possibly care. Or do they think that might change upon knowing he is in town? What a bother all of this guessing can be!

“Genevieve?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve not looked at one picture and keep wandering in circles. Are you thinking about those ladies? Or is something else wrong?”

She managed a fond smile. “It’s not the feather. It’s only… Oh, I shouldn’t like to be a bother.”

Tsk ing, her friend pulled her close as they stood before a painting of a beautiful lady dressed in mourning crepe. “Do not be ridiculous. You are never a bother. You are my dearest friend, and I will vanquish every dragon in your path if I might. Perhaps I can help?”

“How kind you are,” Genevieve told her with a smile. “Thank you, but I think that is unlikely. I am… Well, I suppose I’m wondering if everyone might be staring my way. I may again be the subject of gossip columns.”

It had been awfully uncomfortable when she married the duke, for he disappeared, and her name was shared in the papers. Invitations rushed in and everyone wanted a bite of the new duchess. How awful that first month had been for her.

“Whatever for? Did you cause a scandal without me?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” she said with a sigh, wrinkling her nose at her friend. “It seems women can’t control their husbands as much as my mother told me. The Duke of Southwick has returned to England.”

Phoebe’s mouth dropped open. “I beg your pardon? Your husband?”

A lady and gentleman stepped into the exhibit space, forcing the two of them to lift their fans and tuck further into their corner so as to not be overheard. “Yes,” Genevieve muttered. “He’s in my house this very minute.”

“His house, too, I believe.”

“He hadn’t resided there since he was a lad,” Genevieve said, echoing what Mrs. Culpepper had told her many months ago. “It is not entailed and it’s practically mine at this point.” Her friend snorted. “Phoebe, please!”

But Phoebe was wrinkling her nose, a smile curving her lips. “Oh, Genevieve, don’t look so dour. How exciting this is! Your husband has returned. I didn’t think he could stay away from you for long. You’re too lovely and he is well known for liking beautiful women.”

That did nothing to help her. “Now you’re being ridiculous and I don’t appreciate it. There is nothing romantic about his return. The man is a rake and a scoundrel. The thought of him being anything else is entirely laughable.”

“He does have a weighty reputation,” her friend admitted. “Notorious, even. But quite charming. I danced with him once.”

“As you’ve told me a dozen times. Perhaps you should have married him.”

“Goodness, no. His complexion is too much for me and I am entirely too much for him,” quipped Phoebe.

“But do tell me. Did he say why he returned if not for you? His leave hardly helped his reputation. No one understands why he married, let alone married you.” Phoebe added an apologetic smile to her words.

Still, they were nothing Genevieve had not heard before.

“I know. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

I only wish he would go away. I’m finally comfortable in the house and I’ve come to enjoy my life.

What if he takes it away? What if he forces me out?

Good lord, he might install a mistress there. ”

“I thought you don’t care.”

“I care about my reputation,” Genevieve corrected her. “I can be seen as an eccentric and a recluse. Those are acceptable because I still attend a few parties, and I serve on three humanitarian boards. But anything worse would surely hurt my sisters. My family.”

If only he hadn’t returned. I was so relieved to find him gone.

“It must have been quite nice,” Phoebe noted, telling Genevieve she must have said those last words aloud. The flush was ignored this time. “I know how you enjoy your peace. Perhaps you can still keep it. Has he said why he returned? For what purpose?”

She frowned. “Some matter of purpose. But he has countless men of business to address such issues. I don’t understand it. Or him. And I don’t like it.”

“Or him?” her friend prompted.

Deciding not to answer that particular question, Genevieve hastily fanned herself.

It bothered her wrist but the flush kept growing the more she thought about her husband.

How silly it was to even call him that. But she didn’t like calling him by his title.

And they were too much of strangers to use his Christian name. Julian. She fanned herself harder.

“Well, something brought him back here,” Phoebe said at last. She grinned.

“You will have to ask him. How exciting! You can face him down and, if he makes up some ridiculous excuse, you can tell him off. You said it’s your home and not his.

Tell him to leave. My mother told my father to do that once, I recall.

I didn’t see him for four months. It was quite humorous. ”

“What if I want him gone longer than that?” Genevieve muttered.

“Then tell him!”

That made her stop. She couldn’t even think about… what would she say? Good lord, what would he say? Her stomach dropped. Anything could happen. Oh, if her mother ever found out… “I could never.”

“You could say something. It’s not always about being outright honest, dear. Sometimes you have to play with your words. Like a writer does in telling you a story that isn’t real. Create a reason for him to go if that’s what it takes you.”

“Could I really do that?” she wondered aloud. “I wonder what it would take to convince him to leave again…”

Holding back a laugh, her friend gave a sharp nod. “Precisely! Don’t let your fear win, Gen. Or you will never be anything but small and disposable.”

“How horrid you make marriage sound!” Genevieve stared at her, appalled.

“It will be if you do not try. Besides, my dear… maybe he does want to be with you, and he only doesn’t know how to say it? Men can be dullards and fools, too,” Phoebe said with a wink. She was clearly more amused than worried about what this might all mean for Genevieve.

If only she could feel that way as well. But she listened and reflected and, by the time she returned home, Genevieve had Phoebe’s courage ringing in her ears. The gallery had long since been forgotten.