The Perfect Fiancé…or So She Thought
Every love story begins with a promise.
For Lady Genevieve Sinclair, that promise was a sapphire ring, and a man too perfect to be true.
Lady Genevieve Sinclair stood at her bedchamber window, gazing out upon the gardens of her family estate and admiring the pink and white blossoms of the apple orchard in the distance.
She twisted the platinum and sapphire engagement ring around her finger, a habit she had developed over the past three months since Lord Edmund, Viscount of Sterling had placed it there.
“Only one week until the wedding, My Lady,” chirped her lady’s maid, Mary, as she arranged Genevieve’s dark curls into an elegant style befitting an afternoon garden party. “Are you excited? Nervous? Both, I imagine.”
Genevieve caught Mary’s eye in the looking glass and smiled. “Both, indeed. Though I ought not be nervous at all. Lord Sterling is…” She paused, searching for the right words. “He is everything a lady could wish for in a husband.”
“Handsome as the devil himself,” Mary said slyly, securing another pin.
“Mary!” Genevieve laughed despite herself. “Such improper talk.”
“But true, My Lady. And well-connected, rich as Croesus, and with such fine manners. Your parents are delighted with the match.”
“Yes,” Genevieve murmured, turning again to the window. “They are.”
In truth, she had been fortunate indeed to secure Lord Sterling’s affections. At twenty-two, she was hardly on the shelf, but after four seasons, she had begun to fear she might never marry. Not for lack of offers—those had come steadily enough—but because she had found most of her suitors unbearably dull.
Edmund was different. He was charming, witty, and moved in the highest political circles. Her father, the Earl of Whitmore, had nearly burst with pride when Edmund had asked for her hand.
“There,” Mary said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Beautiful. Which gown will you wear for the party?”
“The scarlet silk, I think,” Genevieve replied, rising from her dressing table. “And I shall need my white gloves—the ones with the pearl buttons.”
Mary furrowed her brow. “I’ve laid out the gown, My Lady, but I cannot find those gloves. I’ve searched your drawers and dressing room.”
“How odd. I wore them only yesterday when calling on Lady Hampshire.” Genevieve tapped her finger against her lips in thought. “Perhaps I left them in the library? I remember removing them to examine a book of poetry Lord Sterling brought for me.”
“Shall I look for you, My Lady?”
“No need, Mary. I shall retrieve them myself while you prepare my gown.” Genevieve glanced at the clock on her mantelpiece. “The guests won’t arrive for another hour, and a walk will settle my nerves.”
She made her way through the grand corridors of Whitmore House, nodding to servants who stepped aside and bobbed curtsies as she passed, walking until she reached the plush carpeting that lined the east wing, where the library was located.
As she approached the heavy oak door, left slightly ajar, she heard male voices from within. One she recognized immediately as Edmund’s—the cultured, smooth tenor that had whispered such pretty compliments in her ear at countless balls and soirées. The other was unfamiliar, deeper, with a hint of gravel to it.
“…must say, Sterling, you’ve outdone yourself this time,” the unfamiliar voice was saying. “Lady Genevieve is quite the catch. Beautiful, accomplished, and from what I hear, a dowry to make even the Regent envious.”
Genevieve paused, her hand raised to push open the door. It was improper to eavesdrop, of course, but surely there was no harm in hearing her fiancé sing her praises…
Edmund’s laugh rang out, but something in its tone caused Genevieve to freeze where she stood. It wasn’t the warm, indulgent laugh she was accustomed to. This laugh was cold, almost mocking.
“The dowry is certainly impressive, Blackwood,” Edmund replied. “Twenty thousand pounds, to be exact. More than enough to settle my gambling debts and refurbish the country estate. As for the lady herself…” He paused, and Genevieve could imagine him shrugging. “She’ll do.”
“She’ll do?” Blackwood repeated, amused. “Come now, Sterling. She’s a diamond of the first water. Half the eligible bachelors in London have been vying for her hand.”
“Yes, well, she’s a bit too clever for her own good. Always reading, always questioning. Not what I’d choose if it weren’t for her father’s fortune, but one must make sacrifices for financial security, mustn’t one?”
Genevieve felt her chest tighten, each breath becoming more difficult than the last. She pressed a hand against the doorframe to steady herself.
“And what of Helena?” Blackwood asked, the name unfamiliar to Genevieve’s ears. “I thought you were quite devoted to her.”
Edmund chuckled again. “Devoted enough to set her up in a very comfortable arrangement on Portman Square. Marriage to Lady Genevieve needn’t interfere with pleasure, after all. The little wife will be far too occupied with her social duties and, eventually, nursery matters to notice my…outside interests.”
Bile rose in Genevieve’s throat. She stepped back from the door, desperate now not to be discovered. Her heel caught on the edge of the carpet, and she stumbled, catching herself against the opposite wall with a thud.
The conversation inside the library halted abruptly.
“Did you hear something?” Blackwood asked.
Genevieve did not wait to hear Edmund’s reply. She gathered her dress and moved swiftly away from the library, ducking into an alcove that housed a marble bust of her great-grandfather when she heard the library door open fully.
“Hmm, must have been a servant,” Edmund’s voice floated down the corridor. “Now, as I was saying about the investments in the West Indies…”
Their voices faded as they retreated back into the library. Genevieve leaned against the wall, her heart hammering in her chest. Her eyes stung with unshed tears, but she blinked them back fiercely.
No, she would not cry. Not for him.
How could she have been so blind? So easily deceived by handsome features and charming smiles? Edmund had never loved her—had never even truly respected her. She was merely a means to an end, a convenient solution to his financial problems.
And he intended to keep a mistress. Helena, whoever she was. The humiliation of it burned hotter than the pain of his deceit. To think that the ton would whisper behind their fans, pitying poor Lady Genevieve Sterling, whose husband flaunted his infidelity while she played the dutiful, oblivious wife.
No. She would not accept such a fate. In fact, she would make sure he pays for what he did to her, that too, in the worst possible way…
