Читать книгу Summer's Bride - Catherine Archer - Страница 11

As she watched the other woman disappear behind the screen, Genevieve felt her stomach churn with rage toward Marcel. What madness had ever possessed her to believe he wanted her, that he was anything other than a black-hearted knave?

She recalled her first sight of him in the great hall at Brackenmoore the previous day—thinking that he had changed. He had indeed changed, and more than she had imagined. The Marcel she had known would never kiss her as he had when he was in love with another woman. For surely he was in love with Constanza.

He had her near him. Poor Constanza, Genevieve could not even look at her as she came from behind the screen, now garbed in a heavy velvet gown. Marcel had betrayed her as surely as he had betrayed Genevieve.

For was that not what he had done by kissing her, touching her the way he had? And she, fool that she was, had cared for nothing but the feelings that were racing through her own body. She had been able to think of nothing beyond the mad thought that her physical reactions meant she was in love with him.

Her miserable gaze flicked back to Constanza. She had not known that he was bound to another.

The other woman was watching her closely and Genevieve could not hold that gaze, for fear of the woman’s reading all that had passed between her and Marcel. She suspected that Constanza knew more of the truth of the situation than she had been told.

Loving Marcel as she must, Constanza would surely feel that something was wrong between Marcel and Genevieve. Loving him as she did, and feeling that he loved her in return.

Genevieve’s heart twisted in her chest at the thought of their feelings for each other. Again she told herself that she was a fool, a poor mad fool. It did her no good to pine for a man who loved another, who had not had the decency to make his position clear before kissing her.

Hopelessly she moved to stare out the portal.

The other woman’s gentle voice interrupted her tortured thoughts. “You must be tired and hungry. Sit and I will get us some food, por favor.”

Genevieve spun around to look at her, knowing that her surprise must be obvious. “You are concerned for my comfort?”

The other woman’s brown eyes measured her with a surprising depth of kindness. “Of course. You have been through much.”

Genevieve looked away. She did not know what to say, could not even understand her own tumultuous emotions. She went to the long bench beside the table and sat down, drawing her knees up to hold them tightly against her.

Misery gripped her, making her throat tight and her chest ache. She was determined not to cry. Not in front of Marcel’s woman.