She only laughed harder.
“The doves,” she gasped. “Victor, they arekissing.”
He looked. They were, indeed. Two little birds made from white napkins. Their beaks were pressed together with innocent fervor.
He closed his eyes briefly. “I despise this inn.”
“No,” she gasped, wiping tears from her cheeks. “I adore it. Look, they have made the eggs in the shape of a heart. How thoughtful.”
He set the tray down with more force than necessary on the small table between the two chairs by the fire. “Eat, before I throw it all into the flames.”
Her laughter died down, though a smile lingered at the corners of her mouth. Without further teasing, she took the chair opposite his.
The fire crackled between them. Outside, a cart rattled past.
They ate in relative quiet. He passed her the bread. She poured the tea. Their fingers brushed once over the jam pot, and both drew back with unnecessary swiftness.
Victor kept his voice cool, his expression neutral, careful not to let his temper show. He had seen what anger did to a woman who had to endure a man’s unpredictable moods. He would not add himself to that catalog.
“You are very polite this morning,” she noted, eventually.
“I am rarely otherwise,” he replied.
“That is not entirely true,” she said. “But I appreciate the attempt, even though I’m sure you’re frustrated with how fickle I seem.”
He merely grunted in response, but continued eating silently otherwise.
They finished the meal, descended the stairs, and stepped out into the pale, chilly day. The carriage waited. His horse stamped in the yard.
The world appeared perfectly unchanged. But Victor felt nothing of the sort.
They climbed in. The door shut. The wheels turned.
And they rolled back toward the life Gwen had chosen.
The ride back to London seemed shorter. Gwen watched the familiar hedgerows and fields blur past the small carriage window, each mile pulling her closer to the place she had tried so desperately to escape.
Victor sat opposite her, a ledger open on his knee, his quill poised, every inch the distant Duke again. The man who hadheld her in his arms last night and coaxed pleasure from her with nothing but his voice might have been a dream.
He had barely spoken a word since they had left the inn. When he did, it was to the driver. Or to ask if she was warm enough. Or to comment on the likelihood of rain.
His gaze did not seek hers. His lips did not curl into those faint smiles she had started to catalog.
He was withdrawing.
She recognized the action. It felt like watching a door close inch by inch while she stood on the wrong side of it.
She kept silent as long as she could. Longer, perhaps, than was usual. Eventually, after an hour of his carefully structured silence, she lowered her gaze from the window and said, “You do not have to do this.”
He did not look up from his ledger. “Do what?”
“This,” she said. “Become colder with every passing mile. It is quite unnecessary. We are adults. We can acknowledge that last night happened without pretending that it turned us into strangers at dawn.”
His quill paused.
He lifted his eyes to hers. They were as cool and as clear as water. “I am not pretending you are a stranger.”
“You are acting as if I should be,” she countered.
