Victor could not speak.
A suitor. Found for her. Chosen for her.
His mind conjured images he could not bear. Gwen in a locked room. Gwen crying. Gwen being told her future as if she were livestock. Gwen standing before some faceless man who would take everything from her, because that was what marriage meant for defenseless ladies.
Dorothea placed a hand on his arm. “My dear, you have gone pale.”
He ignored her entirely. He turned his attention back to the two women. “You are certain of this?” he asked, his voice low.
Arabella nodded. “She asked us not to worry, but… we are worried. He does not allow her to leave the house at all. We have not even seen her at church.”
Eleanor added quietly, “She asked us not to visit. She feared he might punish her for it.”
A crack formed somewhere inside Victor.
“Thank you,” he uttered, the words brittle as glass.
He inclined his head, took his mother’s arm, and walked on without another word.
He did not hear the birds. He did not hear the wind. He did not hear Dorothea calling out his name as she hurried to keep up.
He heard only one truth: he had left Gwen alone in that house, and he should never have done so.
Dorothea followed him halfway across the park, breathless, calling out his name repeatedly. Victor did not slow down. His mind was already racing ahead, calculating possibilities, outcomes, routes, and consequences.
“Victor, stop,” Dorothea commanded, her voice sharp enough to cut through the haze.
He halted. Barely.
She caught his arm and turned him to face her. “What on earth has set you off? You look ready to strike someone.”
The irony was not lost on him. The rumors of violence. The whispers that he was like his father. The distance he kept so that none of it could ever become true.
He schooled his features into neutrality. “Nothing.”
Dorothea’s eyes narrowed. “Do not insult me with such nonsense. Those girls said something that upset you.”
He looked away. “They said nothing of importance.”
“That is another lie,” she said. “I raised you. I know when a storm is gathering in your head. And I certainly know when you are lying.”
Victor clenched his jaw. He could not speak the truth. His mother would pry and interfere. And she would insist on marriage, propriety, and caution.
Gwen did not have time for Dorothea’s deliberation.
“Mother,” he said quietly, “I need a moment.”
“Well, I need an explanation,” she insisted. “Why does the Reeves girl matter to you?”
“She does not,” he replied.
Dorothea stared at him long and hard. She did not believe him, but her silence spoke louder than any accusation.
Victor drew in a long breath. “Mother, I will see you home. I have business to attend to.”
“Business?” she repeated, skeptical. “You look ready to dismantle a carriage with your bare hands.”
He did not deny it.
