They walked the remainder of the path in strained silence. Dorothea’s gloved hand tightened on his arm once, then released. She knew better than to push him when he reached his limits.
Once he had delivered her to the townhouse, he did not linger. He strode away before the footman even closed the door behind her.
He walked without direction, his thoughts churning.
Gwen locked in that house.
Gwen hidden from everyone who cared about her.
Gwen unable to escape.
Gwen with a suitor she did not choose.
Gwen withthatman.
Gwen with anyone else.
He should have escorted her inside.
No. If he had walked her to the door, Howard might have assumed the very thing Victor had been trying to avoid. Howard might have demanded marriage at once. Howard might have forced Gwen into a union with a man she had not chosen.
Victor could not have claimed her.
He would not bind her to a man like him. A man who carried shadows. A man who feared his own inheritance. A man whose touch had ignited her, who had wanted her, but who still feared what wanting her could become.
Yet the knowledge brought him no peace. Only fury.
By the time he returned home, his mind was made up.
Howard Tull would not imprison Gwen. He would not hide her. He would not own her future. Not if Victor had anything to say about it.
He walked into the drawing room, where his mother sat reading. She looked up, startled by his expression.
“Victor,” she said cautiously. “What have you decided?”
“We are hosting a dinner,” he announced.
Dorothea blinked. “A dinner?”
“Yes,” he said. “A large one. Select guests. Invitations must be sent at once.”
“Why?”
“Because it is necessary.”
“For what purpose?” she pressed.
He avoided her gaze. “I will not explain myself.”
“Victor—”
“Mother,” he said quietly, “do not push me.”
Dorothea studied him for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.
“Very well,” she acquiesced. “If you wish to host a dinner, we shall host a dinner.”
Victor inclined his head, then left the room without another word.
