In his study, he pulled out paper and ink and wrote to Howard Tull.
The Duke of Greystone requests the pleasure of the Viscount and Viscountess Fenwick’s company at dinner. And that of Lady Gwendoline Reeves, whose presence is specifically desired.
He folded the letter and sealed it.
A duke’s invitation was not a suggestion; it was a summons. And Howard Tull would obey.
Victor did not sleep. He sat in his chair long after the household had fallen silent, the fire dwindling, the edges of his coat chilled by the draft beneath the door.
He should not care this much.
He remembered the terror in Gwen’s voice when she spoke of Howard. The quiet dread beneath her words. The way she hadshivered in his bed. And he remembered the way he had spoken to her in the carriage, cold and purposeful, slicing the thread between them.
He thought he had done the right thing. Now, he knew he had been a fool.
He should have stayed until he knew she was safe. He should have done everything differently.
Yet what would Howard have demanded of him? Marriage. Public promises. A life Gwen had not agreed to.
The contradictions tore at him over and over again. Duty on one side. Desire on the other. Frustration lying beneath it all.
By the time dawn brushed the sky with pale gray, his decision was sharp enough to draw blood.
He would discover what Howard planned, and then he would act accordingly. Even if acting meant stepping into danger. Even if acting meant revealing a weakness he had spent years hiding.
He blew out a long breath, stood up, and summoned a footman. “Deliver this letter to Fenwick House,” he ordered. “Directly to the Viscount.”
The footman bowed and departed.
Victor closed the study door with finality. It was the first move in a game that Howard Tull did not realize he had already lost.
Gwen sat on the floor of her bedchamber, knees drawn to her chest, staring at the wall as if it might offer her an answer.
She had slept very little the past few days. Her cheek was still swollen from the slap. Her wrists were still sore from being pulled. Her throat was raw from swallowing tears in the dark.
She had whispered to herself that she would escape, but she had no plan.
She had imagined Victor beside her when Howard struck her, imagined his hand stopping the blow midair, imagined his voice saying,Enough.
She had imagined him standing beside her. Then she cursed herself for it.
He did not love her. And yet her chest ached for him as if he had been carved out of her ribs.
A knock startled her. The key turned. The lock clicked.
Howard opened the door. His expression was unreadable, which terrified her more than his anger.
“A letter,” he announced. He walked inside and tossed an envelope onto her lap. “From the Duke of Greystone.”
Her heart stopped.
The seal glinted in the light.
“He requests our company for dinner. Includingyours,” Howard sneered.
She swallowed. “I am not permitted to leave the house.”
“You are not,” he agreed. “Unless I say you may. And now I say you may.”
