Howard’s nostrils flared. For a moment, Gwen thought he would refuse, that he would reassert his authority. Then he seemed to remember that he was standing in the house of a duke and was speaking with the Dowager Duchess herself.
“Very well,” he said tightly. “You may go and greet your friends, Gwendoline. Briefly. Then you will return.”
Gwen curtsied. “Yes, My Lord.”
She did not move too quickly. That would be too obvious. Too eager. She walked across the room at a measured pace, nodding politely to those she passed, careful to keep her steps smooth.
Every part of her throbbed with urgency.
She needed to reach Arabella and Eleanor.
She needed to find Victor.
She needed to get out.
“Gwen,” Arabella breathed, the moment Gwen came close enough. “You are here!”
Eleanor inclined her head, her eyes roaming over Gwen’s face. “You look pale. And your cheek…” She frowned. “Are you unwell?”
Gwen resisted the urge to lift her hand to the fading mark. “I am fine,” she lied. “It is only the heat.”
Arabella did not believe that for a second. Her lips pressed into a line. “Tell us everything. At once.”
“Not here,” Eleanor hissed. “There are too many ears. Come. We will pretend we are admiring the paintings.”
They drifted toward a quieter corner where a large landscape hung. From a distance, they appeared to be studying the rolling hills and serene sky. Up close, their voices were scarcely more than breath.
“What happened?” Eleanor asked.
Gwen swallowed. The memory still felt raw, like touching a bruise. “He was waiting. He shouted. He accused. Then he discovered that I had started the rumors.”
Arabella’s hand flew to her mouth. “How?”
“A gentleman at his club heard you both talking,” Gwen explained. “He thought you were boasting. He told Howard that I had orchestrated my own scandal.”
Eleanor closed her eyes briefly. “Men and their clubs.”
Arabella flushed. “We never meant to. We thought we were safe there. I am so sorry, Gwen.”
“It is done.” Gwen shrugged. “There is no sense in apologizing.”
“What did he do?” Eleanor asked.
Gwen hesitated. Her cheek seemed to burn under their gaze.
“He was angry,” she said softly. “He struck me. Then he locked me in my room and informed me that he would find me a husband. He has apparently succeeded. My future husband will call in two days to discuss the marriage. He intends for the wedding to take place before the month’s end.”
Arabella’s eyes filled with tears. “He hit you?” she whispered. “Gwen…”
Eleanor’s hand tightened on her fan. “I ought to strangle him with his own cravat.”
Gwen gave a small, brittle laugh. “I would quite like to see that.”
“This is not humorous,” Arabella protested.
“No,” Gwen agreed. “It is not.”
Eleanor’s tone turned practical. “You cannot marry the man he chooses. You must refuse.”
