“You have already tried,” Gwen said. “And you nearly ruined yourselves in the process. I will not drag you further into my disasters.”
“You would do the same for us,” Arabella protested.
“Yes,” Gwen said simply. “But that is my choice to make. I will not make it for you.” She looked between them, her heart overflowing with love and grief. “I cannot have Victor. I cannot save my mother. I cannot stop Howard. The only thing I can do is decide how much of myself I will sacrifice. I would rather give up my wishes than my friends.”
Eleanor’s eyes shone with unexpected tears. “You are braver than you think.”
“No.” Gwen shook her head. “I am cornered.” She took a steadying breath. “I will meet this suitor. I will smile and curtsy and nod. I will listen to whatever terms are laid before me. And I will pretend my heart is not breaking. That is what my mother did. It is what women learn to do.”
Arabella opened her mouth again to protest. But before she could, a familiar low voice spoke behind them.
“Lady Gwendoline,” Victor greeted. “Miss Barker. Miss Arabella.”
Gwen’s heart leapt into her throat, and she slowly turned around.
Victor stood only a few paces away, striking in black and white, his expression neutral, his eyes unreadable.
Her entire body went still. Whatever she had just told her friends about surrendering to fate, about doing as Howard wished, about letting go of impossible hopes, evaporated instantly.
Because hope had just walked into the room.
CHAPTER 26
Victor had not meant to seek her out.
At least, that was what he told himself as he moved through the crowded drawing room with polite nods and detached conversation.
He had done the rounds, exchanged pleasantries, answered questions about crops and Parliament and the price of grain. Not once had he allowed his gaze to flicker to the doorway where new arrivals appeared.
He knew exactly when Gwen entered. The air shifted. The room sharpened. A murmur rippled through the nearby cluster of matrons, as if some shift in the atmosphere had unsettled their fans.
He did not look.
Gwen had been standing with Arabella and Eleanor, speaking in a hushed tone. Her gown was a soft lavender that made her skin appear luminous beneath the candles. Her hair had been arranged with care, yet a few curls had already escaped, as if refusing to obey.
He greeted them with cool politeness, addressed the group, and then moved on. It would not do to appear besotted. People would notice. People always did.
Now, an hour later, he excused himself from an insipid discussion about racing and slipped toward the rear of the house.
The veranda doors stood open to the night. A few couples had already drifted out into the cool air, voices floating back with laughter and the soft clink of glasses.
The note had instructed him to meet her there.
Come to the veranda at half past ten. I must speak with you alone.
It was not her hand. The script had been neat, careful, not the more fluid lines he had begun to recognize from her letters and the few notes she had placed in his possession. Yet the message had been clear, and he had accepted it as real because he wanted it to be.
He had reached the corridor leading toward the veranda when he saw her.
Gwen moved ahead of him, alone, her shoulders slightly hunched, her hand curled around something white that she held close to her skirts—a folded letter. She had not seen him. Her steps were quick, furtive, as if she wished to avoid notice.
She did not turn toward the veranda doors. She turned left, down the quieter passage that led toward his private rooms.
Victor slowed. There was no reason for her to be in that wing.
The family wing was usually closed during gatherings. The servants knew to redirect lost guests. Yet she walked with certainty, not hesitation, as if she knew exactly where she meant to go.
Curiosity pricked. So did a warning.
