“Then you will not mind if I see it?”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t.”
He reached for the letter.
She turned away, clutching it behind her back like contraband. “Your Grace, I beg you, leave it be.”
The fear in her voice gave him pause. Not fear of him, but fear of exposure.
“What were you truly doing here?” he asked. “And why did you send me a note to meet you on the veranda if you meant to sneak into my study instead?”
Her eyebrows knitted together. “I did not send you any note.”
He went still. “You did not?”
“No. I wrote no such thing.”
His mind ticked rapidly. Someone had wanted him on the veranda. Someone had wanted her out of sight. Someone had moved pieces on a board he had only begun to understand.
“We will return to that,” he said. “For now, explain what you meant by saying that this will be the last time we see each other.”
Gwen looked as if she might break. Then she drew herself up, pride stiffening her shoulders.
“Howard has found a suitor for me,” she began calmly. Far too calmly. “He will visit to discuss the match. I am to be married before the month’s end.”
The words slammed into him, harder than any blow.
He had known there would be a suitor. He had known Howard would press. But hearing it confirmed still felt like standing on the edge of a cliff and feeling the ground behind him give way.
“I see,” he said slowly.
“So you can understand,” she continued, “why we must not speak privately again. Coming here tonight was a mistake. I know that. I needed to tell you something, but I have lost my courage. It changes nothing. Our agreement is over. It was over even before the seven nights were finished, whether either of us wished it or not.”
“We still have one night,” he reminded her.
She laughed again, the sound bitter and soft. “You make it sound like a debt on a ledger. I do not want that night. I will not come to you again. I cannot leave my mother. I cannot risk Howard’s rage. I cannot entangle myself deeper with a man who already regrets ever touching me.”
He took a step toward her. “Do not tell me what I regret.”
She stepped back. “You do. You told me yourself that you must draw a line. That you would not become your father. That you would not allow this to continue.”
Her hand moved as she spoke, and the letter slipped, its corner catching on the edge of the desk. Victor reached for it at the same time she did.
They collided.
His hand closed on the paper.
Her fingers closed on his wrist.
Her slipper caught on the edge of the carpet.
Balance fled.
For one breathless second, they teetered, a tangle of limbs and startled exclamations. Then they went down together.
Victor landed on his back with a sharp grunt, the rug mercifully thick beneath him. Gwen fell forward, her hands braced against his chest, her skirts spilling around them like a lavender cloud. The letter remained crushed between their bodies.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
