Gwen’s hand. He recognized the shape of the letters even through the creases.
The letter she had tried to hide in his desk.
The letter she had begged him not to read in her presence.
His heart sped up as he smoothed it carefully between his fingers. Her words waited there, pressed into the page.
And then he began to read.
CHAPTER 29
Fenwick House looked smaller in daylight.
Victor studied the frontage as his carriage drew up, the pale stone, the stiff line of hedges, the narrow windows. It had an air of pretension without grandeur, a house determined to look important and not quite succeeding.
He stepped down when the footman opened the door. His gloves felt too tight. The morning felt too bright. The ring in his breast pocket carried the weight of an entire future.
He had not slept.
After reading Gwen’s letter, sleep had been impossible.
Her words had moved across the page in that clear, decisive hand he had come to know. Her confession had not been frivolous, nor girlish, nor coy. It had been simple, honest, and utterly devastating.
I love you.
He had read the phrase more times than he cared to admit. He had traced the inked words with his thumb, as if he could somehow feel the warmth of her hand in the strokes.
He loved her, too.
He had said as much in his mind. Saying it aloud now would be the more difficult task.
The butler admitted him with forced dignity, bowing as if his jaw did not show a faint bruise that echoed Howard’s own.
“His Lordship awaits you in the study, Your Grace,” he said.
Victor inclined his head. “Thank you.”
He moved down the corridor, each step measured. He had spent years walking into negotiations with less tension than he felt now.
Howard Tull rose when he entered the study. His jaw had taken on an ugly color. His smile was thin and entirely insincere.
“Your Grace,” he greeted. “I will admit I did not sleep well, waiting to see what excuse you might offer this morning.”
“I did not come to offer excuses,” Victor gritted out. “I came to state my intentions. Lady Gwendoline should be present for this.”
Howard’s gaze sharpened. “That will not be necessary. You may speak to me. I am her stepfather.”
Victor did not sit. “I will not speak without the presence of the lady in question. She is not a piece of furniture to be bartered.”
Howard’s lips thinned. For a moment, Victor thought he would refuse. But then Howard reached for the bell pull and tugged.
A maid appeared, nervous, wringing her hands in her apron.
“Fetch Lady Gwendoline,” Howard ordered. “Tell her to come to the study at once.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and scurried away.
Victor took a slow breath. The room smelled of ink, tobacco, and something sour he could not name.
