“He is married now.” Roderick shrugged. “No more late nights in taverns, no more reckless wagers, no more opportunities to be a bad influence.”
“Do not let him fool you,” Victor said dryly. “He requires no assistance in that regard.”
Arabella laughed, her eyes shining. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace. Gwen has mentioned you often.”
“All falsehoods, I trust?” Roderick asked.
“On the contrary,” Arabella said. “She has described you as charming, irresponsible, and entirely incorrigible.”
He pressed a hand dramatically to his heart. “I am wounded. So much honesty.”
Eleanor watched the exchange with a cool, assessing gaze. Her lips curved just enough to be polite, but her posture remained stiff.
“And you must be Miss Eleanor Barker,” Roderick added. “The sensible one.”
“I do not know that I would claim the title,” Eleanor answered. “It is simply that I have had more practice frowning at my sister’s choices.”
Arabella poked her. “Rude.”
Roderick smiled faintly. “A family desperately in need of more chaos, I see. I should fit in nicely.”
Gwen suppressed a smile. Arabella already glowed under his attention, absorbing every word as if it were a compliment. Eleanor’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, catching the rake beneath the charm.
Gwen could practically sense Eleanor’s mind scheming to keep Arabella well out of Roderick’s orbit. It would be interesting to watch.
Dorothea cleared her throat. “You will all have time enough to argue over Wycliffe’s virtues or lack thereof in the coming months. For now, perhaps we should allow the bride and groom to escape.”
“Escape?” Gwen echoed. “We are not prisoners.”
“You are about to be trapped in a carriage together for hours,” Arabella said. “It is nearly the same thing.”
“Only if one of them snores,” Roderick chimed in.
“I do not snore,” Victor scoffed.
Gwen smiled up at him. “So you say.”
The others laughed. Cordelia’s eyes shone with pride and lingering sorrow. Dorothea looked oddly content, as if witnessing something she had not believed she would ever see.
For a moment, with her friends bickering and her mother smiling and Victor’s hand steady on her back, Gwen felt a sense of home that had nothing to do with walls or titles. It had to do withpeople.
She would build something new with them. Far from Howard. Far from fear.
Rosewood greeted them with open arms.
The drive wound through ancient trees, their branches laced overhead like a cathedral of green. The house itself rose beyond, all mellow stone and tall windows, beautiful without ostentation. It looked like something sturdy and enduring, built to withstand storms and seasons.
Gwen watched it from the carriage window, her hand tucked into Victor’s.
“This is yours now,” he said quietly. “Yours as much as it is mine.”
“It feels like stepping into a story,” she breathed. “One I never thought I would be allowed to read.”
“The story is yours to write,” he answered. “I will merely provide footnotes.”
She laughed, nerves fluttering beneath the sound.
Servants lined the steps as they alighted. Mrs. Hardwick, the housekeeper, curtsied deeply, her eyes kind. The butler bowed. Footmen moved with practiced efficiency. There were smiles, murmured welcomes, and genuine warmth.
