No one here had ever seen Howard sneer at her. No one had ever seen her flinch.
For the first time, she entered a house not as a guest, not as a burden, but as its mistress.
They toured the main rooms briefly. The grand hall. The library, which made her heart leap. The music room, where she paused, her fingers brushing the polished edge of the pianoforte.
“We will come back,” Victor said softly. “I have plans for you and that instrument.”
Color rose in her cheeks at the memory of his hands over hers on the keys, the way music and touch had intertwined.
By the time Mrs. Hardwick left them at the door to the master suite, Gwen’s nerves had returned in earnest.
The bedchamber was large and airy, with tall windows and heavy curtains, a grand bed dressed in crisp linen, and a hearth already lit to chase away the evening chill. Someone had placed a bowl of roses on the table, their scent soft and sweet.
The door closed behind them with a quiet click.
Silence fell.
Gwen stood in the middle of the room, suddenly very aware of the weight of her gown, the tightness of her stays, the rapid beat of her heart.
Victor watched her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then his mouth curved.
“Well,” he said, “it seems we are going to have our seventh night, after all.”
Her lips parted. “You are counting.”
“I have been counting since the moment you barged into my study with your ridiculous threats,” he drawled. “We owe one more to the ledger.”
She found herself smiling despite her nerves. “I thought you had decided ledgers were a poor comparison to me.”
“True,” he acknowledged. “You are far more troublesome than a series of numbers. Far more likely to keep me awake at night.” He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “Fortunately, I no longer have to pretend I dislike being awake because of you.”
She swallowed. “We will have more than seven nights now.”
His gaze softened. “Yes. Every night. For as long as you will allow me.”
Emotion rose so abruptly that it stung her eyes. “You are stuck with me, Greystone. I am terribly opinionated. I cry at sentimental books. I will fill your house with music and your study with interruptions.”
He reached up and brushed a stray curl from her cheek, his touch tender. “I look forward to every vexing minute.”
Her breath hitched.
He lifted her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist the same slow, reverent way he always had.
“Are you frightened?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” she whispered. “And no. Not of you.”
“Of what, then?” he murmured.
“Of how much I want this,” she said. “Of how much I feel. It makes everything seem fragile.”
He gave a crooked smile. “I am frightened, too. We will be fragile together and see if that does not make us stronger.”
His fingers moved to the fastenings of her gown. Then he paused, giving her time to step away if she wished.
She did not.
“May I?” he asked.
