“Perfectly,” Gwen said, flicking her fan open and shut.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him!
Another couple drifted by, and the lady’s laugh rose like a lark. The sound struck something tender inside Gwen, thinning the air around her.
She needed the night air, the honest chill of it, the space where candlelight could not judge.
“I would like a glass of ratafia,” she declared smoothly, and boldly took a step away from them.
“You will not drink,” Howard muttered, pinning her to the spot.
“Morerules? Am I even allowed to breathe on my own?” She hissed under her breath.
But her stepfather continued without a hitch. “Sweet wines loosen foolish tongues.”
His fingers found her other elbow, a reminder of the cruel pastoral: a shepherd’s crook nudging an errant lamb.
Her mother flinched. “Howard, darling,please,” she whispered. “If Gwen would like a refreshment. My dear…”
Gwen turned her head, catching her mother’s eye for the barest second.I’m all right, she tried to say with the tilt of her chin, the shadow of a smile.Don’t provoke him.
Last year, the rumors had spread about her so quickly. Invitations had dwindled. Prospects had withered. Her value on the marriage mart had dropped precipitously. Which meant, for now, Howard would keep her under his roof instead of marrying her off to some grim-jawed stranger who might carry her mother’s bruises into another house.
“She will stand here,” he said, positioning both women at the edge of the floor as if they were pieces of furniture to ornament the wall. “And be grateful for her mask. Without it, we’ll all be ruined and shunned from Society.”
Gwen smiled up at him because doing otherwise would invite punishment she could not bear to watch her mother endure. “I am always grateful for what you provide, My Lord.”
Howard’s eyes narrowed on her. He enjoyed insolence only when he was the one who dealt it. “We will discuss your gratitude at home.”
Gwen inclined her head. Inside, her pulse drummed a stubborn rhythm against her stays.
I will not break here. Not for him. Not tonight.
She drew a breath perfumed with beeswax and roses, and tried to imagine the night air beyond the terrace: cold, clean, and unowned.
Cordelia’s breath hitched. “Why not go look at the conservatory? The orchids are in bloom.”
“I do not care for flowers,” Howard grunted, which was her mother’s cue to also remain behind.
“She wasn’t asking you,” Gwen murmured, folding her fan furiously.
She dipped into a curtsy and slipped away as the orchestra struck the opening of a waltz, the crowd folding and unfolding in silken waves. She did not run, as running would invite questions.
“My love…” Her mother reached for her, catching her arm before she reached the terrace.
Gwen turned.
“Please, darling,pleaseforgive him.”
Gwen took her mother’s hands in her own. They were cold. “No,” she whispered fiercely, though her voice was tender as she tucked a stray curl beneath Cordelia’s mask. “I’m so tired of this.”
Tears shimmered in her mother’s eyes. “Helovesus,” she insisted, the contradiction tearing furiously at the words. “He… does not know how to behave otherwise, but he does so out oflove.”
“Then he canlearntoloveus right without pain,” Gwen countered.
Or he can be made to stop.
The thought came cool and ruthless as a blade slid into its sheath. She had done what she could with whispered inventions and careful errors. But words like this did not bruise men who had never been expected to answer to anyone.
