“As doyou,” he reminded her. “Consider this a lesson in partnership, and that you do not hold the only quill.”
She lifted her chin. “And what story did you hope they would repeat after this dance?”
“That I can lead without forcing.” His hand found hers for the turn. “That you are very much in demand. That the Duchess prefers you on her lawn. That you will leave at the proper hour.”
“At what hour?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
Victor bent his head as the final figure brought them close. The scent of her skin met the bright air and made something growl and then settle inside him.
“Midnight,” he said, very softly. “You will come to my house.”
The music ended with a polite flourish. He bowed. She curtsied. And then he dropped a small velvet pouch of coins into her hidden pocket.
The crowd emptied slowly from the set around them like water finding its level. He stepped back with the detachment that never failed him.
Her gaze followed him. He felt it between his shoulder blades like a hand. He did not turn. He did not need to. The hour had been set.
He walked to the edge of the lawn, where the yews offered shade. He did not look at the sun to measure how far it stood from the west. He knew the answer already.
CHAPTER 5
The clock in the upper corridor of Fenwick House had struck ten that evening when Gwen first heard the sound of raised voices. It came muffled through the closed door of her chamber, a deep bellow followed by a higher, pleading tone. She put aside her embroidery hoop, rose, and crossed the carpet in her stockinged feet until she could hear more clearly.
Howard was angry again. The pitch of his voice was unmistakable, that heavy drawl that swelled into thunder when he believed himself wronged.
“I am telling you, Cordelia, the man is not what he pretends to be. You think him an honorable duke, a paragon, but the clubs have stories. The Duke of Greystone is no better than a brute in a cravat.”
Gwen’s breath caught. She leaned closer to the door.
Cordelia’s soft voice tried to mend the air between them. “Howard, please. I do not care for gossip. You should not speak of a duke in that way.”
“I speak what every man in London knows,” Howard retorted. “He hides behind rules and numbers, but there is a temper beneath. A violent one. His father beat him to make him a perfect duke, and he learned the lesson. A temper like that does not disappear. It festers.”
“You do not know that,” Cordelia argued.
“I know what I am told by men whose company I value. At White’s, they say the boy once struck a footman hard enough to knock him cold. They say he will not marry because he fears what he might do to his wife. That is not a gentleman, Cordelia. That is a beast waiting for a reason to show its teeth.”
Gwen pressed her palm to the cool wood, steadying herself. Her stomach twisted with the memory of Howard’s hand rising in anger, of her mother flinching. She had seen beasts before. They did not always wear rags. Some wore rings.
Cordelia tried again. “If it is true, then it is tragic. A man shaped by cruelty deserves pity, not mockery.”
Howard’s voice lowered, edged with disdain. “Pity? For a man who beds every widow in London and calls it mathematics? Spare me your softness. You always had a taste for tragic men. I daresay it is why you married me.”
A brittle silence followed.
Gwen closed her eyes, wishing she could unhear the smirk behind those words.
Cordelia’s reply was small but steady. “You are cruel, Howard.”
“And you are a fool,” Howard hissed. “Do not let me hear you praise the Duke again. He will fall soon enough, mark my words. Men who feign virtue always do.”
Footsteps sounded, and a door opened somewhere down the corridor.
Gwen darted back to her chair and snatched up her embroidery, though her hands trembled too much to guide the needle. A moment later, her mother opened the door.
Cordelia’s face was pale beneath the delicate powder. “Were you listening?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” Gwen whispered. “Is any of it true?”
