Cordelia hesitated. “Rumors often have a kernel of truth, my darling. But they are still rumors. Do not trouble yourself with them.”
“I cannot help it,” Gwen said. “He spoke as if he knew.”
“Your stepfather believes he knows everything. It is his favorite illusion.” Cordelia reached out and smoothed Gwen’s hair with a trembling hand. “You must sleep. Tomorrow will be brighter.”
When she left, Gwen remained sitting in the stillness.
The embers in the grate sighed. The house had settled into its uneasy quiet, the kind that came only after the storm of Howard’s temper. She could not shake the echo of his words.
A beast hiding behind civility. A temper bred into bone.
Seven nights, the Duke had demanded. What had she agreed to?
She stood up and crossed to the window. The fog had lifted from the street below, and the lamps glowed like distant embers in a hearth she could never reach.
Somewhere out there, the Duke of Greystone was reading, or writing, or perhaps drinking his late wine with perfect composure. She tried to imagine that same man losing control, rage flashing in his cool green eyes, his hand raised in fury. But the picture would not form.
Still, Howard’s voice lingered.
“A beast waiting for a reason to show its teeth.”
Gwen touched the glass. “I will see for myself,” she whispered. “Whatever he is, I will see it with my own eyes.”
She turned away from the window and went to get ready.
The night air clung like damp silk as Gwen stood before the front steps of Greystone House. Her heart did a nervous flutter, light and insistent as a trapped bird. She pulled the hood of her cloak higher, hiding her face from any passersby.
“Foolish, reckless girl,” she muttered, then drew a steadying breath. “No one will see you. No one must.”
She hesitated before the great door, her gloved hand poised in the air. It seemed that even the lion-headed knocker was amused by her cowardice.
Courage, Gwendoline. You have already done the wicked thing. Knocking will not damn you further.
The clock at a neighboring church struck once, twice, and on the third chime for the midnight bells, she struck the large knocker.
The sound rolled into the house like thunder wrapped in velvet.
Moments later, the door opened. The same butler regarded her without curiosity. “Good evening, Madam.”
“I am expected,” she announced, her voice quieter than she wished.
“Indeed.” He inclined his head and stepped aside.
She stepped into a hall warmed by lamplight and the faint scent of smoke and spice. Her pulse slowed to a steady rhythm, though her palms were still clammy. The butler led her down the familiar corridor to the study and opened the door.
The Duke was waiting, not behind his desk this time, but beside a small table laid with silver and crystal. A pair of candles burned low, their flames bending toward one another. There were plates of sugared fruits, slices of cheese, and a decanter of dark red wine that caught the light like a wound.
“Lady Gwendoline,” he greeted, as if this were a polite morning call. “Youarepunctual. That’s good.”
She curtsied, fighting the absurd impulse to apologize for it. “You said midnight.”
“Did I?” He smiled slightly. “Then I am pleased to see that obedience is one of your virtues.”
“I am not obedient, Your Grace. I am efficient and punctual.”
“Efficiency is a fine disguise for obedience,” he said, pouring the wine. “Pray, sit.”
She removed her cloak, laid it over the arm of a chair, and took the seat opposite him. The candlelight touched her face, and she saw his gaze follow its path.
