“Of course, Your Grace.” She rose and curtsied.
Dorothea rose as well, all graciousness and charm. “We shall speak later, Victor.”
Victor inclined his head to both ladies, then left the room with measured strides.
At the top of the stairs, he paused, closing his eyes briefly. He disliked causing discomfort, but he disliked being ambushed far more.
His mother’s matchmaking schemes were nothing new. She feared he would end up alone. She feared the legacy of anger his father had left like a stain on the estate.
He exhaled slowly. He had other matters to attend to. Matters he understood far better than courtship engineered in drawing rooms.
His thoughts, as unwelcome as they were persistent, drifted back to the previous night. A blindfold. A warm breath. A woman whose fear and resolve were woven together like threads he had yet to unravel.
He clenched his jaw and grabbed his hat and gloves before stomping out of his house.
This bloody day cannot end soon enough.
Gwen stood stiffly in the doorway of the morning room, her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles blanched beneath her gloves.
She had made a quick visit to the modiste to put in another glove order and returned not moments ago. Yet, when Martha told her that Howard wished to see her, she had come at once.
One did not keep Lord Fenwick waiting, no matter how her stomach twisted at the notion.
Howard sat at the head of the table, a ledger open before him. He did not acknowledge her for a long moment. He enjoyed silence as a stage, and he was its only actor.
Cordelia sat to his left, her eyes downcast, her embroidery trembling faintly in her hands.
“Gwendoline,” Howard said at last.
Gwen curtsied. “My Lord.”
“You attended the Duchess of Bellweather’s garden party yesterday.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
He shut the ledger with a snap. “A waste of an afternoon.”
Cordelia looked up at once. “Howard, please. It was a private invitation. The Duchess herself extended it. Surely that must mean something.”
“It means the Duchess wishes to parade her charity,” Howard spat. “Gwendoline’s presence gives her an excuse to feel magnanimous.”
Gwen lifted her chin. “Your Lordship is mistaken. I was treated with?—”
“With what?” Howard interrupted. “Civility? Pity masquerading as courtesy? Do not delude yourself.”
Her mother flinched. “Howard, she did nothing wrong.”
“You never believe she does, Cordelia,” Howard snapped. “Perhaps if you were less indulgent, she would show you greater respect.”
Gwen stepped forward before she could stop herself. “My mother has never lacked respect. It isyouwho?—”
“Enough,” Howard barked.
Cordelia gasped, the handkerchief slipping from her fingers.
Howard rose slowly, his displeasure moving through his limbs like a storm beginning to break.
Gwen braced herself, instinctively placing one foot slightly behind the other to steady her stance. She hated that she knew this posture. Hated that she had learned it in her own home.
