When the carriage drew up beside the lodge that night, the sky above was starless and thick, as if even the heavens wished to keep quiet.
Victor stepped out first, then turned to offer Gwen his hand.
“You are safe here,” he assured her. “No one passes through this road unless they have business with me, and I have business with no one tonight but you.”
She took his hand, her gloved fingers small and cool in his grasp. The hood of her cloak shadowed her face, but he knew its lines well enough now to read the tension in the set of her chin.
“Your confidence is impressive,” she allowed. “I wish I had it.”
“You may borrow mine for the evening,” he said.
Her mouth twitched. “I am not certain it suits me.”
They entered the lodge. A servant had gone ahead to stoke a fire and lay out a light supper, then left as instructed.
The drawing room glowed with the warmth of a modest hearth. A decanter of wine waited on a sideboard beside plates of bread,cheese, and dried fruit. A lamp cast a soft circle of light over a low table and a pair of armchairs, inviting without ostentation.
Gwen’s gaze swept the room. Victor saw at once the calculation in her eyes, the way she noted the doors, the distance to the windows, the absence of a third person.
This was a woman who had learned to count exits.
“You come here often?” she asked.
“Not as often as I can,” he replied. “The city is greedy for time.”
“It is greedy for everything,” she murmured.
He poured wine into two glasses. “Sit. You look as if you have spent the entire day in battle.”
“I was ready to speak with my mother, but Howard was home,” she said, taking the proffered glass and sinking into an armchair. “That in itself is a battle.”
“And?” he prompted.
“And we obviously didn’t get to talk as I intended, but she loves him,” Gwen replied. “She is afraid, but she loves him.”
“She’s hoping for a miracle,” Victor noted.
“She’s hoping he would remain the man she married,” Gwen scoffed. “Not the one he has become.”
Victor watched the way she held her glass. She did not drink at once. She turned it slowly between her fingers, as if the movement might conjure courage.
“You believe in that?” he asked. “In marrying for love?”
“Yes,” she replied, looking up at him. “I do.”
He sat opposite her. “Love is a poor protection.”
“Against what?” she asked.
“Against everything that actually matters,” he said. “Inheritance. Stability. A woman may starve quite handsomely for love.”
Her eyes flashed. “That is a remarkably cold sentiment, even for you.”
“It is simply accurate,” he countered. “My parents’ marriage was arranged. They shared no affection that I ever observed. They were courteous. They fulfilled their duties. The estate prospered. Their tenants did not freeze to death. I call that success.”
“Your mother never wanted more?” she asked. “Your father never did?”
“My father wanted obedience,” he explained. “My mother wanted peace. They obtained what they valued.”
