She shook her head. “That is not marriage. That is a contract of survival.”
“What is marriage, then?” he asked, curious despite himself.
“Trust,” she said at once. “That is the first thing. To know that when the door closes at night, the man standing in the room will never raise his hand or his voice to hurt you. That his temper will not be the weather you must live under.”
Victor sensed the shadow of her stepfather in every word.
“And the second thing?” he asked.
“Love,” she replied. “Not the kind in novels, perhaps. Not all swooning and poetry. But the kind my mother had with my father. She told me once that when he entered a room, she felt as if there were more air in it, not less. That is what I would want, if anyone ever came near enough.”
“You sound very sure for a woman who has never been married,” Victor remarked.
“You sound very sure for a man who has never been in love,” she shot back.
He arched an eyebrow. “You assume much.”
“So do you,” she pointed out. “You speak as if hearts may be managed like leases.”
“They can,” he said. “If one is disciplined.”
“That is not discipline. That is fear dressed in fine language,” she retorted.
The words struck closer than she could know. His irritation spiked.
He leaned back, studying her. “You speak like a child of fairytales,” he said. “You have seen what happens when love turns a blind eye to reality. Your mother chose affection the first time and security the second time. She chose wrongly the second time, not because she lacked love, but because she misjudged the man’s character. That is not a failure of the institution. It is a failure of her judgment.”
Gwen bristled. “Do not blame her.”
“I do not blame,” he said. “I observe. If she had treated the second match as a transaction, evaluated it with the same clarity she applied to the first, she might have seen the cracks before she stepped on them.”
“You mean she should have married a man she did not love because the figures looked neat?” she demanded.
“Yes.” He nodded. “If the result spared her your stepfather’s temper, I would call it a great bargain.”
She rose from her chair, temper flaring. “You reduce everything to numbers and treaties. People are not ledgers, Your Grace.”
“They are,” he said quietly. “They simply dislike hearing it.”
“And you,” she hissed, “you would marry a woman you did not love simply because her dowry or her land satisfied your calculations.”
“I have no intention of marrying,” he declared plainly.
“That is monstrous,” she whispered.
“You speak of love as if it were a shield. I have seen it used as a weapon more often than not.”
They faced one another, the room suddenly feeling too small, the fire too hot for comfort. Gwen’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes blazing with anger and something sharper.
“You are wrong,” she insisted.
“You are naïve,” he countered.
The words hung between them like drawn swords.
For a long moment, neither moved. The fire crackled in the grate, throwing restless light across the worn carpet and the straight line of Victor’s shoulders.
Gwen’s chest rose and fell quickly. He could see her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, delicate and furious.
