“Yes,” he murmured. “I did.”
He had given her a piece of himself he did not offer lightly. She could feel it. It made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with the boy he had been.
“I am sorry,” she offered.
“You need not be,” he assured her. “I am well enough.”
“You are functional,” she corrected gently. “That is not the same thing.”
He almost smiled. “You have a talent for speaking unwelcome truths.”
“And you for building walls,” she returned.
The spell between them shifted. She felt it, like a draft from an open door. Time intruded again, tapping at the edges of the curtains.
“I should go,” she said reluctantly. “It must be very late.”
She began to push herself upright, slow and careful. The motion seemed to jar him. The arm around her dropped away as if he had been burnt.
“You are right.” The curtness of his tone cut through the softness like a knife. “You should go. It is late.”
She blinked, stung. “I did not mean that I wished to flee. Only that I must be sensible.”
“Sensibility is overdue,” he said, turning away and fussing with his cuff as if it required his whole attention. “We have already exceeded what is wise.”
Cold slid into the space where warmth had just been. Gwen heard it in his voice. She felt it in the way he refused to look at her.
“I see,” she mumbled.
“I will have the carriage brought round,” he continued, still to the empty air. “The footman will see you home through the back streets. There will be no difficulty.”
“No,” she said softly. “None at all.”
The disappointment in her voice surprised her. She drew herself up, spine straightening, pride scrambling to cover what her heart betrayed.
“This is an arrangement, Gwendoline,” Victor added, almost sharply. “Do not forget it.”
The words landed like a slap. She went very still.
“I have not,” she answered. “Thank you for the reminder, Your Grace.”
If he regretted it, he did not show it. He only inclined his head with cold politeness, as if they had discussed nothing more intimate than the weather.
She gathered her cloak with hands that wished to tremble but were not allowed to. She crossed the small room on unsteady legs, forcing each step to appear measured.
She paused at the threshold, a foolish part of her hoping that Victor would speak, that he would soften what he had just hardened.
He did not.
She opened the door and left him there with his fire and his ledgers and his walls. The latch clicked softly behind her.
As she walked toward the waiting carriage, the night air struck her heated skin like a rebuke. She pulled her cloak tighter around her, as much to hold herself together as to ward off the chill.
It was an arrangement. She had known that from the beginning.
Seven nights. Money. Escape.
And yet, foolish, treacherous thing that it was, her heart had hoped for something that could not be written in any ledger.
