Not much. Perhaps enough for one person.
She had planned to divide it between two.
Her throat tightened. “I am sorry, Mama,” she whispered.
She picked up the pouch of coins and held it, feeling the weight press into her palm. A different name came to mind then, unbidden and unwelcome.
Victor.
Of all the directions her thoughts might have taken, they circled back to him like birds to a roof that did not want them.
He had money. He had knowledge. He had carriages that could travel by night without being detected. He had already stepped into this escape, whether he liked it or not.
He had also made it abundantly clear that whatever lay between them was bounded by terms.
Seven nights. Money. Nothing more.
The idea of going to him again, of asking for more help, made her stomach twist with equal parts dread and longing. To see himagain after what they had shared and how he had ended it, to stand before him with her heart still raw and pretend that it had been nothing but business…
Heat crawled up her neck. She could still feel his hands on her, the way he had watched her as she broke apart. For one unguarded moment, she had felt cherished.
She had mistaken skill and curiosity for care. That was her fault, not his.
“It does not matter,” she said aloud, as if the words would make it true. “None of it matters.”
What mattered was that she could not stay. If her mother did not come, she would have to leave alone.
If Victor could help, she would use him. If he could not, she would manage without him. Her heart would simply have to learn its lesson.
Seven nights. Then nothing.
She wrapped her arms around herself and sat back on her heels, the little pouch of money clutched hard in one hand, the ghost of his touch clinging stubbornly to the other.
“I will leave,” she whispered to the dark. “With or without any of you. I will not let any man dictate my life.”
The words did not bring comfort; they brought resolve.
It would have to be enough.
CHAPTER 16
The chandeliers of Lady Harrowden’s ballroom glimmered, yet Gwen felt none of their brightness.
The room was full of color, music, and laughter, but for all its lavishness, it felt oddly shallow to her. Her friends flanked her, Arabella adjusting the fall of her pink silk sleeves while Eleanor surveyed the room with cool, analytical precision.
“You look faint,” Arabella whispered, fanning her lightly. “Are you ill?”
“No,” Gwen replied, though the tightness in her throat said otherwise. “It is only warm.”
“It is not warm,” Eleanor stated dryly. “You are anxious.”
Before Gwen could reply, Arabella tugged at her arm. “Do not turn around,” she whispered. “The Duke of Greystone is here.”
A faint tremor passed through Gwen. She stared straight ahead, forcing her breath to stay even. Her fingers curled around her fan until the sticks creaked.
“He is watching you,” Arabella added.
“Do not tell me that,” Gwen murmured.
