To any observer, they were three young ladies enjoying gossip. Only they knew that each glance at the clock, each glance at the staircase, was another step toward a different life.
At exactly half past nine, as the orchestra finished a quadrille and couples shifted into new formations, Gwen pressed a hand delicately to her temple.
Arabella’s eyes widened with theatrical alarm. She turned, took two quick steps back, and collided artfully with a footman bearing a tray of glasses. The resulting clatter of crystal and startled exclamations drew every eye within ten yards.
“Oh heavens!” Arabella cried.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Eleanor scoffed. “You are the clumsiest creature alive!”
Ladies fussed. Gentlemen laughed. The hostess fluttered. Servants descended upon the scattered glass.
In the midst of it all, Gwen slipped a hand to her forehead and murmured to the nearest matron, “I feel quite faint. Might I retire upstairs for a few moments’ quiet?”
“Of course, my dear,” the lady said at once. “You poor thing. All this excitement is too much. Someone fetch a maid. Show Lady Gwendoline to the withdrawing room.”
A maid appeared, bobbing a curtsy. “If you please, My Lady.”
Gwen cast a quick glance around the chandeliered room. She felt a certain gaze on her, though she did not look for it.
Then she turned and followed the maid up the stairs, her heart pounding, her mind already rehearsing the apology she would give and the farewell she would force herself to speak.
She would go to him.
She would end it.
And then she would run.
The fire in the lodge had burned down to a steady, civilized glow, but Victor felt anything but civilized.
He stood near the window, one hand braced against the sill, watching the night press close against the glass. Beyond the dark line of trees, the road lay like a ribbon of shadow, waiting.
She will come.
He had told himself that fourteen times already.
She will come, because she always meets her obligations. She will come, because she is too proud to flee without taking her leave. She will come, because a part of her knows that leaving me entirely ignorant of her intentions would be unkind.
Even as he thought it, he wondered if the last argument had any truth to it at all.
He had not meant to overhear her.
He had followed her into that shadowed corridor only because he had been unable to bear the sight of her moving around the ballroom with deliberate care, her chin high, her smiles perfectly measured.
He had wanted to speak to her. To feel her flinch or flush or do anything that proved the night at the lodge had not erased itself from her veins.
It had not. He knew that now. He had heard it in her voice when she spoke with her friends.
“I must go alone.”
“He means to send me to St. Agatha’s in less than three weeks.”
“I will work. I will earn my own living.”
Her words had struck him with unpleasant force.
She had saved money. Counted coins in the privacy of her room like a thief planning a robbery. All the while, he had been moving her across the board of his own convenience, tallying coin and evenings, never thinking to ask what her endgame truly was.
He knew now.
