She meant to disappear.
Not into a convent either, but into some distant cousin’s house in Cheltenham, where she would turn herself into an employee. Where she would work for her bread and forget him.
He ought to be relieved. She would be beyond Howard’s reach. Beyond scandal’s reach. Beyond his own reach.
But the thought niggled at him.
He had sent that note with more haste than was wise. It had gone out with a footman who owed him too much to question his instructions. Now, he waited in the hunting lodge, ringed by quiet, his mind racing too fast for comfort.
She might not come. She had every reason not to. Her words still echoed in his head.
“There is no future for us.”
He had wanted to disagree.
A sound outside pulled him out of his thoughts. Hoofbeats. The soft jingle of the harness. The crunch of wheels on gravel. He straightened, every nerve suddenly alert.
A moment later, a knock sounded at the door. Not the sharp rap of a servant, but a gentler tap.
He crossed the room and opened it.
She stood on the threshold, her cloak pulled tight around her, her cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion. A few strands of hair had escaped her coiffure, curling at her temples. Her eyes were bright, but not with joy.
“Your Grace,” she murmured.
“Gwendoline,” he answered.
For a single heartbeat, neither moved.
Snow drifted past them, cool against his face. The sight of her in the doorway made something inside him settle and then tense all at once.
“Come in,” he said at last.
She stepped inside. He shut the door behind her, and the lodge closed around them, warm and quiet and too full of everything that had happened in it.
He studied her with the eyes of a man who had spent the day trying not to picture her. She had come straight from the ball; the pale blue silk of her gown gleamed beneath her cloak. Small diamonds glittered at her ears. Evening gloves still covered her hands, although they were a little wrinkled now.
“You were quick,” he noted. “I was not certain you’d come.”
“I considered ignoring your note,” she admitted.
He did not flinch. “And yet you are here.”
Her lips curled into a mirthless smile. “And yet I am here. Though I do not have a lot of time.”
He gestured toward the hearth. “Sit. You are cold.”
“I had no time to fetch a warmer cloak,” she said, but she went to the chaise near the fire and sank down, arranging her skirts with careful grace.
Victor watched her for a moment longer before taking the chair opposite. The small table between them held a decanter and two glasses. He poured wine, more from the need to keep his hands busy than the need to drink, and held one out.
She accepted it, though she did not raise it to her lips.
“How did you escape in the middle of the ball?” he asked. “I doubt your stepfather is the sort of man who misses anything.”
A shadow of genuine amusement crossed her face. “Arabella fell into a footman.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
