“Gwendoline,” he called.
She paused, half-turning.
“If you insist on ending this,” he said, keeping his tone even, “then so be it. But running will put you in danger.”
Her eyes flashed. “You know nothing of it.”
“I know enough,” he insisted. “Enough to see that you mean to vanish like a heroine in some romance novel, without considering that the world does not bend for courage. Itbreaksit.”
“I would rather risk breaking than remain here,” she said stubbornly.
He believed her.
She opened the door. “You have made your opinion clear. I will still go.”
She walked out into the night, her cloak swirling around her. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone with the fire and the echo of her defiance.
Victor stood very still. He had wounded her pride, and she had wounded his.
That was the superficial account. Beneath it, something deeper tugged.
If he did nothing, she would attempt her escape. She might succeed, she might not. A thousand small threats lurked between London and Cheltenham. A hundred ways for a woman to disappear.
He realized, with a clarity that settled cold and hard in his chest, that he could not allow it.
He did not know yet what he would do. He knew only that he would not watch her walk into danger and then comfort himself with the lie that it was none of his business.
Whatever they were or were not to each other, whatever terms they had set and broken, she had become more than an obligation on a page.
And he was not finished with her yet.
CHAPTER 18
By the time Gwen reached her bedchamber, she was too tired to be properly angry and too angry to be properly tired.
Her head hurt. Her heart throbbed in an odd, hollow way, as if some important piece had been knocked out of place and could not be set right again.
She gently shut the door behind her and leaned against it, staring at the familiar shapes in the dimness. The narrow bed. The little writing desk under the window. The chest that held her few treasures. Everything looked exactly as it always had.
She did not.
Her gown still carried the faint scent of the lodge, of woodsmoke and Victor’s cologne. The memory of his hands on her skin burned beneath her stays. The memory of his voice, cold andeven as he reminded her that their arrangement was nothing more than business, pressed like a bruise against her ribs.
“Fool,” she muttered to herself. “Absolute fool.”
She took off her gloves, then crossed to the desk and lit the candle with unsteady fingers. The small flame sprang up, casting light over the worn surface.
A sheet of paper lay waiting. She had set it there that morning, before the ball, when plans had felt sharply theoretical rather than desperately necessary.
Now, there was no room for hesitation.
She sat, smoothed the paper, dipped her quill, and began writing.
My dearest Cousin Edith,
Forgive the nature of this letter and the urgency with which it must arrive. I write with urgency, which I will not fully explain, as I do not wish to burden you with more than necessary.
Circumstances at Fenwick House have become untenable, and I recall your kind offer that I might visit your home in Cheltenham. So, I dare to hope that your kindness might extend a little further.
