She should have felt nothing but relief. Instead, unease threaded through the triumph.
The road stretched long and dark. The hour was later than was quite respectable. The driver seemed competent, but she had no chaperone, no maid, no one at all.
Victor would scold her, she thought irritably, then immediately scolded herself for thinking of him at all.
The wheels hit a rut. The carriage jolted. Then, suddenly, it lurched to a halt.
Gwen’s stomach dropped. She caught the strap. “What is it?” she called. “Why have we stopped?”
There was a murmur of male voices outside. Then the door opened. A figure climbed in, broad-shouldered, filling the small space with the cold night air and a familiar scent that made her heart flutter.
Victor.
He settled into the seat opposite, as if they had arranged to meet there and at that hour. The door shut behind him with an efficient click, and the carriage jolted back into motion.
For a moment, Gwen could only stare at him.
“Your Grace,” she forced out, her voice thin and incredulous. “What are you doing?”
“You are a fool,” he grunted.
It stung, mostly because fear still fizzed under her skin.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is nearly midnight,” he said. “You are a gently bred lady traveling alone in a hired carriage on a half-deserted road, with no maid, no companion, no protection beyond a driver who would likely sell your whereabouts for an extra crown. Forgive me if I find that tragically idiotic.”
Her temper flared, swift and hot. “You had no right to interfere! This is none of your concern!”
“On the contrary,” he replied. “It is entirely my concern.”
“How dare you?—”
“Did you truly think I would sit comfortably in my house, knowing you had slipped out into the night like this, and do nothing?”
“Yes,” she hissed. “That is precisely what I thought. You made your position very clear. Our arrangement was business, nothing more.”
His jaw tensed. “A man may revise his calculations when the figures change.”
“Do not dress this in numbers,” she snapped. “You do not own me. You do not decide where I go or when I travel.”
He looked at her, his eyes dark in the dim light. “You are right; I do not own you. But I am the only gentleman who knows where you are at this moment. That places certain obligations on me.”
She laughed, the sound short and bitter. “Obligations. You cannot keep rewriting your motives to suit yourself. First curiosity. Then business. Now duty. Which is it, Your Grace?”
He held her gaze. “At present, it is fury that you would risk yourself so carelessly.”
“Carelessly,” she huffed. “I brought enough money for the journey. I hired a reputable carriage. I chose a route at a time when the roads were still traveled. I?—”
“You left your mother without a word,” he interrupted. “You left your friends to face the consequences. You put your fate in the hands of men you do not know. That is carelessness.”
“Do not dare speak of my mother,” Gwen said, her voice low and fierce. “She made her choice. I am making mine.”
“And your choice may cost you more than you think,” he retorted.
She glared at him, her heart hammering. “You have no authority over me. You had no right to stop this carriage.”
“I purchased the right when I bought the seats,” he said.
