She stared. “Youwhat?”
“I instructed the driver to stop at my signal,” he explained. “I caught up to you at the last coaching inn before the outskirts of town. I have been riding behind you since then.”
Outrage and reluctant gratitude warred within her. “You followed me!”
“Yes,” he said bluntly.
“You are insufferable,” she muttered.
“Likely.” He shrugged. “But I am also correct. You should not be traveling like this, and you know it.”
Gwen pressed herself against the seat, trying to still the tremors in her hands. She had imagined many obstacles—highwaymen, broken wheels, Howard. She had not imagined Victor climbing into her carriage like the personification of every inconvenient truth.
“This is my life,” she protested. “Not a section of your accounts to be balanced. You cannot simply appear and reorder it to your liking.”
“I am not attempting to reorder it,” he said. “I am attempting to prevent you from coming to harm.”
“Why?” she demanded.
The question hung between them as the carriage trundled on through the dark.
Victor did not answer at once.
For one wild moment, Gwen wished that he would lie. That he would say something soothing and false about affection, about admiration, about love. Anything to soften the sharp edges of his presence.
Instead, he said, “Because I have not yet fulfilled your request.”
For a heartbeat, she did not understand.
“My request,” she repeated.
“The one you made when you came to my study,” he clarified. “When you threatened me. You asked for money. You asked for my help. I agreed to provide it in a very specific form. Seven nights. Seven opportunities to understand why you wish to flee. I have not yet fulfilled that request.”
Gwen gaped at him. “You cannot possibly mean that you have chased down my carriage in the middle of the night because you feel morally obliged to keep your end of a sordid deal.”
“I can, and I do,” he said. “I keep my word, no matter how ill-advised.”
“You told me yourself that I could not ruin you,” she reminded him. “That even if I shouted your secrets from the rooftops, no one would believe me. You are safe, Your Grace. Your reputation is armored. You owe me nothing.”
His jaw ticked. “You forget that reputations are built over years, not mere nights. Even dukes are not invulnerable.”
“You do not fear me,” she said. “We both know that.”
“No,” he agreed. “I do not fear you. I fear what might befall you while you cling to your pride.”
“Do not call it pride,” she said. “Call it survival. I am trying to live in a way that does not depend on the whims of men like you and Howard.”
He looked at her steadily. “And yet you came to me.”
“In desperation,” she emphasized. “And now I regret it.”
“Do you?” he asked quietly.
Her throat closed. “Yes.”
He regarded her for a long moment, as if weighing the lie and finding it wanting. “Regardless, you cannot pretend that my involvement in your affairs is arbitrary.”
“I can, and I do,” she replied, using his words. “You chose to overhear my conversation. You chose to intercept my carriage. None of that was required of you.”
