“No.”
“You will go to Cheltenham, whether I approve or not.”
“Yes.”
He exhaled, long and slow. “Then I will escort you there.”
Her mouth fell open. “You will what?”
“I will not persuade you to return,” he said. “And I refuse to leave you to the mercy of hired drivers and random travelers. If you insist on this course, I will at least make sure you arrivewith your reputation as intact as circumstances allow and your person unharmed.”
“That is absurd!” she protested. “You cannot accompany me. What would people say?”
“That I went to inspect a property in Gloucestershire,” he said smoothly. “I have enough land there to make such a trip plausible. My servants will ask no questions. Your cousin will be grateful that you did not undertake the journey alone.”
“You assume she will not think the worst,” Gwen huffed.
He tilted his head. “Will she?”
Gwen thought of Edith Fairchild, practical, kind, and untroubled by half the strictures that bound the London drawing rooms. “She may think a great many things. I do not believe she will shut her door in my face because I arrived with a man.”
“There, you see?” he said. “The matter resolves itself.”
She shook her head. “You cannot order your life as if it were a ledger and expect every column to align. You are a duke. Your movements are watched. Your absence will be noticed.”
“I am frequently absent,” he said. “On estate business. On Parliamentary matters. On errands no one finds interesting enough to gossip about. I know that the world will not halt because Greystone spent a few days on the road.”
“You would do this,” she asked slowly, “for me?”
His gaze held hers. “For you.”
Her heart clenched. This was exactly the kind of thing she had sworn not to let herself feel. The shadow of something akin to love.
She looked away. “I do not want to owe you more than I already do.”
“You already owe me more than you wish,” he said. “Another entry on the ledger will make little difference.”
“You cannot help turning people into accounts,” she muttered.
“It is the only way I know to keep from losing them,” he said quietly.
The words struck her like a sudden gust of wind. She did not quite know what to do with them.
Outside, the night deepened. The carriage rolled steadily on.
“If I allow this,” she asked, “will you refrain from attempting to change my mind at every coaching inn?”
“I will not,” he replied without hesitation. “I am not made for perfect restraint.”
“Then I refuse,” she huffed.
He considered. “I will promise not to coerce you. Not to reveal your whereabouts. Not to intercept your letters or meddle with your cousin. I will argue, yes. I will probably scold you. But I will not trap you.”
She hesitated. He read it, the way he read every shift in her posture, every flicker in her eyes.
“You will leave, whether I ride with you or not,” he continued. “The only choice you make now is whether you do so with a guard at your side or entirely at the mercy of chance.”
It was infuriating that he made sense.
