“Yes,” she repeated. “Until I can find another way that does not involve leaving her alone.”
Victor stared at her. He had spent the long hours before dawn convincing himself that his feelings were a momentary lapse in judgment, a sentimental indulgence that would mend itself once he had placed her under another roof and washed his hands of the matter. Now she was calmly proposing to remain within two miles of himindefinitely, tethered to a man who would not hesitate to hurt her.
It was intolerable.
“You are irrational,” he chided.
She flushed. “I am loyal.”
“Loyalty without reason is merely stubbornness in a prettier dress,” he retorted.
“And what would you have me do?” she demanded. “Forget the woman who has loved me all my life and run to comfort with my cousin? Pretend I do not hear her cry at night?”
“Yes,”he almost said. He turned away instead, anger and something darker simmering under his skin. “If you remain, he will hurt you.”
“He already hurts me,” she said. “Through her. Through his control. I have lived with that for years. At least this way, I will know what happens. I will not lie awake in Cheltenham, wondering if my absence has killed her.”
The words struck him with more force than any accusation.
He looked back at her. She sat straight, her hands clasped tight in her lap, resolve written in every line. She was terrified, but she was determined.
She was not a child to be commanded. She had chosen her path.
And hehatedit.
“You have made your decision. I will escort you back to London.” His voice was clipped.
Her shoulders relaxed, though her expression remained wary. “Thank you.”
“Do not thank me,” he said. “I dislike it immensely.”
A hint of humor flashed in her eyes despite everything. “I noticed.”
The room suddenly felt too small, his emotions too large. If he remained, he would say something he did not mean. Or worse, something he did.
“I will speak to the innkeeper,” he muttered, reaching for his composure as if it were a coat. “We should eat before we ride back. If you mean to keep playing the devoted daughter, you must not arrive looking as if you have not slept.”
She opened her mouth, perhaps to say that she had not slept much at all, then thought better of it. “Very well.”
He left before he could change his mind, striding down the narrow passage, past a pair of maids carrying linens and a man with skin weathered by the sun.
The innkeeper greeted him with good cheer, delighted to prepare breakfast for the polite young couple in the Rose Room.
“The happy newlyweds,” he boomed, his eyes twinkling. “Your lady wife is lovely, Your Grace.”
Victor did not bother correcting him. Instead, he ordered enough food for four people and watched grimly as the innkeeper arranged it with cheery enthusiasm on a tray adorned with sprigs of something green and a ridiculous pair of orange slices cut into hearts.
He took it upstairs himself out of some misguided desire to control at least one element of the morning.
When he shouldered the door open, Gwen was standing near the window, smoothing her hair. She turned at once.
Her eyes landed on the tray. On the absurd decorations. On the folded napkins shaped into doves.
She bit her lip and then burst into a fit of uncontrolled laughter.
It came in a rush, bright and helpless, bubbling up until she had to put a hand on the wall to steady herself. Victor stared at her, tray in his hands, caught between irritation and reluctant amusement.
“Don’t,” he warned.
