Or was it love? Something about him called to her, and it was more than mere lust, or so she believed. She liked standing beside him. She felt safe near him. She’d trusted him... or had that been, as Dara suggested, her own inexperience?
Gwendolyn didn’t know. But the man had been forthright with her. He’d told her there was nothing between them. She’d just believed that he’d not understood the depth of her feelings, of her loyalty and her admiration. She’d been wrong. Shame burned through her. If Lady Rabron hadn’t been in the room when he had pulled Gwendolyn in, she would have happily climbed into his bed. She wanted to believe the best of him, even when he warned her not to.
“My sister was right,” she said.
“About?”
“You. She said I was being ridiculous pining over you—”
“Gwendolyn,” he started to protest.
He used her given name again. She still likedthe way he said it, but she was seeing clearly now. She winced, and he fell silent.
She moved toward the door. She didn’t speak. Her throat was too tight. She needed to find her room before she disgraced herself.
“Why did you come to my door?” he asked.
Gwendolyn drew a breath, faced him, forced herself to talk past the slithering emotions roiling inside her. “I wished to warn you that Lady Rabron wants her talons in you. She made her intentions very clear to me, and I sought to help. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“You did help,” he insisted quietly.
She tilted her head, believing she was seeing the full measure of him at last. He was wildly handsome, but also a bit feral. And, perhaps, damaged. Was it because of his base birth, something Gwendolyn would have happily overlooked out of her attraction to him? Or did he nurture resentments? Was he incapable of letting someone love him?
Gwendolyn frowned. Did she want a man who made her do all the work?
“You are a fool, Mr. Curran,” she said, and left the room.
Shame burned through her. Gwendolyn hurried her step toward her room. The porter had not returned to his post. She was grateful for that small favor.
He did not follow, and she told herself that was good.
But disappointing.
This was what was behind Dara’s warnings. It was what her sister had feared.
Gwendolyn also knew that no matter the consequences, her family would stand beside her.
She climbed under her bedcovers without undressing, a mortal sin for someone who stitched her own clothing. She even wore her shoes until she realized how silly she was being and kicked them off.
But sleep didn’t come, not with guilt hounding her.
Lady Rabron was no fool. She knew Mr. Steele had put her off. The sting of rejection would bring out the worst in her, as it did all women. Her ladyship would look for a scapegoat and focus on Gwendolyn. She’d find willing allies in shredding Gwendolyn’s reputation in Miss Purley and her friends. The story would be bandied around London in less than a fortnight. Once that happened, not even the loyal Viscount Morley would be interested in Gwendolyn’s hand. Truth was not important when rumors were juicy.
And while she’d laughed at Dara’s fears of her being a spinster... being ruined was not a pleasant prospect.
Her only solace was that she was truly and completely done with Mr. Steele.
He was right. She was too good for him.
“Miss Gwendolyn, you must wake.Miss Gwendolyn.”
Gwendolyn tried to bat Molly away. She pulled the bedclothes higher up over her and gave Molly her back.
“MissGwendolyn.” Molly began shaking her shoulder. “You need to rise. I have to help you dress.”
“Am dressed,” Gwendolyn informed her.
“In your riding habit,” Molly replied patiently, giving her another shake. “You want to go riding. You requested a horse.”
