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“As the heir, my parents could not entirely ignore me. Michael, though, was another matter entirely. Months passed without so much as a solitary acknowledgment of his existence. I did my best to offer encouragement and praise, but when I left for Eton, he was left utterly alone, without the slightest hint of love or affection. He tried, at first, to earn their regard. His tutors sent glowing reports, his behaviour was impeccable. None of it mattered. Nothing he accomplished, nothing he offered, was enough to draw their attention. Eventually, he realised kindness and obedience would never earn him what he wanted. So he became the one thing he knew our father could not ignore—a reflection of the duke’s own ruthlessness.”

He glanced at Gwen, his solemnity softening into a sheepish smile. “I know this probably falls squarely under the category of a parliamentary-ready speech, and I am in no way excusing his behaviour regarding you or in his business dealings. He acted atrociously and grievously, and I am deeply sorry for it.” Gabriel sighed. “But despite all of it, he is my brother, and I love him more than words can say. I believe he is capable of more than the terrible choices he’s made and the hurt he’s caused. He wasn’t born this way, Gwen. He was… free-spirited, thoughtful, quick to laugh, and eager to share his joy. I hold out hope that the boy I knew is still there, buried beneath all that fear and bitterness. That perhaps you are the person who can remind him that he doesn’t need to earn his worth.”

They’d reached the boundaries of the yard and he paused to open the gate. “Once you’ve given him every bit of the punishment he deserves, perhaps, in time, you might look for the best in him as well.”

He waited there, hand gripping the wrought iron, gazing down at her with such desperate, hopeful entreaty—so starkly unaristocratic—that she could not deny him. Instead, she nodded, forcing herself to push away the sympathy his account of Michael’s childhood had invited in.

“Plan to stay all night at that?” Harry asked from the general direction of the office door.

Gwen didn’t look up from the account books she was balancing. “Perhaps.”

Clothing rustled, Harry donning his coat. “Did he come to fetch you home?”

She looked up from the column, holding her place with a finger. There could be no doubt which “he” Harry meant. “I’m perfectly capable of making my way home alone, Harry. I’ve done it thousands of times.”

“It’s dark tonight.” His gaze strayed to the window. “No moon. Are you sure I can’t walk you?”

“Quite. I’ll be a while still. You needn’t stay.”

When Harry still didn’t leave, Gwen set down her pencil. “I told him he was to have no say over my day to day activities and he is respecting my wishes. If I wish to remain here for hours longer or sleep in this bloody chair, no one is going to stop me.”

He met her tantrum with a level stare.

“Anson’s a manipulative bastard, but he’s not a brute. He’ll be…” His face took on a distinctly uncomfortable expression. “Gentle… with you tonight. I’ve seen how soft he can be. He’s been taking lunch with Davie every day, teaching him his numbers. Been real patient with the lad.”

“I’m not afraid of him, Harry—and I’ve seen him with Davie. I’m certain he’s made a point of it,” she grumbled. “I simply don’t relish the prospect of sharing a bed with him.” She offered him a wan smile of apology for her peevishness. “I’ll make my way home eventually, and I’ll take a lamp, if it will set your mind at ease.”

“Alright then,” he said, still clearly reluctant. “Goodnight, Wyn.”

As it turned out, she did actually nod off in the chair, waking only when the last embers of the fire grew cold. Lighting a lamp, as promised, she locked the doors and set off for the boarding house, walking faster than she would prefer in deference to the chill. Her fingers were tingling and uncooperative as she fumbled with the front door latch, and when she finally managed to get inside, the kitchen was dark. Before she could extinguish the lamp, however, she noticed a plate of food covered and waiting on the table.

On the nights when Gwen was late returning home, she generally settled for whatever she could scrounge up on her own.

Mrs Phillips had not provided this meal.

She considered leaving it right where it sat, but her stomach had strong feelings about that particular bit of self-sabotaging petulance, so she plopped into the chair and began picking at the food. When the plate was empty, she placed it in the wash basin and tip-toed up the stairs.

Surely he would be asleep by now.

But no. Light spilled from beneath the door to her chambers.

She eased it open. Michael looked up at once, and for the briefest instant, relief softened his features before a neutral expression settled back into place. Remarkable that she noticed at all because the man was wearing nothing on the upper half of his body. She forced her eyes past all those artlessly displayed muscles to the book splayed open across his blanket covered lap: Longitudinal Stress Compensation System, a painfully dry read, one of her father’s instructional compendiums.

He followed her gaze. “A difficult choice… between this one and Adaptive Keel Reinforcement Process.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tease him, to tell him that he was missing a true literary gem if he denied himself the experience of The Third Iteration of the Ballast Distribution Table.

A month ago, she would have said exactly that, and every hair on her body would have stood up in anticipation of his rich baritone laugh—but the man she’d liked and admired did not exist and never had. She didn’t know Michael at all. Didn’t wish to, no matter how devastating his childhood or how thoughtful he pretended to be. She could not trust him. Not ever. And she would not give him reason to hope otherwise. She, after all, was not a monster.

Gwen crossed to the washstand, keeping her back to Michael as she removed the pins from her hair. She drew the brush through the loosened strands until they fell freely down her back, then continued through the familiar rituals of preparing for bed, slipping out of her gown and exchanging her decades-old chemise for an equally shabby night rail.

When she was finished, she turned back, expecting his full attention, only to find his gaze fixed on the open book.

Despite the goosebumps rising along her skin, she retained just enough dignity to refrain from diving beneath the covers like a frightened child. When she slid beneath the sheets, she found them warm—as though he had been resting at the center of the mattress, warming her place for her, and had only retreated to his own side at the sound of her approaching steps.

Michael closed the book and lifted his eyes to hers.

“Do you wish to sleep?”