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She tilted her head. Then tried the opposite side. Bit her lip and squinted.

For a brief, shimmering moment, she caught a resemblance to the figure Aidan had once compared her to. Venus, as painted by Botticelli.

But the likeness flickered and collapsed as swiftly as it had come, and the butterflies in her stomach staged a fresh revolt.

“The Morelands will be here soon.”

“They will hate me.”

Octavia pursed her lips, unimpressed. Without ceremony, she seized Gwen’s arm and hauled her upright. The maid barely reached Gwen’s chin, a fact that only sharpened her awareness of her own too-tall, too-angular frame.

With resolute determination, Octavia shepherded her out of the bedchamber, pausing only to close the door behind them and leave Buttercup safely inside. The soft sound of the dog’s whine echoed down the hall as they marched toward the stairs.

Halfway down, Octavia was forced to release her. There was no graceful way to descend in tandem given their height disparity.

Gwen glanced behind her. Just a few steps back. She could run. Duck into the music room. Lock the door and claim a sudden megrim.

Surely, they would understand?

But then she imagined their first impression. That she had fled the dinner like a frightened debutante in a sentimental tale. No, far better to face them with at least a shred of dignity.

Even if every instinct urged retreat.

They reached the ground floor and turned toward the small drawing room. Gwen entered and halted in the center, absorbing the quiet elegance. The silk wallpaper, the restrained scent of lavender from the hearth rug, the ticking of the clock in the corner.

“Shall I bring you some tea while you wait?” Octavia asked.

“That will not be necessary. Papa will join me shortly.” Gwen began to pace, agitated energy leaking through every step.

“You’ll wear a hole in the rug,” Octavia observed dryly, her eyes drifting to Gwen’s feet—those too-large, undeniably unfashionable feet that never allowed her to glide, only stride.

Gwen stopped pacing, teeth sinking into her lower lip. “They must hate me already! Their celebrated heir … forced to wed a spotted ginger! Just imagine what their grandchildren will look like!”

Octavia drew herself up to her full, if modest, height, placing both hands on her hips with the authority of a general inspecting troops. Her tone rang with indignation.

“Gwendolyn Smythe, you are a treasure. The Morelands are fortunate indeed to welcome you into their ranks.”

Gwen’s mouth fell open in horror, because standing just beyond her father in the doorway, perfectly framed by the arch, was an elegant woman whose presence silenced the room.

She had the same chocolate-brown eyes as Aidan, and the sheen of her silk gown, woven in subtle, harmonious hues, spoke of refinement and assured taste. Though her appearance was youthful, a delicate scattering of silver near her temples betrayed her identity.

Behind her stood a tall gentleman whose square jaw and salt-and-pepper hair bore an unmistakable resemblance to Lord Aidan Abbott. His lips twitched, betraying the effort it took not to laugh.

Octavia, catching a glimpse of the doorway’s reflection in the glass, spun about and clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes locked with Lady Moreland’s. Too late.

She dipped into a deep curtsy, but faltered, clearly mortified. “Milady!”

“And who might you be?” Lady Moreland asked with a calm coolness that demanded precision.

“Mrs. Hanning, milady. I am lady’s maid to Miss Smythe.” Octavia’s voice trembled despite her effort to sound composed.

Lady Moreland raised a brow, arch and elegant. She advanced a few steps and surveyed the flustered woman. “Indeed. Is it customary in your service to address your mistress by her Christian name?”

A small strangled sound escaped Octavia, drawing Gwen from her frozen state.

“Mrs. Hanning served my mother when I was a child,” Gwen said quickly, forcing her voice steady. “We are … rather close.”

Even as she spoke, she realized the room had filled. Her father stood beside Lord Moreland and Aidan, all three men witnesses to the brief interrogation. Octavia, glancing back at Gwen with a look of despair, seemed unable to summon another word.