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Octavia raised a hand to nibble absently at her thumbnail, the tension written plainly across her broad, expressive face. But then, with a sharp breath, she dropped her hand and straightened her spine. “I have not heard anything recent,” she said briskly, “but I shall inform the housekeeper. Cook will know if there is any risk in serving him.”

“Perhaps the maids ought to remain out of sight until his departure,” Gwen suggested, her brow furrowed. “The footmen can manage the main rooms for the time being.”

Octavia gave a swift nod and darted off, skirts fluttering like a startled flock of starlings. Her hurried step and bobbing head only added to the impression, an image Gwen often observed in the Smythe gardens when birds took sudden flight. Her maid’s unease was unmistakable.

Buttercup watched the retreating woman with her characteristic squint, the slight baring of her teeth suggesting commentary on the hazards that awaited unguarded women. Gwen, observing her, could not disagree. Their own meeting had arisen under such danger.

Yet, despite all warnings, Gwen could not help but feel a flicker of intrigue. What must it be like to encounter such a man? A notorious rake, reputed to have seduced staff and cast shame upon his family name. He was hardly the sort of gentleman her father would welcome into their circle. Still, if there was no threat to the women belowstairs, she could not deny a faint thrill at the prospect of observing such a man with her own eyes.

What astonished her most was that Lady Sophia Balfour, Aidan’s cousin, had welcomed her husband’s illegitimate child into their home. Had she done so willingly? Or had duty compelled her? Was she privately humiliated, or had affection somehow triumphed over pride?

The connection to the Abbott family confounded her. Octavia had spoken of them in terms that implied discreet propriety. This, however, complicated the portrait.

Turning back toward her chamber, Gwen nudged Buttercup inside with a gentle foot, offering a quick scratch behind the ears before shutting the door. The little dog trotted to the hearth as Gwen moved to the mirror.

Her wedding gown awaited.

Signora Ricci had crafted it in a rich shade of azure, and now it clung to Gwen’s figure with soft precision. The silk was luxurious yet delicate, as though spun from seafoam, and Gwen had selected the color with a very particular inspiration in mind, The Birth of Venus. Aidan’s admiring words had lingered with her, and this hue, like morning mist above a calm ocean, had seemed apt.

She had taken a risk with the contrast. Red hair and green-blue silk made a striking combination, and she hoped, perhaps too eagerly, that he had meant what he said. That he did, in fact, find her beautiful.

Nerves fluttered low in her belly, not with dread but with the sweet tremble of uncertainty. Should she descend to greet the arriving guests on her own? Or wait for Octavia’s return?

But then she recalled the strained exchange between her lady’s maid and Lady Moreland. It was entirely possible that Octavia, still cowed by the dowager’s commanding presence, would find reason to remain out of sight.

Gwen sighed, shoulders squaring before the mirror.

Alone it is.

Squaring her shoulders, Gwen summoned what confidence she possessed, assuring herself she had judged Aidan’s preferences correctly. Despite her habitual skepticism, a number of hopes had quietly taken root in her heart. Her father’s enduring optimism had proved contagious, and Gwen prayed, fervently, that she would not come to rue the decision to allow herself to dream.

After so many years spent skirting the outer edges of the beau monde, enduring its condescension with dignity, she now dared to imagine a future filled with companionship, respect, and perhaps even affection. If fortune were kind, she might come to count herself among those rare few who married well in both title and temperament.

As she prepared to leave her room, she turned to Buttercup and whispered, “Sorry, girl. This is not the time to follow me.”

The little dog whined, her haunches wiggling against the floor in dismay. Yet she did not attempt to move from her place near the mirror, clearly electing to await Gwen’s return with canine resolve.

Gwen smiled and closed the door gently behind her.

Descending the staircase, she paused before the small drawing room, the very room where she had once endured her first meeting with Aidan’s parents, and stepped inside to find that their guests had already arrived.

Aidan moved toward her at once. With a graceful bow, he extended his arm.

He was sartorial perfection, his navy coat molded to his shoulders, the rich wool catching the morning light. Gwen accepted his arm, and his voice, low and warm, curled through her like a silken ribbon.

“You are ravishing this morning, Miss Smythe.”

A thrill danced down her spine. She smiled demurely and turned her gaze to the gathering, surprised to find the company more numerous than expected.

By the window stood a man of striking stature, towering well above six feet. With his blond hair and storm-gray eyes, he bore the look of a Norse marauder. Something about his countenance was familiar, though she could not recall ever having been introduced.

Beside him stood a young woman of elegant bearing, her dark chestnut curls styled high atop her head in an intricate arrangement that suggested wealth, taste, and a modiste with a deft hand.

Aidan led her toward the pair with unmistakable deference, which all but confirmed her suspicion that the imposing gentleman held the highest rank among them.

Coming to a halt, Aidan spoke. “Miss Smythe, I have the honor of presenting His Grace, the Duke of Halmesbury.”

Gwen’s brows lifted in surprise. Indeed, she had recognized him.