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Fourteen

“The energy of the mind is the essence of life.”

Aristotle

Aidan winced in pain, catching Gwen’s hands and pressing them gently to his chest, his breath held tight lest a sound escape. Her fingers had unwittingly found the worst of his bruises, and the flash of discomfort sent a wash of dizziness through him.

But the pain soon dulled to a manageable throb, and another fire, softer but no less consuming, rose to take its place. His thoughts turned to how he might draw Gwen close without revealing his wounds or alarming her.

When at last she rested in his embrace, her weight a welcome anchor upon his chest, Aidan exhaled a breath he had not known he held. He pressed a kiss to her damp cheek, his heart a tangle of awe and certainty. Around them, the chamber remained hushed, the scent of rumpled linen and lemon verbena lingering in the still air.

He tucked her close, her cheek against his shoulder, and buried his face in her hair. He thought of the future, not of battles or bruises, but of this. Her breath on his skin, her trust in his arms. Whatever challenge Smythe posed, he would meet it. So long as he could keep Gwen, he could face anything.

AUGUST 27, 1821

Aidan had held her close through the night, their kisses deepening into lingering embraces that blurred into the hush of night. In the darkness, they had discovered new ways of closeness, whispered laughter mingling between soft sighs and the rustle of linen.

When hunger beckoned, Aidan had risen to don his shirt and lit a single lamp across the room, casting a golden glow that danced upon the walls in shadows. He fetched the tray left in the corridor and returned with quiet steps, his smile gentle and knowing. The subdued light had rendered everything dreamlike. The meal, shared with hushed conversation and laughter, had tasted better for the intimacy of the moment. They had reclined in one another’s arms beneath the shelter of quilts and dim firelight, speaking little, yet understanding much.

It was near dawn when sleep claimed them at last. They lay entwined beneath the canopy of the bed, arms and legs tangled as though separation would be a kind of grief. Gwen had drifted into a dreamless slumber, cocooned in warmth and the steady rise and fall of Aidan’s breathing.

When she stirred again, the sheets were cool beside her.

Aidan was gone.

A groan escaped her lips just as Octavia whisked back the curtains, letting in the flat gray light of a cloudy afternoon. Buttercup lifted her head with a small affronted bark, as if the intrusion were personally offensive.

“What fresh hell is this?”

Octavia giggled from across the room. “It is the afternoon, Lady Abbott. I feared you would not rise at all if left undisturbed. And if you do not wake soon, you shall never find rest tonight.”

Gwen sat upright, clutching the sheet to her chest. “Afternoon?”

“Indeed. Lord Abbott appears most committed to ensuring the succession,” she remarked dryly.

Despite herself, Gwen let out a laugh, her fingers reaching to scratch Buttercup behind the ears. The terrier gave a low hum of pleasure and leaned in to the affection, all signs of indignation forgotten.

“Where is Lord Abbott?” she asked, though she already suspected the answer.

“He left some time ago. No word of when he might return.”

Gwen fell back on her pillow with a heavy sough. “I planned on forging a true connection with him, but he turned my head with sweet words and …” She gestured vaguely to indicate the mattress.

The lady’s maid walked up to tower over her. Gwen suspected Octavia liked to do this because Gwen was so much taller. It was the only time that the woman was in a dominating position. Buttercup rose on her short legs, baring her teeth with a low growl to warn Octavia she was encroaching on her territory.

Octavia ignored Buttercup’s posturing.

“What do you mean, true connection? I thought things were progressing well with your husband.”

“I am no longer certain,” Gwen murmured. “His mother warned me that he keeps secrets, and I believe her. At times he seems so present, so emotionally attuned, and then suddenly he becomes remote. He does not speak of his day or where he goes or what he does. And he said nothing of Lily’s situation. Why?”

Octavia’s brows lifted. “Lady Filminster? What troubles does she have?”

Gwen faltered, Aidan’s warning ringing in her ears. He had been firm. Speaking of Lily’s situation could endanger not only reputations, but Lord Filminster’s liberty. She shifted uncomfortably against the pillows and looked away.

“I cannot say.”

Octavia gasped with mock offense, lifting an open palm to her brow as though fainting from betrayal. “For shame, Gwendolyn Abbott! Do you not trust me?”