Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
T hey spent the days following the ball plotting. They had not yet decided to sneak into the warehouse, and nothing definitive was imminent. Despite Damian’s assurances that they would be together even after, Gwendoline still felt the uncertainty hanging between them.
Yet, they had formed a bond. People thought that they had got married because of an indiscretion. A maiden who had been compromised, with child or not, should get married.
“It must have been lust,” some declared. “A rake wouldn’t just stop what he’s doing and fall in love.”
“They said they couldn’t get enough of each other.”
“It’s lust. Soon, you’ll see that he’ll discard her. Divorce her.”
“Would he be willing to ruin her?”
“Ruin her? She is already ruined.”
Gwendoline might still be affected by some of the comments—some of them cruelly whispered when she was close enough to hear. But she knew better.
Whatever she and Damian had was not only passion. True, they couldn’t stop touching each other and kissing each other. But their relationship was more than that. It wasn’t all expressed in the bedchamber and wherever else they made love. It was in the quiet gestures—the way his hand would linger on hers comfortingly or on the small of her back possessively.
It was in their laughter, too. Laughter was never something Gwendoline had expected from Damian. He had seemed too consumed by revenge to allow himself to be happy. And yet they had many moments of levity with or without Evan.
They were all wrong about what they were to each other, even though Gwendoline herself could not still define what it was.
One night, alone in bed with Damian, she couldn’t help but be plagued by several questions, one of which was whether she was misinterpreting her husband’s actions and everyone else was right. But then she’d remember Abigail telling her that she deserved this happiness, and she would be comforted.
There were other things that remained with her, though. They followed her, even when she rested her head on Damian’s chest and listened to his steady heartbeat. Steady, like him.
“Do you think we will have true peace one day?” she asked hoarsely.
Because of the silence, even her whisper sounded loud.
Damian stirred from what seemed like a light sleep, his arms tightening around her. He liked doing that whenever she felt uneasy. She didn’t even have to tell him. Somehow, he always knew.
He kissed her forehead, his warm lips a balm to her skin.
“We will,” he promised. “All things must come to light. No secrets can be kept forever.”
“People would like to think so about us,” she grumbled, thinking about all the rumors—some too far from the truth.
“For now, Gwendoline. Our day will come, and when that day comes, I’ll ensure that you achieve everything you’ve dreamed about. I will remind you of tonight, of how I made you scream with pleasure and then made you sleep well afterward.”
Gwendoline laughed. He had been making her laugh more often. Exercise for the heart, he reasoned, but it was a marvel to see him so transformed.
She turned to watch his face. She loved seeing it after a good laugh. His intense eyes would crinkle at the corners, and the stormy gray would warm up. She was glad to know that even though this man carried a very heavy burden on his shoulders, he had learned to talk about dreams and peace. There was also so much conviction in his words.
“You’ve changed me,” he admitted, the mirth gone from his face. “You made me believe that I can be happy again. I didn’t think it was possible. I have an ally in Evan and you, and I deeply appreciate it.”
Gwendoline smiled, even though something about his words disappointed her.
Was that what she was to him? An ally? Perhaps it was all that it was. After all, he had said that there would be nothing between them. Whatever they had was a mere diversion. A distraction.
When Damian fell asleep again, she watched his face as if she could find answers there. He slept soundly, his breathing even.
Peace was fleeting. Anyone who had experienced happiness only for it to be snatched away so quickly should know.
The next day, a messenger arrived with a letter bearing Oliver’s seal. The contents confirmed what they had both feared and somehow anticipated—Timothy had grown desperate. More complaints of fraud were reported not only in Devil’s Draw but in many other establishments. There were no preferences or patterns.
Damian read the letter to Gwendoline. They had retreated to the privacy of his study. They were both tense, with Gwendoline’s hands folded primly on her lap and Damian’s brow furrowed.
“He knows we’re closing in,” he said, setting the letter down. “While his downfall is imminent, he will do whatever it takes to strike back. He’s not the sort who will sit quietly in one corner and take blows.”
“What can he do? What will we do when he strikes back?”
Gwendoline didn’t like the sound of her voice. She was no longer the confident woman who was suggesting plans left and right. She had never been in any battle. She used to be the princess in the tower, shabbier and more hopeless.
Damian glared at the letter as if it was at fault. “He will soon face justice. All actions have consequences.”
Gwendoline didn’t have the heart to remind him that, many times, justice didn’t prevail. Sometimes, the villains escaped, and the heroes suffered.
She did admire her husband’s determination. He was not unaffected, though, she reminded herself. The tension in his shoulders was back. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. She might look the same.
She retreated to the library, feeling the pressure mounting. She also wanted to give him more space. Books were her retreat, the library her tower. Yes, she was aware that in her retreat, she also imprisoned a part of herself.
After an hour or so, she was so engrossed in what she was reading that she didn’t hear him enter the library. She felt him when he stepped up beside her.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “It’s almost midnight, Gwendoline.”
“Almost midnight? I have not checked on Cook or Hannah or…” she rambled, rushing to get up from her chair.
“No. You must take a break from that. They are capable of doing their jobs on their own, Duchess. Leave them be. Again, you’re supposed to be resting.”
She was supposed to be resting. The words seemed to convey more meanings depending on her state of mind. She was supposed to be resting to prepare for a battle that might be more mental than physical.
“So are you,” she retorted.
Damian chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Touché. You got me there, my love.”
My love.
The other day, Gwendoline had said those exact same words. It was a slip of the tongue, and she was afraid of his reaction. There was none—at least none that she could detect.
“I worry about you,” she admitted after they had sat across from each other and relished the late hour. The quiet. The hearth. The honesty.
It was the witching hour, and yet Gwendoline could not blame anyone else for what she might say next.
Damian’s gaze met hers. The hard steel she’d seen earlier that evening had somehow disappeared, perhaps smoothened by the flames flickering in the grate.
“And I worry about you,” he replied.
His words were like a balm, as were his touches and glances. Then, there was the question of whether any of them was real. What did they say about people who had suffered together? They usually ended up clinging to each other to survive.
“What would you do when this is all over?”
“I can do many things when this is all over,” he said. “For now, I simply want to defeat my enemy.”
His enemy? Not theirs?
“Our enemy,” he added as if he read her mind.
“Oh, but don’t you have at least one immediate plan?”
The heart could only hope.
He fixed her with a stare, and though the eyes were the windows to the soul, Gwendoline couldn’t be too sure why he was hesitating.
“Vengeance. Peace. That should be enough.”
Damian’s words were simple and honest, but Gwendoline was greedy for more. She was afraid to ask if she’d still be of use once Timothy had fallen.
“What about you? What do you want?” Damian asked gruffly.
“I want the same,” Gwendoline said, almost choking on her words. It wasn’t really a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. “I want you to be happy, Damian.”
Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back quickly. She wouldn’t cry now.
“Then we will fight for that, my duchess,” Damian promised, kissing her knuckles.
They were supposed to rest and save their strength for when they met with Montrose. However, there were other kinds of rest. Sometimes, people merely want to rest from their worries. Gwendoline’s mind was still in turmoil.
The couple remained in the library even after the fire burned down to embers. Their conversations hopped from one subject to another. Even the storm within Gwendoline died down. Damian’s presence often did that to her.
With his back to the hearth, Damian seemed haloed in firelight. Like a wrathful angel. He had saved her the day he met her. It should be enough for her. But looking at his face, she wanted more from him.
Even with her wants and restless desires, the library’s serenity almost lulled her into sleep.
“The soiree hosted by the Marquess of Soulden was never the venue for our little plan,” Damian blurted out, breaking the companionable silence.
“What?”
“I, uh, am sorry, Gwendoline. A larger gathering will take place soon. We will attend this ball, hoping Montrose will attend. He has been invited—I’ve made sure of it.”
“You made sure of it? Why didn’t you ensure his presence at Abigail’s soiree? I was there. I was waiting for him to emerge from the shadows. I enjoyed the gathering, but I was on high alert. I feared he would do something to you while I was in the sitting room with Abigail!”
“It happened so quickly. Oliver and Evan informed me that more people will attend what everyone is calling the event of the decade,” Damian explained, but Gwendoline was already furious.
“You should still have told me. I thought I was your partner in everything, but I was just there for what? To listen to all the rumors they were spouting about me? No, Damian, don’t tell me it is about you, too. When it comes to scandals, women suffer more. After all of this is over and you’ve discarded me, where will I go?”
“I didn’t want to disrupt your night with your friend.”
Damian sounded wary now. Or was he feeling guilty?
“You and Evan don’t get to decide that.”
“I’m sorry, Gwen.”
“I’m sorry, too, Your Grace,” she mumbled bitterly.
Then, she rose from her seat and quickly left the library. She might be tempted to listen to Damian again, but not at this early hour. She was going to her chamber to sleep.
Alone.
“You deserve happiness.”
Maybe not.