Chapter 3 #2
From the corner of her eye, she saw that his hand had come to rest next to hers.
It was the tiniest fraction of an inch away, so close she could feel the heat emanating from his glove to soak into her skin.
If she had the courage to move, she could touch him, but she was too afraid it would end their interlude before it had begun. She willed her hand to remain in place.
It was without surprise when she felt his large hand extend to cover hers, and she accepted that she was dreaming this entire encounter.
That soon she would awake to find out she had dozed off on the terrace and imagined this entire circumstance but, in the meanwhile, she would bury herself in the dream.
If only every slumber included such wonderful happenings.
The man gently tugged at her hand, turning to pull her into his arms ever so slowly as if to give her the opportunity to protest, and Gwen was amazed at the realism of this apparition.
She could feel the strength of his arms wrapping around her waist and shoulders, smell the leather of his boots and his freshly laundered linen, as he pulled her against his hard body.
Tilting her chin, she watched him lower his head and accepted the press of his lips against hers, sighing in pleasure when she was enveloped in masculinity.
She lifted her arms and let them rest lightly around his neck, not pulling, not pressing …
simply being. He drew her a breath closer, her form nestled against the solid warmth of his chest. The sensation made her dizzy, not with fear, but with wonder.
Was this what it meant to be wanted? Desired …
not as a convenience, not as a social match, but for who she was in this single, sacred instant?
He leaned his head to hers, his cheek brushing hers, and Gwen inhaled sharply as he breathed deeply, just above her temple.
“Citrus …” he murmured, his voice a low, reverent sigh.
The single word sent a ripple down her spine, not because of its boldness but because of its gentleness. It was not lewd. It was admiration. And she basked in it.
The tip of his nose brushed the curve of her ear, and the whisper of his breath made her tremble. Gwen tilted her head slightly, allowing the contact, her skin thrumming with sensation. She did not move farther. She did not have to. The thrill came from being cherished, not consumed.
His hands settled more fully at her back, fingers splayed in a protective gesture rather than one of possession. She felt safe. Seen. The very air between them crackled, not with impropriety, but with the possibility of something precious and real.
Then … a sound.
The distinct creak of a door opening onto the terrace shattered the stillness. They froze.
Gwen’s breath became shallow, her chest rising and falling in a quiet panic. Not from passion, but from dread. They parted slightly, their eyes locked. He shut his eyes briefly, as though in regret, then looked past her shoulder, his body tensing with recognition.
Please let it be her father. Please let it be no one important.
But as his eyes focused, Gwen knew. They had been seen.
Her heart sank like a stone. Her height would give her away, even in shadow. There was no hope of concealment. The single virtue she had maintained in a society that prized female decorum above all else, her reputation, was now imperiled by a single, dreamlike moment beneath the stars.
The stranger stepped forward, positioning himself between her and the direction of the sound. His movement was silent, deliberate. A shield.
Gwen took the opportunity to lift her hand, smoothing her skirts and adjusting her hair with trembling fingers. Her face was warm, not from desire now, but from mortification. Whatever came of this, the consequences would fall squarely upon her shoulders.
He would walk away with only the faintest trace of scandal. She, however, stood on the precipice of social exile.
If it was not her father who had opened that door, if it was a guest or a member of the ton, she would be ruined. No apology, no explanation would suffice.
She whispered a prayer into the darkness, her voice no louder than the wind.
Let it be Papa.
Please.
Aidan was still reeling. His emotions were in disarray, his senses overwhelmed by Miss Smythe’s presence, but the intoxication was swiftly giving way to the sharp chill of reality.
The terrace, which had only moments ago been cloaked in moonlit intimacy, was now peopled with onlookers.
Guests had rounded the corner in a murmuring cluster and come to a halt, their eyes wide, their expressions a mixture of fascination and horror.
It was as though he had sprouted horns and hooves before their very eyes.
Near the back of the group, Trafford stood frozen, his face a portrait of stunned disbelief.
He raked a hand through his wheat-colored curls in agitation.
A moment later, he lifted both arms in a gesture of helplessness, a silent apology mingled with acknowledgment.
There was no extricating themselves from this.
Several older couples stood rigidly, the ladies pressing gloved hands to their mouths, the gentlemen straight-backed and stony-eyed. Aidan recognized none of them, but their expressions revealed that they most certainly recognized him.
“It is Moreland’s heir!” The impasse was shattered by a shrill voice. A peeress with graying blonde hair whose dismay pierced the night air like a bell.
“Who is that with him?” asked the gentleman beside her, clutching her arm with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.
Trafford cleared his throat and stepped forward, trying to reclaim the narrative. “I am quite certain this is not what it appears. Lord Abbott is a nobleman of unimpeachable character.”
Aidan did not hear him. His gaze was fixed on Trafford, his mind turning with ruthless clarity.
In his breast pocket, the folded list of sales crinkled with his breath.
If their suspicions proved true, if Frederick Smythe’s hand could be tied to a terrible crime, then the brilliant, self-possessed woman who had just stirred something profound in him would be doubly ruined.
First by the scandal of this moment and again by her father’s likely downfall.
The thought made his blood run cold. Miss Smythe—so learned, so luminous—deserved better than whispers and disgrace. She deserved dignity, protection. And that duty, however unintended, now fell to him.
The dark, he hoped, had hidden the worst of their embrace. When he had shielded her body with his own, perhaps he had spared her from the most damning implications. Yet he knew whispers would race ahead of fact.
He had kissed her. He had reached for her first. The blame lay squarely with him.
Aidan glanced once more at Trafford, who stared back with dawning horror as comprehension bloomed on his face. Aidan could almost hear the silent cry, Do not say it. Do not make it worse.
But for once, Aidan felt certain.
Miss Smythe was no flirt, no schemer. She had trusted him, and he had answered that trust with recklessness. There was only one path now that offered any form of justice, any protection for her name.
Drawing a breath deep into his lungs, Aidan turned toward the gathering. The air was hushed, the scent of box hedges and evening dew rising faintly in the space between them.
“I just offered for Miss Smythe’s hand in marriage,” he said, voice clear, firm, and steady. “And she accepted.”
The declaration landed like a thunderclap. Behind him, he heard Gwen’s soft intake of breath. Trafford visibly winced, lifting a hand as though to halt the inevitable.
But it was done.