Chapter 4 #2
There had been something … more on the terrace.
A resonance. A quiet magic that had settled over them like grace from the heavens.
In those moments, she had not felt reckless, but safe.
Utterly and entirely herself. As though the rhythm of her soul had suddenly aligned with another’s.
There had been a symmetry between them, a silent understanding that required no words. Not only desire, but recognition.
Despite her current dread, Gwen knew with a strange certainty that she would carry the memory of that encounter like a locket tucked close to her heart. A cherished thing however inconvenient.
Relief stirred in her chest at the sound of approaching footsteps in the hall.
The erratic parade of thoughts swirling in her mind had become unbearable.
With luck, her father might bring a measure of calm.
Direction. She needed guidance, a path forward through the tangle she had created.
Her misstep had not endangered herself alone, but unsettled the entire household.
The footsteps halted. The door opened.
Gwen straightened abruptly, her hands clenched together in her lap, her thoughts scrambling to form some coherent explanation, some defense of her conduct, however feeble.
But the man who entered was not her father.
It was the stranger from the terrace.
Tall, commanding, broad of shoulder and straight of bearing.
In the lamplight, he looked impossibly handsome.
Rich brown hair, warm eyes the color of polished mahogany, and features that seemed sculpted by a divine hand.
For a moment, she wondered if her senses deceived her.
Surely, such a man could not have sought her out?
A man so clearly bred from privilege and elegance? It defied reason.
And yet he stood before her, hesitating, his gaze resting on hers with a depth that made her breath catch. Then he crossed the room and lowered himself onto the settee beside her.
Gwen remained stiff, hands folded tightly, the edge of the cushion barely bearing her weight. She did not move. She could scarcely believe that, even after seeing her plainly in full light, he had chosen to sit near her.
Turning to glance at the door, she saw her father enter.
And her heart dropped.
Frederick Smythe was beaming. Positively glowing with delight.
Gwen recognized the expression instantly. It was the same look he wore whenever he believed fate had gifted him a triumph. Her father did not merely approve. He was elated. No counsel of reason would come from him tonight. No quiet support if she wished to deny the man beside her.
He believed, with complete conviction, that the right man had at last appeared.
Aidan was still reeling from the tumult that had played out only moments ago beyond the very doors now shut behind him.
He had never conducted himself in such a reckless fashion.
From the earliest days of his youth, his father had ingrained in him the value of restraint, of dignity, of upholding their name with honor.
Yet he had been caught beneath the night sky, with his hands upon the person of a gently bred young lady.
The memory made him wince.
Later this evening, he would be duty-bound to confess his folly to the viscount. That, too, was a galling prospect.
Never in his life had he done anything so disgraceful.
What about leaving Lily alone on the night of the coronation?
The bitter thought pierced his reverie. He closed his eyes briefly as the weight of that night returned to him. The reason he was in the Smythe household this very evening had been almost forgotten in the swirl of other sensations.
Apparently, poor judgment was becoming a rather unwelcome theme in his life.
And yet, sitting here now, beside the very woman whose kiss had undone him, he could not deny the undercurrent of something far more potent than shame. There was excitement, yes, but also reverence. A humbling sense of awe.
She was unlike anyone he had ever met.
There was something timeless about her. A figure born not of society’s artifice but of classical beauty and intellect.
A Renaissance muse come to life. Perhaps The Birth of Venus, in all her striking singularity.
The flame of her long red hair framed her delicate features like a halo, and though he tried to temper the thought, it stirred him deeply.
He chastised himself for the sudden flash of imagination. The inappropriate thought of her posed upon a shell as in Botticelli’s famed painting. Just how far did that celestial constellation of freckles travel?
He exhaled slowly, willing himself to return to sense.
When he had first entered and she had turned toward him, meeting his gaze directly, he had been struck by the clarity of her eyes.
Deep blue, like her father’s, but softer somehow.
More thoughtful. In the golden hush of lamplight, her skin had glowed like rich cream, and it had taken effort not to stare.
The impulse to sit beside her had been undeniable.
She drew him in not only with her appearance, but with her mind. Sharp, eloquent, composed.
And now, sitting beside her, close enough to catch the subtle citrus scent that clung to her skin, Aidan found himself tangled in a far more troubling question.
Was she involved?
Despite every instinct that urged him to believe in her innocence, he could not ignore the gravity of his mission. Protecting Lily and the baron must remain his highest priority. The stakes were too great.
If her father was indeed entangled in criminal pursuits, the truth had to come to light. It would fall to him to see it through. But perhaps, if he handled matters with care, he could shield her from the worst of the aftermath.
He could not allow sentiment to cloud his purpose. And yet … if he could forge some manner of alliance with her tonight, he might guide the storm rather than be swept away by it.
Frederick Smythe appeared remarkably cheerful about the turn of events. He closed the door behind him and strode across the room to settle into the chair behind his desk, as though nothing unusual had occurred.
Aidan noted with no small relief that Smythe registered no sign of disturbance in his study, no hint that a stranger had rifled through the drawers or left traces of an unauthorized visit. A small mercy, considering what was about to unfold.
“So, when is the wedding?” Mr. Smythe clapped his hands together, beaming with unconcealed glee. His eyes, so like his daughter’s, sparkled as he regarded the pair seated before him.
Beside Aidan, Gwendolyn let out a groan.
“Papa, this is not a time for jesting! We have a serious situation at hand.”
Her father’s grin only broadened. “Levity in the face of trials, my dear, is what makes life bearable.”
Aidan could not help the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. There was something undeniably infectious about the elder Smythe’s easy manner. His joviality and charm made him instantly likable. Too likable. That was precisely the danger.
Aidan reminded himself not to be drawn in. He could not afford to be softened by good humor or warm eyes. Not when there was a very real possibility that this man—this smiling, affable man—had been involved in a murder.
The thought chilled him. A necessary reminder. Lily’s attacker had not seemed dangerous either, not at first. Trust could be deadly.
It was time to direct the conversation.
“I have explained to Mr. Smythe what happened upon the terrace,” Aidan said, careful to keep his tone level. “And I have informed him of my intention to wed you.”
He glanced ever so slightly, watching Gwendolyn from the corner of his eye, keen to gauge her response.
Now, in this well-lit room, with the fire casting golden light across her features, she was even more arresting than he remembered. It seemed improbable, and yet it was true. Her profile, her posture, even the thoughtful crease in her brow. All of it rendered him speechless.
It was difficult to reconcile this composed, intelligent young woman with the one who had moments ago stood trembling beneath the stars, clinging to him as though drawn by some unseen force.
A rush of warmth spread across his chest, stealing into his throat, as memory returned unbidden. The feel of her lips. The shape of her. The unexpected sweetness of it all.
He made a low sound in the back of his throat before he could stop himself. A brief, involuntary exhale of memory and sensation.
Gwendolyn turned her head toward him, as if she had heard it. Her brow furrowed delicately.
Lord Abbott had emitted a low growl after his declaration, and Gwen stiffened at the sound.
It unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
When he had chosen to sit beside her, she had allowed herself to believe, if only briefly, that he was drawn to her.
That there might be a spark of genuine interest behind his gallant offer.
But that sound. That deep, reluctant utterance.
It did not speak of attraction. It spoke of duty.
Resolve returned to her like an old friend. Marrying Lord Abbott might simplify matters. It might even be advantageous from a certain point of view. But it would not be right.
Forcing a gentleman into marriage was beneath her. A moral failing she would not permit herself to commit.
She was not without options. Her father had the means to support her modest independence. A quiet life, perhaps in the country, with books and lectures and letters. She could disappear from society’s eye and pursue her studies in peace.
“And I have informed Lord Abbott that I appreciate his offer, but it is not necessary.”
Her father’s grin faltered. It dropped from his face like overripe fruit tumbling from a sagging branch.
“Not necessary?”