Chapter 4 #3
Gwen nodded, firmly. She had hoped, na?vely, that her father might understand. That he might share her concerns about obligation and integrity. But the gleam in his eye earlier had revealed his excitement, his certainty that she had at last made a brilliant match.
It would not be easy to convince either man that this was a terrible idea. But she would try, with every ounce of strength she possessed.
“I have no wish to put Lord Abbott in that predicament,” she said quietly. “I am certain he has far better marriage prospects than myself, and I do not wish to tie the gentleman down for something for which we are both responsible.”
Beside her, Lord Abbott shifted. His shoulders flexed slightly beneath his coat, as though some invisible weight pressed upon him.
“I assure your daughter,” he said, voice rough with restraint, “that she is the very best of marriage prospects. It would not be a hardship in the least to announce our betrothal.”
Gwen held her chin high. “And I wish to assure Lord Abbott that I am more than capable of taking care of myself. I free him to find a more suitable partner.”
“I am perfectly capable of selecting a wife,” he countered, his tone sharpening. “And I believe that Miss Smythe ought to have a greater appreciation of her worth as a prospect for such.”
Across the room, her father turned his gaze from one to the other, bemusement creasing his brow.
His head tilted slightly to one side, eyes narrowing as he absorbed the volleys being exchanged.
It dawned on Gwen that they were, in effect, sparring—with him as the referee, neither of them willing to speak their full mind while he remained uncertain of the facts.
“Could one of you explain to me,” he said, voice suddenly edged with steel, “what exactly unfolded on the terrace?”
Gwen’s breath caught. Her father was slow to anger, but when he showed signs of growing vexed, it was wise to take heed.
“I thought Lord Abbott had informed you of what transpired?” she asked cautiously, voice softening in deference.
Lord Abbott shifted once more, and Gwen felt the firm line of his thigh brush against hers through the thin silk of her gown. A jolt of awareness shot through her. She stared rigidly ahead.
Good grief. He was the most handsome man she had ever sat this close to. Which was precisely why she was addressing her father, rather than him, directly. To look at him, truly look at him, was simply too daunting a prospect.
“I simply laid out the broad strokes,” Lord Abbott murmured.
“Well, now I wish to hear the specifics,” Papa rejoined without hesitation. His voice was edged with suspicion, and the pleasant lines of his face had drawn taut with concern.
Lord Abbott cleared his throat and brought a hand to his mouth.
“I encountered … your daughter on the terrace and was overtaken by her beauty beneath the moonlight. The words of Manilius sprang forth, and I was caught utterly unaware when Miss Smythe responded in kind. Which was when I … um …” He coughed again, the sound more awkward than convincing.
Gwen turned her gaze to her father in time to see his features transform from wary to triumphant. His face broke into his customary grin, and he gave a knowing nod, as though some prophecy had at last come to fruition.
“You witnessed the perfection of my only daughter,” he said, “and fell at her feet, defeated by her magnificence.”
It was not a question. It was a proclamation.
And Gwen wanted to sink into the floor.
Her father’s oft-repeated declaration, offered in jest a fortnight past, now hung in the air like smoke after a cannon blast. She had the absurd impulse to fan the words away, as though dispersing the remnants of some dangerous spell.
To her horror, Lord Abbott tilted his head in thought, and then a matching grin spread across his face.
“Quite so,” he said.
They looked at one another with the bonhomie of shared ideas, and Gwen was left feeling both outnumbered and mortified.
Papa turned to her with renewed purpose. “And then what happened?”
Gwen’s legs bounced in agitation, and she kept her eyes firmly on the floor. “Lord Abbott approached me … and then we … um … embraced.”
“Embraced?”
“Well … yes … we … uh …”
She gestured helplessly, her arms flailing in a wide arc, as though sheer motion could substitute for words. Realizing how absurd she must look, she gave in to her fate.
“Kissed!” she burst out. “We kissed! And then the guests walked out and found me, his lips pressed to mine and his hands upon my buttocks!”
Her father burst out laughing.
Lord Abbott had turned a deep shade of crimson as she spoke, and Gwen herself was aflame with embarrassment. Yet, to her dismay, the gentleman beside her had the audacity to burst into corresponding laughter.
It was not what she needed at all.
The last thing she wished for was the forging of a genuine camaraderie between her father and this alarmingly attractive man, particularly when her every instinct was urging her to dissuade them both from the absurd notion of matrimony.
She made a faint sound of protest, though she could not help the involuntary shiver that coursed through her at the sound of Lord Abbott’s husky laughter.
Egad, she thought. He is a most enticing specimen of manhood.
At intervals, she still half-believed this must be some elaborate dream. What other explanation could there be for a man such as he to speak so fervently of marriage, while insisting she was the prize?
Gwen, Gwen, the Spotted Giraffe, arguing against a proposal from one of the most eligible gentlemen in the ton. What would the girls from school say to that?
It was incomprehensible.
And beyond these walls, the ballroom surely hummed with scandalous speculation, eager anticipation, and whispered wagers. The entire world, it seemed, was awaiting an announcement.
Overwhelmed, Gwen dropped her head into her hands, fingers absently toying with strands of hair as she searched for some fragment of clarity amid the chaos unraveling in her mind.
Beside her, Lord Abbott fell silent, and she suspected—no, she knew—he had noticed the depth of her distress.
“Mr. Smythe,” he said quietly, “would you permit me to speak with your daughter alone? We … have much to settle between the two of us.”
Her father, ever obliging in the face of such gallantry, responded with good cheer. His chair scraped lightly as he stood.
“I shall be on the terrace,” he said, departing with a soft tread. The French doors clicked shut behind him, a gentle sound that nonetheless marked the room as now wholly theirs.
“Gwendolyn—”
“Gwen.” She did not lift her head. “Only Papa addresses me as Gwendolyn.”
There was a pause. Then, softer than before, “Gwen.” He let the name linger. “It is lovely. A lovely name for a lovely woman.”
She scowled at the rug. “There is no need to flatter me now that you have seen me in the light. I am well aware of my appearance.”
A warm hand appeared in her field of vision and gently took hold of hers. She allowed him to draw it down onto the settee between them, though she kept her head turned, braced in her other hand, eyes still fixed on the intricacies of the woven pattern beneath her slippers.
“I saw you in the entry hall,” he said softly. “From the receiving line. I knew who you were when I met you on the terrace.”
She stilled.
Then, slowly, Gwen dropped her hand and looked up at him.
He met her gaze squarely. There was no mockery in those eyes. Only sincerity, a quiet reverence that made her breath catch. Admiration, even.
She fidgeted beneath the weight of it, unsure what to do with such attention.
“Truly?” she asked.
“You put me in mind of a Botticelli masterpiece.”
He reached forward, his fingers deft and gentle, and tucked a stray curl back into her coiffure. It was a strangely intimate gesture, more affecting than the passionate kisses they had exchanged in the moonlight.
She realized, with a jolt, that she must look rather a fright. Her hair … her gown …
She wanted to believe him. Every woman would wish to believe such words, especially when they were spoken in a voice that sounded like velvet and truth combined. If it were even the smallest bit true …
“You have seen Botticelli firsthand?” she asked, voice hushed.
He nodded. “I could take you to Italy,” he said. “A Grand Tour, if you desire it.”
Gwen sucked in a breath, her eyes widening at the prospect of viewing great art. “I do not wish to force you into a union. The kiss was as much my fault as it was yours.”
Lord Abbott’s eyes raked over her face. “There is no force. I … find I … I find that I wish …” He paused, rubbing a hand over his face as he searched for the right words.
Gwen was fascinated. It was clear the gentleman was just as affected by this unexpected entanglement as she was.
What would he say, once the words came to him? She waited, breath caught in her chest.
“Before this night, I had no desire to marry. But now that we are here together, I wish to do the right thing, and I find that there are no reservations creeping in the corners of my mind. This is what I wish to do. It would be an honor to make you my wife.”
Lord Abbott’s gaze found hers with the final declaration, and Gwen saw nothing but sincerity in the depths of his rich brown eyes. Compelled to speak, she parted her lips to voice the only thought that had pushed all others away, leaving behind a single, dazzling hope for the future.
“If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces—”
His gaze did not falter, even for a moment. His deep voice answered hers with perfect confidence.
“‘The age to come would say “This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.”’”
Gwen shook her head slowly, utterly fascinated by his voice. By him.
She imagined marrying this man, discovering the intricacies of his nature, being cherished by him.
She imagined babes with chocolate thatches of fine hair and bright brown eyes and books shared across armchairs, poetry whispered beneath covers, and fires crackling warm on Christmas Eve.
She imagined moonlight and kisses, soft touches and sighs, strong hands and delighted shivers.
Gwen remembered the unwavering love shared between her father and mother, the joy that had filled their home upon Gareth’s birth, and the quiet hopes she had buried deep within her own heart. And in that still moment, she knew she wanted to say yes.
“Are you certain?” she asked softly.
Lord Abbott’s lips curved into a crooked, utterly disarming smile. “I am.”
Gwen’s thoughts churned with astonishing speed. The choice before her was stark. The certainty of social ruin … or the unknown of a future with this man.
She had not met Lord Moreland personally, but his reputation preceded him.
The Abbotts were considered an honorable family.
Loyal, charitable, and admirably prudent with their considerable wealth.
Lord Abbott’s name had never been tainted with scandal, at least not to her knowledge.
The only recent whispers involved his sister, who had evidently made a love match under somewhat hurried circumstances.
“I like to read,” she said abruptly, testing him.
“So do I.”
“You would not mind if I continued my studies?”
His grin widened. “I would encourage it. We shall debate the philosophers and quarrel over which of them proves most persuasive.”
She paused. “And this … this would be a real marriage? Not merely a matter of propriety?”
His gaze dropped to her lips, which she licked nervously. A hint of amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth before he replied, voice low and warm. “It shall be a real marriage. Of that, you may be very certain.”
Color bloomed across her cheeks. She glanced away, only to find herself inadvertently staring at the broad chest she had crushed herself against not long ago. The very one she had longed to touch with reckless hands beneath the cloak of moonlight.
And to her horror, her own hand rose now, as though independent of her mind, to trace the firm line of his wool coat. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel the rapid thrum of his heart matched only by the wild rhythm of her own.
Some part of her remembered that she had planned to remain steadfast. To convince her father and this gallant stranger that the notion of marriage was preposterous.
But another part, perhaps the truest part, was still the girl who had dreamed of love. Of finding a kindred spirit. Of building a life with someone who would value her mind as much as her heart.
Of curling into strong arms and whispering hopes into the night.
Of stepping boldly into a future her mother would have approved of.
She exhaled, long and slow. And gave her answer.
“Then we shall see where this path might lead.”
Even as Lord Abbott’s face lit up and he leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to her lips, Gwen’s brow furrowed slightly.
A thought had surfaced, unbidden and troubling.
She did not recall his name on the guest list.
How had he come to be here this evening?