Chapter 6 #2
“I concur. It is quite a pickle you have put yourself in, Little Breeches.” Trafford’s languid tone had returned, his earlier irritation now gone.
He was once more the picture of repose, his legs stretched comfortably beneath the polished oak table.
“Your bride is going to despise you if you do this.”
Aidan did not like that thought. The notion of Gwen’s hate—her warmth turned to coldness, her mouth drawn tight with betrayal—sat like a stone in his gut.
What he wanted was her warm body nestled beside him, the press of her mouth beneath his, the glorious words of poets on her lips.
He wanted to hear Manilius and Shakespeare spoken in her melodic voice, to spar with her over Aristotle’s writings by the drawing room fire.
Love, intelligence, and honor … for the rest of their days.
“I will work it out,” he said, but an undercurrent of doubt threaded his words.
He closed his eyes, drew in a breath scented faintly with old paper and the oil of polished wood, and reached inward.
I must work it out.
“I will work it out.” This time his voice held confidence. Finality.
Filminster looked down, visibly relieved not to press further. He and Aidan were hardly confidants, their bond forged not through familiarity, but mutual concern for Lily’s safety. They had met through circumstance, not affinity, and though civility bound them, trust was only slowly earned.
Still, Aidan regretted the solitude of his situation. Having only recently returned from the Grand Tour, he had no close allies in London. There was no one with whom to confess the impossible knot he found himself ensnared.
Filminster rubbed a hand across his jaw, his cuff rustling against the wool of his sleeve as he sought something useful to offer. “Perhaps we will find another viable suspect. Maybe Smythe has a reasonable explanation for the funds he is acquiring.”
That would be the best possible outcome.
Yet Aidan could not shake the weight in his gut.
Something about Smythe’s actions rang of evasion, of desperation disguised as dignity.
He did not allow himself much hope. The deeper the investigation, the clearer it became that the path led to the very doorstep of the woman he was coming to cherish.
He would marry Gwen before the matter advanced further. It was imperative. With the banns read and the vows exchanged, she and her younger brother would be under his protection, no matter how muddled the waters became thereafter.
Gwen and Octavia stepped into the modiste’s salon owned by Signora Ricci, the soft chime of the bell above the door announcing their entrance like a whisper of expectation.
The air inside was delicately perfumed with rose water and starch, threaded with the subtle spice of imported silks.
Gwen held a folded sheet of thick cream-laid paper, her father’s neat script listing everything she must acquire to reflect her new rank.
She was to be married.
Once she took her vows with Lord Abbott, she would no longer be the mere niece of a baron, navigating society’s edges.
Nay, she would ascend to become the wife of a future viscount, one tied to a family flush with influence and ancient silver.
The thought quickened her breath. The scale of it loomed like the Tower itself. Daunting, cold, and inescapable.
But Signora Ricci was her secret talisman. Her hidden weapon of self-assurance.
Years ago, after a particularly mortifying ball and too many cutting remarks from snide schoolmates, Gwen had prowled Mayfair for a modiste who could dress her long limbs and boyish figure with elegance.
She had found Ricci tucked into a quiet corner near Hanover Square, an Italian widow with a flair for flattery and a talent for architectural draping.
That first gown, soft mulberry silk with a daring Grecian fall, had been nothing short of a rebirth.
“Ah, la signorina returns!” the modiste called from behind a half-drawn curtain, her thick Italian accent as warm as hot chocolate. “Come, we make the swan ready for her coronation, sì?”
Ricci had always dismissed the cruel whispers of English debutantes, those who called Gwen a giraffe behind her back and mocked her want of curves.
According to the signora, Gwen would be hailed as a rare Venetian opal on the Continent.
Gwen knew it was salesmanship, but in those days, it had been salvation.
While Gwen unbuttoned her gloves at the display near the front window, Octavia was already elbow-deep in bolts of fabric, fingering the textures with the scrutiny of a jeweler evaluating pearls.
She murmured disapproval at most selections, frowning at garish taffetas and favoring the finer muslins and crisp lawn cottons for morning gowns.
The bell over the door rang again, sharp and unwelcoming.
Gwen glanced over her shoulder, and her stomach tightened in dread, a visceral pull as unmistakable as nausea. Entering with her usual coterie of whispers and expensive perfume was Millicent “Milly” Jameson, now Lady Tuttle of West Essex.
Her nemesis.
Milly’s gaze landed on Gwen with surgical precision. Her narrow eyes gleamed with satisfaction as her mouth curved in a sneer sharpened by memory.
“Well, well. Gwen, Gwen …”
She let the name dangle in the air like a noose. Gwen, Gwen, the Spotted Giraffe. The old insult echoed in Gwen’s ears, as vivid as ink upon white muslin.
Gwen stood straighter, her spine stiffening like a ramrod, though no answer came to her lips. Always, with Milly, she was caught defenseless, ensnared by the echo of long-past humiliations that still clung to her skin like soot.
“Milly …” she managed, her voice a croak that tasted of old shame.
Milly’s painted lips parted in mock innocence. “Is it true, Gwen-Gwen? Are you to join our ranks as a viscountess?”
Gwen swallowed hard, her throat dry. Words, usually her allies, abandoned her the instant she locked eyes with the past. With her.
It was always like this with the old schoolgirls, the original guard of her torment. Their memory had claws. Though a decade might have passed, the echo of their laughter was sharp and fresh as if carved into her skin only yesterday.
Those two years at Miss Hedgerow’s Academy for Young Ladies had been a daily gauntlet.
The other girls had despised her from the first. Her awkward height, her reserve, her grief for a mother lost to illness, and her head forever buried in Greek or philosophy rather than court gossip.
They had given her a name, the Spotted Giraffe, a reference to the freckles that marred her skin and her gangly figure, and they had wielded it like a cudgel.
Her father, distracted by his own mourning and by the demands of his estate, had only intervened once it was too late.
He had withdrawn her at last, but by then, her confidence was rubble.
Books had been her only solace. They never mocked or sneered. They listened. They made her feel clever. Safe.
Society, on the other hand, was a minefield laced with traps like Milly.
As Gwen floundered, Octavia appeared at her side like an avenging angel in stout woollen attire. She stepped slightly ahead, her broad shoulders forming a bulwark of protection.
“That is correct,” Octavia said in a firm tone. “Miss Smythe is betrothed to Lord Abbott.”
Milly’s gaze did not shift to acknowledge the servant.
Her cold eyes swept over Gwen like a critic inspecting a flawed painting.
She was the picture of high-society perfection, clothed in a seafoam pelisse embroidered in pale ivory thread.
At least six inches shorter than Gwen, she had the full figure that fashion idealized.
Generous bosom, nipped waist, glossy golden curls, a porcelain complexion without freckle or flaw.
Her nose was sculpted and narrow, her lips a perfect rosebud.
It was well-known she had received several offers her first Season and had married a viscount twice her age with a healthy estate and a voice in Parliament. She had not let Gwen forget it.
Milly arched a finely plucked brow, voice silky. “Lord Abbott is quite the catch. Although I had not heard he was blind.”
The barb landed. Gwen felt the heat rise along her throat, and her vision narrowed at the edges. She barely registered the low sound of displeasure at her side.
Ouch!
Gwen winced, whipping her head toward Octavia, only to find her companion smiling sweetly at a bolt of champagne silk, her eyes bright with mischief. The lady’s maid tilted her head just so, an unmistakable signal.
Stand up. Push back.
Gwen cleared her throat. Her fingers tightened on the glove she still held in her left hand.
“Lord Abbott and I are to wed,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
Another rumbling growl from her side, more insistent now. Octavia’s version of a battle drum.
Gwen lifted her chin. “He is … quite taken with me.”
Milly’s laughter rang out through the salon, brittle and theatrical.
It jarred with the gentle rustling of fabrics and the murmur of shop girls in the back rooms. The sound cracked open the vault Gwen had tried to seal.
Memories of awkward dancing lessons, the smell of chalk, and girls sniggering behind gloved hands.
The ache of wanting her mother. The guilt of troubling her grieving father.
“Is he?”
Octavia squared her shoulders, inhaling sharply through her nose as if preparing to launch a volley at the polished predator before them.
Her stance was protective, coiled energy beneath plain muslin and a modest fichu.
But before she could speak, Gwen felt herself detach.
For a breathless instant, it was as though she rose above her body, observing the scene as one might a diorama in a shop window.
And from that vantage point, something shifted.