Chapter 7 #2
Lord Moreland stepped forward and took her hand with a warm, practiced bow as his wife moved aside.
“A pleasure, Miss Gwendolyn. Lady Moreland is, as you can see, quite delighted by the notion of welcoming a new generation of Abbotts. But before we get ahead of ourselves, I believe we have a wedding to discuss, my dear.”
The last was addressed to his wife, who gave a light, dismissive wave as though such details were rather beneath her, mere ceremony, when grandchildren were the true prize.
Gwen discreetly pinched the fabric of her skirt against her leg. Just to be sure. Nothing changed. Perhaps she had dreamt the pinch?
Across the room, her father was positively glowing, his blue eyes bright with amusement and pride. Clearly, the mention of heirs had met with his enthusiastic approval. Gwen, on the other hand, was barely holding herself together.
Still, she managed a curtsy, awkward but passable. “Thank you, Lord Moreland.”
Then, at last, she turned to face her betrothed.
Lord Abbott.
Aidan.
He bowed with practiced ease, a glint of warmth in his expression. “Good evening, Gwen. You are ravishing tonight.”
His gaze swept over her, appreciative but gentle. And just like that, the tension in her chest lessened. For a moment, all her frantic thoughts were suspended, replaced by the quiet, haunting memory of moonlight and shared words.
“Lord Abbott,” she replied softly, the name catching on her breath.
It was odd to think this was only their second meeting. They had shared more in a single evening—conversation, vulnerability, a promise—than she had with any gentleman in her life. And now, here she was, standing before his parents, while the topic of future progeny had already been raised.
Just a week ago, she had resigned herself to spinsterhood. Now she was stumbling through a formal introduction and grappling with subjects that she had never raised outside the privacy of her own thoughts.
“I think it is acceptable,” he murmured, “to address me as Aidan?”
His brown eyes gleamed in the lamplight. Mischievous, daring, and a touch too handsome for her peace of mind.
Aidan.
She had whispered that name into the quiet of her bedchamber since finding it in Debrett’s. She had said it beneath her breath, mouthing it like a secret.
Lady Gwendolyn Abbott.
That had played on repeat in her thoughts as well. She liked the sound of it.
Lord and Lady Abbott.
Too late, Gwen realized she had been staring at him for far too long. Their families stood in observation, and she was woolgathering like a schoolgirl in church.
“Aidan,” she blurted, flushing as she withdrew her hand.
The entire scene still felt too polished, too charmed, to be genuine.
A handsome and eligible heir had offered for her.
His parents were receiving her with open arms. And apparently, a curated list of names for their future grandchildren.
Her father looked like a cat who had not only cornered the cream but had spied the cheese tray as well.
Something, surely, was about to go wrong.
Although she had attended countless social gatherings, Gwen had no idea what to do next. She stood awkwardly, unsure of her role in the unfolding tableau.
Which was when Providence intervened, disguised in the form of Jenson, the butler, appeared in the doorway.
“Dinner is served.”
Aidan stepped forward and offered his arm. Steady, well-formed, and thoroughly male. Gwen blinked down at it, momentarily startled, before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow with tentative grace.
She could feel the strength beneath the fabric, the solid warmth of him at her side. It would have been far too easy to lean in, to sigh with appreciation.
Fortunately, good manners, and the presence of his entire family, restrained her from such an indelicate display.
Aidan found himself once more entranced by his Venus. Gwen’s presence had a way of quieting the clamor in his mind, even now as her hand rested lightly on his arm, sending a faint ripple of warmth up through his sleeve.
He had scarcely registered the strange exchange between his mother and Gwen’s maid, his thoughts temporarily diverted by the gentle pressure of her fingers. But the momentary reverie faded as he glanced along the hallway and noticed something unsettling.
Missing paintings.
Here and there, along the walls, pale rectangles marked where portraits or landscapes had once hung. Their absence was stark. Faded wallpaper framed the ghosts of what had recently adorned the corridor.
It was yet more evidence of Mr. Smythe’s liquidation efforts. Aidan had already noted signs of financial strain, but this … this was far more extensive than the short list he had compiled over the past fortnight. Smythe had been parting with family possessions far longer than Aidan had suspected.
As they entered the dining room, Aidan’s mood dimmed.
He wanted this evening to belong to Gwen, to celebrate their impending marriage, to allow himself a moment of calm.
But as his eyes swept the shelves along one wall, he saw that the display was sparse.
Fewer objets d’art than any well-appointed home ought to contain.
What should have been there was not.
He took a steadying breath.
His father had asked him to delay any further investigation until after the wedding, only days away now. But each omission, each silent space, frayed his patience. The dead baron, the persisting threat to his sister. None of it had been resolved.
Lily with the bold voice and unguarded heart. She deserved far better than a distracted brother playing at betrothal while danger loomed.
Their parents moved to their seats, and he accompanied Gwen around to the far side of the table. He drew out her chair and helped her to sit, catching the shimmer of lamplight on her hair before taking his own place beside her.
He must set these thoughts aside … at least for now.
Filminster and Trafford had warned him that the path ahead would be treacherous, to be both a faithful fiancé and a vigilant protector. The weight of that dual responsibility pressed down on him as he exhaled in a quiet puff of breath.
Gwen’s head turned toward him at once, eyes flickering with concern. He managed a small smile for her benefit, willing himself to be present.
Beneath the table, he reached for her hand.
Her fingers met his with a shy stillness. When he gently traced his thumb over her knuckles, she did not pull away. Instead, her hand curled softly into his, the quiet gesture anchoring him more firmly than any spoken vow.
For a moment, they remained thus, hands joined beneath the linen-draped table, a private connection beneath the polite hum of conversation.
The footmen entered, setting out the first course as his mother launched into a cheerful recitation of distinguished Abbott ancestors. Mr. Smythe responded with his own modest offerings from the Smythe family history.
Aidan glanced at Gwen. She was biting her lip as she lifted her spoon, clearly doing her utmost to remain composed.
“Chestnut?” he asked gently.
She nodded. “It is Papa’s favorite.”
“And yours?”
“I do not much care for soup,” she admitted.
“What do you care for?”
She looked over at him, the barest smile forming at the corners of her mouth. “Fruit. Oranges, especially.”
Aidan suppressed a low breath in his throat, remembering the faint taste of citrus on her lips during their moonlit kiss.
The recollection sent a flush of heat through him, sharp and unexpected.
He had never known such an immediate and visceral fascination with a woman, not like this.
Not the pull of her presence. The memory of her fragrant hair, the way she had looked up at him in surprise and wonder. It lingered.
And soon, they would be married.
The thought stirred something perilous, and he forced his attention back to the moment. Still, the idea of a quiet stroll on the terrace after dinner, where he might steal another kiss and taste her sweetness once more—was hard to resist.
Keeping his voice low, so their parents would not overhear, he leaned slightly toward her. “Was that the scent I breathed that night?”
Gwen flushed instantly, color blooming from her neckline to her cheekbones, momentarily dimming her freckles.
“There is bergamot in my soap,” she murmured.
Aidan inhaled again, savoring the memory and the subtle fragrance now clinging to her skin. “The moon shines bright. In such a night as this. When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees and they did make no noise … in such a night …”
She nearly choked on a spoonful of soup, coughing behind her napkin and darting him a reproachful look. Her gaze flicked nervously toward their parents to ensure they hadn’t overheard.
“Shhh,” she hissed under her breath.
Aidan’s grin widened. “Not for a moment, sweet Venus.”
He was no practiced flirt. Yet with Gwen, poetry sprang unbidden to his lips, along with musings far less poetic. He pictured her hair unbound, her fingers twined with his, the warmth of her hand in his. He thought of what it meant to be husband and wife in the truest sense.
With effort, he shook off the vision and grounded himself once more at the table, focusing on the quiet clink of silver and the murmured conversation around him.
“We used to travel north during the summer,” Mr. Smythe was saying, his voice calm, pleasant. “But alas, this year we shall remain in London.”
The comment jarred Aidan from his woolgathering.
There had been a bill of sale for a Yorkshire property among the documents he had reviewed. And now, with Smythe seated before him, this was his chance to learn something.