Chapter 8
Eight
“Youth is easily deceived because it is quick to hope.”
Aristotle
Gwen awoke with a hollow pang of guilt to find Buttercup perched beside her on the coverlet, eyes unblinking and reproachful, as though the little creature had been appointed her moral sentinel.
“Do not look at me so.”
Buttercup’s slender snout twitched, and she let out a quiet whine from deep in her throat before hopping down and scurrying out the door, claws clicking against the floorboards. Perhaps she needed to visit the necessary, Gwen mused, though her hasty exit felt pointed, as if in censure.
Flopping onto her back with a sigh, Gwen stared at the canopy above her head and let the weight of the previous evening descend upon her shoulders. Had she been wrong to tell Aidan about the Yorkshire estate?
Would it wound her father’s pride to know she had revealed such a truth?
He had always been fastidious about his reputation.
Yet Aidan had asked her a direct question, and evasion had never been her strength.
The truth had slipped from her lips before she had fully registered the implications.
Still, what good would deceit have done? He would learn of it in time.
Life amongst the ton was exhausting. So many rules. So many unspoken expectations. And always the looming specter of scandal. It was absurd to her that the sale of one’s property could invite whispers of disgrace. The land had been her father’s to sell. Why must that choice imply failure?
Yet in society’s eyes, ownership meant everything. Her father had once possessed holdings that gave them standing, however modest. With only the London estate remaining, he now barely met the definition of “landed.” And in the rigid arithmetic of the beau monde, that changed everything.
Her marriage to Aidan would resolve much of this.
It was a stroke of fortune, an unexpected turn in a Season that had begun with minimal expectations.
Had the sale of the Yorkshire estate become widely known, she might have found herself entirely unmarriageable.
Their family’s connections were acceptable but not the most impressive, their resources limited, and her dowry modest.
She rolled to her side, propping her head on her hand, and stared toward the window where light filtered past the drapery in pale stripes. Why was Papa doing this? She had suspicions, but he had kept his reasoning to himself.
“Do not concern yourself, Gwendolyn. I know what I am doing.”
Gwen turned over as the swish of drawn curtains filled the room with pale morning light.
Octavia, ever punctual, had opened the drapes to let the day in.
She hoped Aidan meant everything he had implied last night, but what could she do now but trust him?
For years, her father had reassured her that the right man would appear.
Against all probability, he had been proved correct.
“Word of your wedding is out,” Octavia announced briskly.
Gwen looked up at her lady’s maid, whose cap sat slightly askew from this angle, making her appear as though her head teetered precariously atop her shoulders. With a sigh, Gwen pushed herself upright to rest against the headboard, the coverlet pooling around her waist.
“Apparently, it’s a love match,” Octavia continued, moving to plump the pillows at the foot of the bed.
Gwen gave a soft huff of laughter. “That is a bit rich. We only just met the night of the …” She waved a hand, unwilling to summon the memory aloud.
“I have it on good authority that Lady Astley is telling everyone that Lord Abbott is smitten with your red hair.”
Gwen frowned, unsettled. “Does he have a history of chasing women with red hair?”
Octavia shook her head. “He has no reputation whatever in regard to women. Lord Abbott returned from his Grand Tour a couple of months ago, and until the ball, his name had not been linked with anyone.”
Seeing Gwen’s skeptical expression, Octavia raised her brows. “I checked again. No history of redheads. No history at all.”
Gwen looked down, twisting her fingers in her lap. “Do you think … that he is genuinely enthralled with me?”
Octavia bent to give her a quick, heartfelt embrace. “I do.”
“Would it be so,” Gwen whispered. “Imagine if we might be faithful partners and have many children together. Gareth would be an uncle, our family would grow, and Papa would have grandchildren. We have all been so lonely since Mama …” Her voice caught, tears welling. “I could teach them …”
Octavia straightened, her tone gentle. “Just as Mrs. Smythe once did.”
Gwen swiped the tears from her lashes and nodded. “Just so.”
“It’s well deserved, you hear?” Octavia’s voice took on a firm note. “All these Seasons, I knew you were a catch. We were just waiting for the—”
“Right man.” They said it together, eyes meeting in shared amusement before laughter bubbled up between them.
“Mr. Smythe said he would appear,” Octavia went on. “The master said there’d be a gentleman who was overcome by your magnificence and the perfection of your mind and would fall at your feet … and he was right.”
“Papa is an eternal optimist.”
Octavia grinned, revealing her crooked teeth in a smile that Gwen had loved since childhood. “What’s the alternative, Gwendolyn Smythe?”
Gwen made a face, tapping her chin. “To become an embittered old bat?”
A shout of laughter burst forth. “Precisely! The alternative is to be Lady Astley.”
“Who is now telling everyone that it is my red hair that attracted the gentleman to my side? Only last year she was whispering to her friends that my red hair was a curse and the reason I would never wed.”
“Hah! Not so private, from what I hear.”
She twisted the edge of the coverlet between her fingers, reluctant to admit the secret blooming within her heart, but needing, desperately, to voice it aloud.
“I … like him, Octavia. I truly do. I want this to succeed. He is handsome and kind and clever, and I never dreamed I would find such a match.”
A bony hand emerged from the folds of Octavia’s work dress and tapped her gently on the thigh. Gwen shifted further back, making room as the older woman perched on the edge of the mattress with the ease of long familiarity.
“Those girls at school muddled your head,” Octavia said with quiet authority. “You were always meant to make a fine match with a wonderful man, but they convinced you that you were ugly. Do you know why they did it?”
Gwen shook her head, miserable at the awful recollections.
“They envied you,” Octavia said, matter-of-fact.
“You sailed through your lessons. No matter what you turned your mind to—Ancient Greek, needlework, music—you excelled. Your cleverness unsettled them. So they banded together to make nothing of you. It was cruel and meaningless, because you were the sort who would have helped them shine, too, if they’d only asked. ”
Gwen blinked hard. “But … Mama was a revered beauty. I have been mocked for nearly ten years.”
“And now,” Octavia said softly, “a gentleman has seen what I see. A true original.”
In her heart of hearts, Gwen wanted to believe it.
To believe in moonlight and magic. In the notion that a decent, intelligent man had not only noticed her, but desired her.
That she need not choose between a joyless match or a solitary future.
Her parents had demonstrated a love built on companionship, of homes filled with books and children, and laughter around the hearth.
Gwen heaved a long, shuddering breath. “I must make this work. This is my chance to build a family.”
“That’s the spirit, Gwendolyn Smythe!” Octavia said with a proud little nod, eyes gleaming.
Aidan stared at the note in his hand, suspended in that uneasy space between hope and dread. The cryptic contents gave him no indication of which sentiment to favor.
There has been a development - Filminster
Blast his brother-in-law for these cryptic notes. Would it have been so difficult to clarify what sort of development? Something that vindicated Frederick Smythe? Or something that condemned him? Or perhaps something entirely unrelated, which would only entangle matters still further?
Rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck from side to side, Aidan tried to dispel the tension burrowed in his spine. He resolved to finish his breakfast while the servants prepared his mount. He had not slept well, and sustenance would help combat the fatigue that clung to him like damp wool.
He gestured to Thomas, their head footman, and made his request quietly before returning his attention to his plate.
Eggs and ham. Simple fare, but welcome. The past days had been a series of interruptions and investigations, each more aggravating than the last. Best to take advantage of the opportunity to eat while it presented itself.
The note, after all, had not indicated urgency.
Once fortified, Aidan departed the Abbott townhouse and rode to Ridley House. He dismounted with efficiency and knocked, waiting with the tense patience of a man prepared for almost anything.
The door opened to reveal Michaels, the Ridley butler.
It was the same man who had saved Aidan’s sister from a desperate servant, an act of bravery not soon forgotten.
Aidan had thanked him on the day of the incident, yet Michaels’s notoriously curt demeanor made it difficult to discern whether his gratitude had been well received.
Aidan still found himself uncertain how to conduct himself around the man.
Members of the ton were not, as a rule, expected to engage closely with household staff, especially in homes not their own.
But the Abbotts had always been somewhat unorthodox in that respect.
A familial warmth had developed between their household and their long-serving retainers, an intimacy born not of indulgence but of mutual respect.
Still, this was not his home. And Michaels was not his servant.
But what if the man in question had saved your sister’s life?