Chapter 9
Nine
“Hope is a waking dream.”
Aristotle
Buttercup, Octavia, and Gwen stood in the entrance hall of the Smythe residence, quietly observing as footmen carried Lord Abbott’s trunks up the stairs and into the bedchamber adjacent to hers.
Aidan’s valet, a gaunt figure with impeccable attire and a voice pitched with the precision of a court musician, directed the activity with fluttering fingers and a sharp eye.
The whole situation felt most peculiar. Her father had informed her, quite matter-of-factly, that she and Aidan would reside in the family home until their new household was ready for occupation. And so it was settled.
Gwen was not aware of any precedent for a peer of Aidan’s standing to install himself, post-nuptials, in the home of a gentleman several rungs lower on the social ladder. Yet given that Lord and Lady Moreland were soon to retire to the country, it seemed the most practical arrangement.
“What do you suppose is in Lord Abbott’s trunks?” Octavia asked, tilting her head as another heavily laden servant passed by. “There are so many of them.”
Gwen inhaled through her nose, considering, before replying with a confident air. “Books. The extra trunks contain his books.”
Octavia’s brow lifted in mild surprise.
“He has just returned from the Continent,” Gwen elaborated. “He quotes Marcus Manilius and Shakespeare with the kind of fluency one could not feign. He must read constantly.”
A slow smile spread across Octavia’s face. “He does not look like a scholar.”
She lifted her hands to sketch the breadth of Aidan’s shoulders and the tapering line to his hips, before finishing with a conspicuous cupping motion that drew Gwen’s breath to a sudden halt.
“Octavia!” The word was a gasp of protest, though its force was blunted by long-standing familiarity.
The lady’s maid merely shrugged, wholly unrepentant. “I know you’ve noticed, Gwendolyn Smythe.”
Buttercup whined at their feet, her pink tongue lolling in canine approval of Octavia’s indelicate insinuation.
Gwen blushed fiercely. The telltale heat began at her décolletage and surged up her throat to her cheeks, a fiery tide that left no doubt of her mortification. She said nothing. There was no need. Octavia would draw her own conclusions from that alone.
The maid gave her a sidelong glance. “I thought as much. Just think … tonight is your wedding night. You shall have the opportunity to behold, first-hand …” She repeated the cupping motion with exaggerated flair, her meaning all too clear.
Gwen exhaled, a flustered puff escaping her lips.
The very notion of Aidan entering her bedchamber made her limbs go oddly weightless.
Of course she had imagined their first private kiss, removing his coat, touching his shoulders …
Her blush deepened. Enough! It would hardly do to faint in the hallway from the weight of her own imagination.
Mercifully, Octavia shifted course. “Did you ever learn why the wedding was delayed until now?”
Grateful for the change in topic, Gwen seized it. “It was to allow for his cousin to return from Somerset. Lord Moreland insisted that the scandal had settled enough, now that the wedding was announced, to send for his niece and her family. Apparently, she grew up with Lord Abbott and his sister.”
Octavia tilted her head in thought, then her eyes widened. “Do you mean the Countess of Saunton?”
“I believe so. Lady Sophia Balfour.”
Octavia let out a choking sound. “And is Lord Saunton accompanying her?”
Gwen turned from the hall, brows raised. “Yes, why?”
“Do you know who Lord Saunton is?”
“No, not particularly.”
“His father was Lord Satan. Infamous for seducing the staff and ruining reputations. The younger Saunton was said to be the same … until he married a girl he scarcely knew. Last year, he acknowledged a child born out of wedlock by a maid. The boy lives with them now.”
This information jarred against the image Gwen had formed of the Abbott family. Dignified, respectable, above reproach.
“Why would such a family permit that match?” she wondered aloud. Then her eyes widened. “Ought we warn the maids downstairs to be cautious?”
Octavia raised a hand to nibble absently at her thumbnail, the tension written plainly across her broad, expressive face.
But then, with a sharp breath, she dropped her hand and straightened her spine.
“I have not heard anything recent,” she said briskly, “but I shall inform the housekeeper. Cook will know if there is any risk in serving him.”
“Perhaps the maids ought to remain out of sight until his departure,” Gwen suggested, her brow furrowed. “The footmen can manage the main rooms for the time being.”
Octavia gave a swift nod and darted off, skirts fluttering like a startled flock of starlings. Her hurried step and bobbing head only added to the impression, an image Gwen often observed in the Smythe gardens when birds took sudden flight. Her maid’s unease was unmistakable.
Buttercup watched the retreating woman with her characteristic squint, the slight baring of her teeth suggesting commentary on the hazards that awaited unguarded women. Gwen, observing her, could not disagree. Their own meeting had arisen under such danger.
Yet, despite all warnings, Gwen could not help but feel a flicker of intrigue.
What must it be like to encounter such a man?
A notorious rake, reputed to have seduced staff and cast shame upon his family name.
He was hardly the sort of gentleman her father would welcome into their circle.
Still, if there was no threat to the women belowstairs, she could not deny a faint thrill at the prospect of observing such a man with her own eyes.
What astonished her most was that Lady Sophia Balfour, Aidan’s cousin, had welcomed her husband’s illegitimate child into their home. Had she done so willingly? Or had duty compelled her? Was she privately humiliated, or had affection somehow triumphed over pride?
The connection to the Abbott family confounded her. Octavia had spoken of them in terms that implied discreet propriety. This, however, complicated the portrait.
Turning back toward her chamber, Gwen nudged Buttercup inside with a gentle foot, offering a quick scratch behind the ears before shutting the door. The little dog trotted to the hearth as Gwen moved to the mirror.
Her wedding gown awaited.
Signora Ricci had crafted it in a rich shade of azure, and now it clung to Gwen’s figure with soft precision.
The silk was luxurious yet delicate, as though spun from seafoam, and Gwen had selected the color with a very particular inspiration in mind, The Birth of Venus.
Aidan’s admiring words had lingered with her, and this hue, like morning mist above a calm ocean, had seemed apt.
She had taken a risk with the contrast. Red hair and green-blue silk made a striking combination, and she hoped, perhaps too eagerly, that he had meant what he said. That he did, in fact, find her beautiful.
Nerves fluttered low in her belly, not with dread but with the sweet tremble of uncertainty. Should she descend to greet the arriving guests on her own? Or wait for Octavia’s return?
But then she recalled the strained exchange between her lady’s maid and Lady Moreland. It was entirely possible that Octavia, still cowed by the dowager’s commanding presence, would find reason to remain out of sight.
Gwen sighed, shoulders squaring before the mirror.
Alone it is.
Squaring her shoulders, Gwen summoned what confidence she possessed, assuring herself she had judged Aidan’s preferences correctly.
Despite her habitual skepticism, a number of hopes had quietly taken root in her heart.
Her father’s enduring optimism had proved contagious, and Gwen prayed, fervently, that she would not come to rue the decision to allow herself to dream.
After so many years spent skirting the outer edges of the beau monde, enduring its condescension with dignity, she now dared to imagine a future filled with companionship, respect, and perhaps even affection.
If fortune were kind, she might come to count herself among those rare few who married well in both title and temperament.
As she prepared to leave her room, she turned to Buttercup and whispered, “Sorry, girl. This is not the time to follow me.”
The little dog whined, her haunches wiggling against the floor in dismay. Yet she did not attempt to move from her place near the mirror, clearly electing to await Gwen’s return with canine resolve.
Gwen smiled and closed the door gently behind her.
Descending the staircase, she paused before the small drawing room, the very room where she had once endured her first meeting with Aidan’s parents, and stepped inside to find that their guests had already arrived.
Aidan moved toward her at once. With a graceful bow, he extended his arm.
He was sartorial perfection, his navy coat molded to his shoulders, the rich wool catching the morning light. Gwen accepted his arm, and his voice, low and warm, curled through her like a silken ribbon.
“You are ravishing this morning, Miss Smythe.”
A thrill danced down her spine. She smiled demurely and turned her gaze to the gathering, surprised to find the company more numerous than expected.
By the window stood a man of striking stature, towering well above six feet. With his blond hair and storm-gray eyes, he bore the look of a Norse marauder. Something about his countenance was familiar, though she could not recall ever having been introduced.
Beside him stood a young woman of elegant bearing, her dark chestnut curls styled high atop her head in an intricate arrangement that suggested wealth, taste, and a modiste with a deft hand.
Aidan led her toward the pair with unmistakable deference, which all but confirmed her suspicion that the imposing gentleman held the highest rank among them.
Coming to a halt, Aidan spoke. “Miss Smythe, I have the honor of presenting His Grace, the Duke of Halmesbury.”