Chapter 10
Ten
“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.”
Aristotle
Gwen was not sure what to do. Her new husband had left hours ago, and still he had not returned.
It was nearing the hour to prepare for dinner, yet she had imagined something quite different for this evening.
She had envisioned they might retire early.
That she would wear her azure gown, selected carefully for this very moment.
Now she stood rooted in indecision.
Should she change for dinner? Or remain in her wedding gown, a hopeful symbol turned strange with every passing minute?
They were frivolous thoughts, and she knew it.
Yet they served to distract her from the quiet panic that had been building in the pit of her stomach ever since Aidan had departed with such haste.
The more time passed, the more certain she became that he regretted marrying her.
And that notion, so sharp and bitter, was especially painful now that she had met his family and had begun to feel the warmth of belonging.
She had thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon with little Ethan and the others.
Most of her social life had been spent in the company of those much older.
Younger women had often regarded her with clipped politeness or subtle malice, and the younger gentlemen had shown such cool indifference that meaningful conversation had been a rarity.
Today had been different.
Among his family, clever engaging people of various temperaments, Gwen had found a tentative hope for the future.
It felt as though a door had quietly opened to a life she had not dared to imagine, one filled with laughter, with conversation, with true companionship.
She had anticipated invitations and letters, outings and dinners.
She had even allowed herself to look forward to a new chapter with Aidan, with tentative joy.
Gwen closed her wardrobe. She had been standing before it for several minutes without making any decision at all.
“He hates being married to me,” she murmured.
“Nonsense!” Octavia’s reply was swift, but a note of hesitation in her voice betrayed her doubt. “He … just had … something important to do. Someone important to see.”
At Octavia’s feet, Buttercup gave a low whine, as if lending her small agreement. The dog’s soft brown eyes fixed on Gwen with canine intensity, as though she too shared in the collective concern.
“On our wedding day?” Gwen asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Octavia turned away, clearly at a loss for words. Buttercup remained seated, ever watchful, her gaze unwavering as Gwen moved about the room in restless fits, picking up gloves, then placing them down, smoothing a hem that did not need smoothing.
Buttercup tilted her head, her silent companionship both comforting and a little accusing.
“Should I change for dinner?” Gwen asked aloud, to no one in particular.
Octavia stepped forward, her voice gentle now. “Perhaps I should bring up a tray?”
Gwen nodded silently. Her father had already declared that he would not be available for dinner, which meant she would be left to eat alone at the vast dining table, an image far from appealing, especially when her thoughts would dwell only on Aidan’s continued absence.
After Octavia departed, Gwen wandered toward the window and sank into the indigo wingback armchair, her mother’s old favorite.
Picking up her well-worn copy of The Odyssey, she attempted to immerse herself in Homer’s epic.
But after reading the same line thrice without comprehension, she tossed the book gently onto the side table.
Buttercup, ever loyal, padded after her and settled heavily upon Gwen’s slippered feet, her warm weight a silent encouragement to calm herself.
Have I made a mistake?
The thought was as unwelcome as it was disheartening. It seemed too soon, entirely too soon, for such doubts to take root. She had hoped to float in blissful contentment for at least a few days before reality and uncertainty crept in.
Drumming her fingers against the plush armrest, Gwen stared out at the garden, its hedges pruned into gentle curves, the lawn sloping toward the silver ribbon of the Thames glimmering in the evening light.
Her father’s only remaining property, yes, but still a jewel.
An oasis amid the hum of London life. She would miss this place once she and Aidan established their new household.
The indigo chair, though, that she would take with her. It bore memories of afternoons spent beside her mother, of laughter and shared stories. It brought her peace, and she would not leave it behind.
Mama would tell me to buck up and take action.
But how?
She did not even know where Aidan had gone. And she could hardly go dashing about Town in search of him. Noblewomen did not storm gentlemen’s clubs. At least, not as a rule.
Although …
She was married now. That came with freedoms, did it not? Even Milly, dreadful as she had been, had shown no hesitation in bending the rules.
Perhaps it was time she did the same.
Gently slipping her feet from beneath the still-resting Buttercup, Gwen stood, her expression firming with resolve.
She had spent years seeking solace in libraries and books, withdrawing from the callous treatment she had endured in her youth.
But this … this was her life now. Her marriage. Her chance to build something new.
She strode toward the door, her decision made. She would wait no longer. Aidan needed to face her, and if he had any regrets, well, he could nurse them later. After he had done his duty and shown her the courtesy she deserved.
Whipping open the door, she let out a startled shriek.
Aidan stood on the other side, hand raised as if to knock.
He was in a state of partial disarray. Barefoot on the polished wood, his buckskin breeches slightly dusted from travel. His coat was on, but no waistcoat or stockings, and the column of his throat was bare, his shirt undone.
Clapping a hand to her chest, Gwen stared at him, her heart galloping behind her ribs.
“Where have you been?” The question burst from her lips before she could compose her thoughts.
Aidan held her gaze, his voice low, steady, and sincere. “Thinking about you.”
Her brows drew together. It was tempting to believe his words, to let her heart be soothed by them, but what did they truly mean?
“What does that mean … that you were thinking of me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Aidan drew in a deep breath, as though steadying himself. “I was considering the honor of joining you in your bed.”
The air seemed to thin, caught somewhere between her chest and throat. His eyes drifted to her lips, framed by dark lashes, and when he spoke again, his voice had deepened into something velvety and slow, like a fine claret warmed with honey.
“‘O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!’”
Startled, Gwen felt a warm jolt run through her, not from the words alone, though they were exquisite, but from the fact that they were directed at her. Her!
Then, from the region near her ankles, came a low growl.
Both she and Aidan glanced downward.
“You have a dog,” he said with an air of surprise.
“Buttercup,” she replied. “I rescued her from a halfpenny showman last week after I saw him kick her in the ribs.”
His brows lifted slightly. He studied the small bristling creature with amusement and something bordering on admiration. “She has thoughts about me entering your room.”
It was true. Buttercup’s hackles were raised, her eyes narrowed, her growl now a steady hum of displeasure.
“I think she wishes to protect you.”
Gwen smiled, warmed by the little dog’s fierce loyalty. “I am afraid you must leave now, girl.” She stooped to gently gather the pup and swept her out into the hall, closing the door behind her.
When she rose and turned back, Aidan’s eyes were fixed on her.
Her breath caught as she saw the intensity in his gaze, something tender and yet powerful. The recitation of Shakespeare had sent a fluttering warmth through her, but it was the way he looked at her now, as though she were both mystery and miracle, that stole her breath entirely.
Her pulse quickened, her skin tingling beneath his gaze. She licked her lips nervously, instinctively and noted the way his eyes flickered in response, as though that small gesture had unmoored something within him.
He stepped closer.
Not with force, but with solemnity. His hand rose and lightly rested at her waist, his touch tentative, seeking permission.
There was a long silence between them. One filled not with words, but the rhythm of shared breath.
“I have never wanted to rush something so badly,” he whispered. “And never wanted to get it so right.”
Her throat tightened with emotion. She could not quite speak, so she merely nodded.
Aidan reached behind him, his fingers fumbling briefly before the door closed with a quiet click. He did not move closer, not yet. Instead, he searched her face, as if to memorize it, every freckle and curve etched into his mind like a treasured line of verse.
When he did lower his head, it was slow. Intentional.
Their lips met gently. No blaze, no devouring, only the soft, shivering wonder of a first kiss as husband and wife. It was a vow made tangible.
There was no need for more. Not yet. The fire could wait.
A sudden growl caused them both to still and glance about.
Buttercup, ever vigilant, had apparently re-entered the room before the door had been fully shut. A silly oversight, Gwen supposed, but one that brought the moment to an abrupt halt.
Aidan huffed, not without amusement, and moved to the door.
Gwen quickly bent down, gathering the bristling dog into her arms and guiding her firmly across the threshold.
Buttercup gave one last pointed glance before Gwen’s hand slipped back into the room, and Aidan closed the door with a soft finality, a small click signaling their temporary solitude.
A sharp, indignant bark rang out, followed by the sound of tiny paws scampering off, likely toward the kitchens, where sympathy could be found in the form of leftover beef.
Gwen stood, her cheeks warm with both fondness and anticipation. She turned back toward Aidan, who watched her with quiet intensity.
Her hands rose, not with haste but with wonder, to the lapels of his coat. She longed to place her palms against his chest, out of the need to feel something true and real and steady beneath her fingertips. The coat shifted slightly beneath her grasp.
“Citrus,” he murmured softly, as though just now registering her scent.
His lips brushed her cheek, warm and searching. She tilted her head slightly, savoring the intimacy of the moment. When his mouth found the curve of her jaw and then the edge of her ear, she shivered, not from desire alone, but from the raw sweetness of being seen and wanted.
Her breath caught.
“Faith,” she whispered, overwhelmed by the strange, luminous newness of it all.
The coat slipped from his shoulders with a soft whisper of wool. She placed her hands upon the fine linen of his shirt, the warmth of him steady beneath her fingertips.
Aidan leaned in once more, his hand rising to cradle the back of her head with infinite care. When his lips met hers again, there was no urgency. Only a deep, unfolding tenderness. It was not a kiss of hunger, but of commitment. Of beginnings.
He drew her closer, with the gentle assurance of a husband finally home.
Gwen lay nestled in the crook of Aidan’s arm, her head resting against the warm, steady rise of his chest. Each beat of his heart echoed in her ear, a soft and wondrous rhythm that seemed to speak of promise.
His fingers trailed absently through the strands of her hair, drawing light spirals as though trying to memorize its feel.
They had shared one moment of intimate union that night, Aidan insisting with gentle conviction that there must be restraint for her first time. There had been no urgency, only intention. He had treated the occasion as sacred.
Eventually, he rose to retrieve the dinner tray left just outside their door.
Gwen watched him cross the room with a dawning sense of awe and belonging, her eyes following the strong lines of his back, the measured grace in his stride.
This man was her husband, bound to her in name, in deed, in heart.
They were married.
For all her days, she would have this man by her side.
When he returned, he slipped beneath the counterpane and propped himself on an elbow beside her, offering her slices of pear and clusters of grapes from the tray.
Between bites, he quoted lines of poetry—odes to beauty, to awe, to affection—pulling from memory the verses of great poets as if he had memorized them solely for her ears.
Gwen listened, mesmerized. Aidan was clever, tender, and thoroughly romantic.
She had never known such attentions, such open admiration from a gentleman before.
Several times throughout the ensuing hours, she fought the urge to pinch herself for fear this dreamlike moment might vanish.
But the thought of waking to her old life was too dreadful to entertain, and so she let the dream linger.
She wanted this life … with him.
She longed to be his confidante, to hear his verses whispered in that rich, steady voice.
She wanted to forge a partnership rooted in trust, in shared burdens and joys alike.
To exchange secrets in the dark and find peace in each other’s arms. Their kisses—tender, exploratory, full of wonder—had already deepened her longing to remain enfolded in his embrace.
As sleep crept upon her slowly, like the settling hush of twilight after a golden dusk, she edged closer to him, pressing her cheek to his side and wrapping an arm around his waist.
Just as the veil of slumber claimed her, she murmured the truth that had danced in her chest since the moment he had appeared at her door.
“I love you,” she whispered and fell into sleep.