Chapter 11
Eleven
“The law is reason, free from passion.”
Aristotle
With the coming of dawn, pale light filtered through the curtains and touched the edge of the coverlet in a hush of gold.
Aidan opened his eyes to find Gwen still nestled in his arms, her breath warm and slow against his chest. For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of stillness.
The phantasy that the world beyond this chamber was untroubled, that Lily was safe, the baron yet lived, and Smythe was above suspicion.
But such wishes were only illusions.
And yet, without those harsh realities, he might never have crossed paths with Gwen. The very thought caused a small involuntary thrum in his chest. He looked down at her, brushed a lock of hair from her cheek, and smiled softly.
He had not known how incomplete he had been until he met her.
So be it. If this was the burden fate had placed upon him, he would bear it. He would uncover the truth, no matter how grim, and cling to Gwen with all his strength.
Her sleeping face was serene, her features softened by dreams. He thought of the words she had whispered to him the night before. Simple, heartfelt, and unguarded. Words that echoed still.
He bent low and pressed a gentle kiss to her brow.
“I will endeavor to be worthy of your love,” he murmured. “I promise this to you, Gwen Abbott.”
With care, he eased her onto the pillow, watching as she murmured faintly in her sleep before settling once more into stillness.
He rose, gathered his garments from where they lay scattered, and dressed with quiet precision.
As he fastened the last button, his gaze lingered on two bare patches upon the wall, ghostly rectangles where once artwork had hung.
More possessions sacrificed, no doubt, to the family’s silent descent.
Crossing the room on soft footfalls, he opened the door with care.
In the corridor beyond, Buttercup waited with teeth bared and a growl rumbling low in her throat. Aidan smiled faintly.
“Go on, Buttercup,” he said quietly. “She is just inside.”
The dog wasted no time. She darted into the room and bounded onto the bed, landing where Aidan had lain. With a small huff, she curled beside Gwen, her head settling on her paws, protective and content.
Aidan pulled the door closed behind him, only to be met with an unexpected creak.
He turned, startled, to find Mr. Smythe rounding the corner from the stairwell. The older man jerked slightly, tucking a small notebook into his pocket with far too much haste, then schooled his features into their usual broad, unbothered grin.
“Mr. Smythe?” Aidan said, tone mild.
“Aidan, my boy,” Smythe replied cheerfully. “A fine morning, indeed. I have already been up to see the sunrise. Glorious light today!”
Aidan returned a measured smile, but inwardly, unease coiled in his gut. Smythe wore the same attire from the day before. His cravat loosened, his coat creased at the elbows. The man had not risen early. He had only just returned.
There had been no mention of any engagements after the wedding. No plausible explanation for where he might have gone.
It was a stark reminder of why Aidan had maneuvered his way into this household. His vow to Gwen must be matched by vigilance. He had come not just to wed, but to uncover truths.
Smythe passed him without pause, vanishing into his own chamber. Aidan stood in the hall, frustration prickling at the base of his neck.
Had he not spent the previous day indulging Trafford’s vulgar instruction or aimlessly wandering his clubs, he might have shadowed Smythe. But instead, he had surrendered those hours to avoiding Gwen, and now they were lost.
He would have to do better.
Drawing a breath, Aidan turned and strode away, his thoughts heavy. Whatever sweetness had been born in the night was now tempered by reality. Gwen slumbered unaware. But outside the door, the hunt resumed, and Lily depended on him to see it through.
Gwen stirred beneath the covers, her limbs stretching languorously as the memories of the night before wrapped around her like a warm shawl.
It had been a night beyond her imagining.
Poetry whispered against her ear, tender embraces, the brush of his lips along her brow. Romance had spilled into every moment.
She turned over, expecting to find her husband still near. But the bed was empty, save for the soft, rhythmic breathing of Buttercup, who lay curled at the foot of the bed, her long ears sprawled across the coverlet in a state of blissful abandon. Gwen smiled faintly at the sight.
And then the recollection struck.
She sat up abruptly, clutching the sheet to her chest, a flush creeping up her neck.
Had she told Aidan she loved him?
The thought drifted back like a intangible wisp of smoke. She could not remember deciding to say the words. Perhaps she had dreamed it, some half-conscious imagining whispered into the dark as sleep claimed her.
But … had he drawn her closer in reply?
Her breath caught. If she had spoken aloud … if he had heard …!
Zounds.
What a disaster.
It was too soon. Far too soon.
She threw off the covers and rang for Octavia, panic driving her as she hurried to the washbasin, splashing water on her face in a bid to shake sense back into her.
Buttercup raised her head briefly, one sleepy eye opening in mild curiosity, then dropped it again as though Gwen’s crisis were nothing of consequence.
Why, why would she say such a thing? They barely knew one another!
If she had uttered those words, what must he think? That she was a featherbrained chit with no understanding of love or consequence? Gwen began to count on her fingers, her mind racing.
Once for the moonlight encounter. Once for the offer of marriage. Then … two, three … four meetings before last night?
Their wedding night made five.
Ye gods.
He must think her bird-witted. Utterly ridiculous. A child playing at love.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted Gwen’s frantic pacing, and she called for Octavia to enter, her voice breathless with urgency. As the maid stepped inside, Gwen gestured wildly at the wardrobe while hastily sponging her face and arms at the washbasin.
“I must find my husband!”
Octavia’s brows drew together in mild confusion, but she offered no comment.
With quiet efficiency, she pulled a soft morning gown from the press, followed by a clean shift and a pair of stockings.
Her hands paused only briefly as she stooped to gather Gwen’s stays from the carpet, her expression neutral, as though such disarray were of no consequence.
Heat flared in Gwen’s cheeks. She turned her back, grateful for Octavia’s discretion. What explanation was required in such circumstances?
She slipped into the stockings and shifted the linen over her head, lifting her arms as the fabric settled over her shoulders. Octavia moved to assist with the stays, tugging the laces firmly while Gwen fidgeted under her hands, heart pounding with nerves rather than the constriction of whalebone.
It seemed an age before the final fastenings were secured.
As soon as her gown was buttoned, Gwen darted from the room, hair tumbling loose over her shoulders in defiance of convention.
She offered no explanation for her flight, simply raced down the corridor, her slippers striking the polished floor with unladylike speed.
Behind her, Buttercup leapt from the bed and gave chase, ears flapping, her little paws a percussion of loyalty echoing down the hall.
Gwen descended to the breakfast room in a flurry, glancing wildly through open doors before halting at the threshold.
There he was.
Aidan sat at the table, a plate of eggs and ham before him. Yet he was not eating. His gaze was fixed upon the garden beyond the window, his fork hovering in midair, forgotten.
“Aidan?”
No reply.
She stepped farther into the room, her voice a little louder. “Aidan?”
He startled, his focus snapping back to her.
“Good morning,” he said at last, placing the fork down and lifting his coffee in greeting.
Gwen hesitated, her fingers knotting together. Something was not quite right.
“How are you this morning?”
There was a pause. He did not answer at first, and when he did, it was absentminded. “Hmm?”
She repeated herself, softer now. “How are you this morning?”
A faint smile lifted his mouth, but it lacked affection. “Quite well. And you?”
His words were polite, but his eyes remained distant, his thoughts adrift elsewhere.
Gwen clenched her fists beneath the linen tablecloth, her stomach fluttering with unease. Something had shifted. He was no longer the same man who had held her so tenderly the night before, and she feared she had ruined everything with the rashness of her words.
Panic flared. They had shared an evening so perfectly aligned with her dreams. Warmth, understanding, the quiet thrill of belonging. And she had sullied it with sentiment spoken too soon. Why had she not simply allowed their new marriage the time to bloom naturally?
Determined to bridge the distance, she stepped forward and took the chair beside him.
Buttercup followed, her body folding beneath the table as she nestled against Gwen’s feet with loyal warmth.
A footman appeared with a small plate of strawberries, and orange segments and set it silently before her.
Gwen stared at it. Her appetite had deserted her.
Should she mention her ill-timed confession? Or pretend it had never happened?
“Shall we do something together today?” she asked softly, the effort at lightness strained by the tension tightening her chest.
Aidan hesitated before answering, his voice distant. “I am afraid that will not do today. I … have plans.”
Gwen used her fork to nudge a single strawberry across the plate. He seemed entirely unlike the man who had come to her so willingly, so openly, under the starlight. Now he was all courtesy and reserve. She searched her mind in vain for some way to bring back the ease of that earlier connection.
“Oh.”