Chapter 14
Fourteen
“The energy of the mind is the essence of life.”
Aristotle
Aidan winced in pain, catching Gwen’s hands and pressing them gently to his chest, his breath held tight lest a sound escape. Her fingers had unwittingly found the worst of his bruises, and the flash of discomfort sent a wash of dizziness through him.
But the pain soon dulled to a manageable throb, and another fire, softer but no less consuming, rose to take its place. His thoughts turned to how he might draw Gwen close without revealing his wounds or alarming her.
When at last she rested in his embrace, her weight a welcome anchor upon his chest, Aidan exhaled a breath he had not known he held.
He pressed a kiss to her damp cheek, his heart a tangle of awe and certainty.
Around them, the chamber remained hushed, the scent of rumpled linen and lemon verbena lingering in the still air.
He tucked her close, her cheek against his shoulder, and buried his face in her hair.
He thought of the future, not of battles or bruises, but of this.
Her breath on his skin, her trust in his arms. Whatever challenge Smythe posed, he would meet it.
So long as he could keep Gwen, he could face anything.
AUGUST 27, 1821
Aidan had held her close through the night, their kisses deepening into lingering embraces that blurred into the hush of night. In the darkness, they had discovered new ways of closeness, whispered laughter mingling between soft sighs and the rustle of linen.
When hunger beckoned, Aidan had risen to don his shirt and lit a single lamp across the room, casting a golden glow that danced upon the walls in shadows.
He fetched the tray left in the corridor and returned with quiet steps, his smile gentle and knowing.
The subdued light had rendered everything dreamlike.
The meal, shared with hushed conversation and laughter, had tasted better for the intimacy of the moment.
They had reclined in one another’s arms beneath the shelter of quilts and dim firelight, speaking little, yet understanding much.
It was near dawn when sleep claimed them at last. They lay entwined beneath the canopy of the bed, arms and legs tangled as though separation would be a kind of grief. Gwen had drifted into a dreamless slumber, cocooned in warmth and the steady rise and fall of Aidan’s breathing.
When she stirred again, the sheets were cool beside her.
Aidan was gone.
A groan escaped her lips just as Octavia whisked back the curtains, letting in the flat gray light of a cloudy afternoon. Buttercup lifted her head with a small affronted bark, as if the intrusion were personally offensive.
“What fresh hell is this?”
Octavia giggled from across the room. “It is the afternoon, Lady Abbott. I feared you would not rise at all if left undisturbed. And if you do not wake soon, you shall never find rest tonight.”
Gwen sat upright, clutching the sheet to her chest. “Afternoon?”
“Indeed. Lord Abbott appears most committed to ensuring the succession,” she remarked dryly.
Despite herself, Gwen let out a laugh, her fingers reaching to scratch Buttercup behind the ears. The terrier gave a low hum of pleasure and leaned in to the affection, all signs of indignation forgotten.
“Where is Lord Abbott?” she asked, though she already suspected the answer.
“He left some time ago. No word of when he might return.”
Gwen fell back on her pillow with a heavy sough. “I planned on forging a true connection with him, but he turned my head with sweet words and …” She gestured vaguely to indicate the mattress.
The lady’s maid walked up to tower over her.
Gwen suspected Octavia liked to do this because Gwen was so much taller.
It was the only time that the woman was in a dominating position.
Buttercup rose on her short legs, baring her teeth with a low growl to warn Octavia she was encroaching on her territory.
Octavia ignored Buttercup’s posturing.
“What do you mean, true connection? I thought things were progressing well with your husband.”
“I am no longer certain,” Gwen murmured.
“His mother warned me that he keeps secrets, and I believe her. At times he seems so present, so emotionally attuned, and then suddenly he becomes remote. He does not speak of his day or where he goes or what he does. And he said nothing of Lily’s situation. Why?”
Octavia’s brows lifted. “Lady Filminster? What troubles does she have?”
Gwen faltered, Aidan’s warning ringing in her ears. He had been firm. Speaking of Lily’s situation could endanger not only reputations, but Lord Filminster’s liberty. She shifted uncomfortably against the pillows and looked away.
“I cannot say.”
Octavia gasped with mock offense, lifting an open palm to her brow as though fainting from betrayal. “For shame, Gwendolyn Abbott! Do you not trust me?”
Gwen allowed a smile to tug at the corners of her mouth. “Not in the least. You are the most incorrigible gossip I have ever met. I would not entrust you with a piece of toast, much less a noblewoman’s secret.”
Octavia let out a peal of laughter, her sharp shoulders shaking beneath the tidy lines of her gown. “Well then,” she said between breaths, “if it is to remain confidential, I would rather not carry the burden. Secrets cause indigestion.”
Still grinning, Gwen watched as her lady’s maid turned away to gather the day’s clothing from the wardrobe.
She sat upright, adjusting the sheet to remain modest as she stared through the tall windows.
A bank of clouds loomed beyond the panes, iron-gray and ominous, pressing down on the horizon with a heaviness that matched the turn of her thoughts.
She hesitated, then spoke. “How was he? This morning?”
Octavia froze in the wardrobe’s doorway, her expression unreadable for a moment before she pursed her lips and said, “I would say … distracted.”
Gwen nodded slowly. That seemed right.
Whenever Aidan was near, she found herself enchanted by his presence.
The light in his eyes, the curve of his mouth when he smiled.
He made her feel cherished. But the moment he left her side, her worries returned like restless phantoms. What did she truly know of the man who had so quickly captured her heart?
He seemed to care for her. Of that she had little doubt. But his inner world remained a mystery. Where did he go? What weighed upon him? And why did he hide so much from her? She wished to be more than his bride in name only. She longed to be his confidante, his partner in truth as well as passion.
What burdens did he carry, and how could she convince him to share them?
Outside, the storm broke. Thunder cracked the sky with a violence that startled her, and the windows rattled as rain lashed the glass in heavy sheets. Gwen gave a soft gasp as Buttercup whimpered and dove beneath the pillows, trembling in fright.
“Oh, sweet girl.” Gwen reached for the dog, stroking her quivering flank and smoothing her little head. “It is only the weather, Buttercup. You will be fine. We both shall be fine.”
Her voice, soft and certain, rang more as a hope than a promise.
Rain roared down upon the roof of the hackney.
Aidan yawned widely and carefully kneaded the bruised shoulder he had landed on the day before.
It was aching something fierce, and he was pleased with his decision to hire a driver rather than attempt to ride.
Grabbing more than three hours of sleep would have been welcome under the circumstances, but he could not afford the time.
He had taken a page from Smythe’s book, having decided that he could follow the Smythe carriage with less fear of being spotted if he was in a hackney that was indistinguishable from the next.
The rain made it more difficult to see, and his driver wore a battered hat and large, black overcoat with the collar raised to defend him from the elements. It further obscured any possibility that Smythe would notice he was being followed.
Aidan stretched his legs out, grimacing at the state of his damp boots, and hoped that Smythe would make a move again this day. He and the driver, Old Fred, had been observing the Smythe mews, he pulled on his fob to check his timepiece, for the better part of two hours.
Occasionally, they would traverse a block or two before taking up a fresh position to prevent rousing the suspicions of servants from the neighborhood. It was a boring and arduous process that made Aidan appreciate the tedious work of runners hired to retrieve stolen goods.
He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck from side to side, and lamented that he had not brought a book to read while he waited inside the dim interior of the aging carriage.
The thin squabs were flattened with the imprint of thousands of buttocks, and the upholstery had been mended dozens of times.
The neat repairs spoke to the fastidious nature of Old Fred.
He did not envy the aging man. Sitting out on his box seat while the heavens poured water down in buckets. Even now, Aidan followed a trail of rainwater slipping down the interior of the aged carriage windows. He was grateful the driver had been persuaded to aid him for the day.
There was a knock on the window, and Aidan felt the pull of the carriage. Peering out the window, he saw the Smythe carriage exiting the mews. This was it!
Old Fred followed at a snail’s pace, drawing to a stop at the corner to wait.
The front door of the Smythe home opened and Aidan’s father-in-law exited.
At least, Aidan assumed it was Smythe, given the general size and gait of the cloak-covered gentleman running forward to climb the steps into the carriage interior while a figure dutifully held the door ajar.
The steps were raised, the door was shut, and the servant climbed aboard.
Aidan’s heart hammered in anticipation. He was prepared to see this to the end, having spent the morning catching hackneys until he had discovered Old Fred.