Chapter 5
The clock in the upper corridor of Fenwick House had struck ten that evening when Gwen first heard the sound of raised voices.
It came muffled through the closed door of her chamber, a deep bellow followed by a higher, pleading tone.
She put aside her embroidery hoop, rose, and crossed the carpet in her stockinged feet until she could hear more clearly.
Howard was angry again. The pitch of his voice was unmistakable, that heavy drawl that swelled into thunder when he believed himself wronged.
“I am telling you, Cordelia, the man is not what he pretends to be. You think him an honorable duke, a paragon, but the clubs have stories. The Duke of Greystone is no better than a brute in a cravat.”
Gwen’s breath caught. She leaned closer to the door.
Cordelia’s soft voice tried to mend the air between them. “Howard, please. I do not care for gossip. You should not speak of a duke in that way.”
“I speak what every man in London knows,” Howard retorted. “He hides behind rules and numbers, but there is a temper beneath. A violent one. His father beat him to make him a perfect duke, and he learned the lesson. A temper like that does not disappear. It festers.”
“You do not know that,” Cordelia argued.
“I know what I am told by men whose company I value. At White’s, they say the boy once struck a footman hard enough to knock him cold.
They say he will not marry because he fears what he might do to his wife.
That is not a gentleman, Cordelia. That is a beast waiting for a reason to show its teeth. ”
Gwen pressed her palm to the cool wood, steadying herself. Her stomach twisted with the memory of Howard’s hand rising in anger, of her mother flinching. She had seen beasts before. They did not always wear rags. Some wore rings.
Cordelia tried again. “If it is true, then it is tragic. A man shaped by cruelty deserves pity, not mockery.”
Howard’s voice lowered, edged with disdain. “Pity? For a man who beds every widow in London and calls it mathematics? Spare me your softness. You always had a taste for tragic men. I daresay it is why you married me.”
A brittle silence followed.
Gwen closed her eyes, wishing she could unhear the smirk behind those words.
Cordelia’s reply was small but steady. “You are cruel, Howard.”
“And you are a fool,” Howard hissed. “Do not let me hear you praise the Duke again. He will fall soon enough, mark my words. Men who feign virtue always do.”
Footsteps sounded, and a door opened somewhere down the corridor.
Gwen darted back to her chair and snatched up her embroidery, though her hands trembled too much to guide the needle. A moment later, her mother opened the door.
Cordelia’s face was pale beneath the delicate powder. “Were you listening?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” Gwen whispered. “Is any of it true?”
Cordelia hesitated. “Rumors often have a kernel of truth, my darling. But they are still rumors. Do not trouble yourself with them.”
“I cannot help it,” Gwen said. “He spoke as if he knew.”
“Your stepfather believes he knows everything. It is his favorite illusion.” Cordelia reached out and smoothed Gwen’s hair with a trembling hand. “You must sleep. Tomorrow will be brighter.”
When she left, Gwen remained sitting in the stillness.
The embers in the grate sighed. The house had settled into its uneasy quiet, the kind that came only after the storm of Howard’s temper. She could not shake the echo of his words.
A beast hiding behind civility. A temper bred into bone.
Seven nights, the Duke had demanded. What had she agreed to?
She stood up and crossed to the window. The fog had lifted from the street below, and the lamps glowed like distant embers in a hearth she could never reach.
Somewhere out there, the Duke of Greystone was reading, or writing, or perhaps drinking his late wine with perfect composure. She tried to imagine that same man losing control, rage flashing in his cool green eyes, his hand raised in fury. But the picture would not form.
Still, Howard’s voice lingered.
“A beast waiting for a reason to show its teeth.”
Gwen touched the glass. “I will see for myself,” she whispered. “Whatever he is, I will see it with my own eyes.”
She turned away from the window and went to get ready.
The night air clung like damp silk as Gwen stood before the front steps of Greystone House. Her heart did a nervous flutter, light and insistent as a trapped bird. She pulled the hood of her cloak higher, hiding her face from any passersby.
“Foolish, reckless girl,” she muttered, then drew a steadying breath. “No one will see you. No one must.”
She hesitated before the great door, her gloved hand poised in the air. It seemed that even the lion-headed knocker was amused by her cowardice.
Courage, Gwendoline. You have already done the wicked thing. Knocking will not damn you further.
The clock at a neighboring church struck once, twice, and on the third chime for the midnight bells, she struck the large knocker.
The sound rolled into the house like thunder wrapped in velvet.
Moments later, the door opened. The same butler regarded her without curiosity. “Good evening, Madam.”
“I am expected,” she announced, her voice quieter than she wished.
“Indeed.” He inclined his head and stepped aside.
She stepped into a hall warmed by lamplight and the faint scent of smoke and spice. Her pulse slowed to a steady rhythm, though her palms were still clammy. The butler led her down the familiar corridor to the study and opened the door.
The Duke was waiting, not behind his desk this time, but beside a small table laid with silver and crystal.
A pair of candles burned low, their flames bending toward one another.
There were plates of sugared fruits, slices of cheese, and a decanter of dark red wine that caught the light like a wound.
“Lady Gwendoline,” he greeted, as if this were a polite morning call. “You are punctual. That’s good.”
She curtsied, fighting the absurd impulse to apologize for it. “You said midnight.”
“Did I?” He smiled slightly. “Then I am pleased to see that obedience is one of your virtues.”
“I am not obedient, Your Grace. I am efficient and punctual.”
“Efficiency is a fine disguise for obedience,” he said, pouring the wine. “Pray, sit.”
She removed her cloak, laid it over the arm of a chair, and took the seat opposite him. The candlelight touched her face, and she saw his gaze follow its path.
For all his composure, there was something in his eyes that unsettled her more than the rumors ever could.
“You look nervous,” he observed.
“No,” she said quickly. “I am merely tired.”
He lifted his glass. “Then let us wake you. I propose a game.”
“A game?”
“A simple one.” He leaned back, his tone casual. “You will answer my questions. If you decline, I am permitted to touch you once. Nothing improper, unless you choose to lie.”
Her breath caught. “That is absurd.”
“Perhaps. But not dull.” His eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. “And since you wish to earn your purse, I suggest you do not bore me.”
He was challenging her again. Testing the strength of the steel beneath her composure. If she refused, he would call her cowardly. If she agreed, she would be trapped by her own pride. He knew it, and she knew it.
“What sort of questions?” she asked.
“Anything I please,” he replied. “I am curious about my conspirator in sin.”
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. “Very well. I will play your game.”
He smiled, and the candlelight caught the edge of his teeth. “I thought you might.”
As he poured her wine, she watched how his hands moved. They were steady and precise, as if he handled danger every day and was bored with it.
The stories her stepfather, Arabella, and Eleanor had told echoed faintly in her head. Yet nothing about the man before her seemed brutal. He was control made flesh. And perhaps that was the most dangerous thing.
They began with harmless questions. Her favorite color. Her least favorite season. Whether she preferred the sea or the country. Gwen answered, “Country,” without hesitation, and he rewarded her with mild laughter and another question.
At first, it felt almost ordinary. But each answer seemed to bring him closer, until the space between them was no longer appropriate. The air had shifted, heavy with attention that made her pulse quicken.
He lifted his glass, studied the reflection of the candle in it, and asked, “Has any man ever touched you before?”
The question struck through her calm like an arrow through silk. “That is hardly appropriate.”
“It is a question,” he said softly. “You may answer or decline to do so, as are the rules.”
She hesitated, then lifted her chin. “No. No man has ever touched me.”
His gaze did not waver from her. “Honest. Good. Now, your turn. Ask what you will.”
She stared at him for a moment, trying to find the balance between retaliation and composure. “How many women have you… touched, Your Grace?”
He smiled faintly, as if she had met him stroke for stroke. “I decline.”
“Then by your own rule,” she reasoned, “you forfeit your right to distance.”
He moved closer, his chair scraping lightly across the rug. The space between them vanished like mist. “Touch me, then,” he murmured. “Since it pleases you to claim the penalty.”
Did it please me?
Gwen reached up and brushed her fingers against his cheek. The warmth of his skin startled her. It was human, not the cold marble she had imagined. His stubble grazed her fingertips.
He laughed quietly. “That is all?”
“I am not in the habit of touching men,” she said.
“That could change,” he murmured. “Now, it is my turn.”
His hand rose, tracing a line from her wrist to her shoulder, then down the curve of her arm. His touch was deliberate, patient. When his fingers reached her waist, she squirmed despite herself.
“Why do you need the money?” he asked quietly.
Her voice failed her for a long moment. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, his breath mingling with her own. Her thoughts scattered like frightened birds.
He touched her again, lightly, as if coaxing words from her skin. “Tell me.”
She closed her eyes. “I need to run away,” she whispered. “That is all.”
He stilled. “Run away?”
“Yes.”
He drew a slow breath. The air between them tightened. “From whom?”
Gwen’s composure broke. She stood up abruptly, the legs of her chair skimming across the carpet. “I cannot answer that. Please, allow me to leave now. I don’t like this game as much as you do.”
He rose as well, but he did not touch her. The firelight made his expression unreadable. “If that is what you wish.”
“I do.” She gathered her cloak with shaking hands.
The room felt too small and too warm all at once. She had to get out.
As she reached the door, his voice followed her, low and quiet. “You are brave, Lady Gwendoline. But bravery and recklessness are seldom far apart.”
She did not turn back. “Perhaps,” she muttered, “but one of them has kept me alive.”
Then, she slipped out into the corridor and into the night, her pulse echoing the warning in his words.