Chapter 16
The chandeliers of Lady Harrowden’s ballroom glimmered, yet Gwen felt none of their brightness.
The room was full of color, music, and laughter, but for all its lavishness, it felt oddly shallow to her. Her friends flanked her, Arabella adjusting the fall of her pink silk sleeves while Eleanor surveyed the room with cool, analytical precision.
“You look faint,” Arabella whispered, fanning her lightly. “Are you ill?”
“No,” Gwen replied, though the tightness in her throat said otherwise. “It is only warm.”
“It is not warm,” Eleanor stated dryly. “You are anxious.”
Before Gwen could reply, Arabella tugged at her arm. “Do not turn around,” she whispered. “The Duke of Greystone is here.”
A faint tremor passed through Gwen. She stared straight ahead, forcing her breath to stay even. Her fingers curled around her fan until the sticks creaked.
“He is watching you,” Arabella added.
“Do not tell me that,” Gwen murmured.
But her friend’s warning had already confirmed the prickle at the back of her neck. Eyes. His eyes. Following her through the crowd.
She could feel him. Not see, but feel.
She forced herself to smile at a passing acquaintance, murmured something polite, and let her friends guide her further into the room. She would not look. She would not give Victor the satisfaction of thinking he still affected her.
He had made his position painfully clear.
This was an arrangement, nothing more.
Gwen lifted her chin, but her heart twisted traitorously in her chest.
Eleanor paused to greet someone, leaving Gwen and Arabella briefly alone. Gwen took the opportunity to slip behind a column, pretending to adjust her glove while using the marble pillar as a shield.
“Cowardice does not suit you,” Arabella whispered.
“I am not hiding,” Gwen muttered.
“You are hiding quite thoroughly,” Arabella countered. “And poorly.”
Before Gwen could retort, a low, familiar voice cut through the din behind her. “Lady Gwendoline.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
Slowly, she turned around.
Victor stood only a few feet away, immaculate in black and white, the candlelight catching the sharp angles of his face. Handsome. Severe. Impossible to ignore. His expression was unreadable, too controlled, yet something taut lingered beneath the surface.
“Your Grace,” she greeted, curtsying gracefully.
Arabella shot her a pointed look, mouthed a frantic good luck, and vanished into the crowd with suspicious speed.
Victor stepped closer. “You are avoiding me.”
“I am not,” Gwen said. Her voice was calm, but her pulse was riotous. “I am attending a ball, Your Grace. I cannot avoid guests I have not spoken to.”
He studied her with unsettling focus. “I would speak to you.”
Gwen lifted her fan. A flimsy shield. “We are at a public event. Perhaps another time.”
“No,” he insisted. “Tonight.”
Her body tensed. She wished he looked bored. She wished he looked indifferent. Anything but the cool, unyielding intent in his eyes.
“I do not think that would be wise,” she cautioned.
“We have little time left,” he said quietly.
The reminder struck her like a blow.
Seven nights. She had given him three. Four, if the night at the lodge counted. The remaining ones unfurled ahead of her like fate already written.
Her stomach twisted.
He added, “Meet me tonight.”
It was neither a request nor a plea. It was a command, softened only by the faintest hint of something beneath it. Something she did not trust herself to name.
“I cannot,” she whispered.
“You can,” he said. “And you will.”
Gwen’s spine stiffened. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I do not answer to you.”
He held her gaze for a long moment. The music shifted behind them, violins swelling in a waltz that felt too intimate for the tension between them.
His jaw flexed. “Then answer to yourself. But come.”
She looked away before her resolve cracked. She did not trust herself to meet his gaze again. Her feelings were too raw, her heart too fragile.
She had spent the morning chastising herself for caring, the afternoon berating herself for being foolish, and the evening battling the humiliating warmth that spread through her whenever she thought of his hands on her.
She would not be her mother. She would not hand her heart to a man who could crush it carelessly.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice thin with strain, “my mother and I will leave London soon. There is little point in continuing this arrangement.”
“You have not left yet,” he pointed out.
“Perhaps I should,” she bit out.
His eyes darkened, not with anger, but with something far more dangerous. “Meet me tonight,” he repeated.
She shook her head.
“Gwendoline.”
And just like that, she had forgotten how to breathe. Her name was spoken so softly yet firmly.
She bobbed a quick curtsy. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
With that, she slipped into the crowd before he could reach for her again. But she felt him there long after. Watching her.
She found Arabella and Eleanor near the refreshments table, her breathing ragged. She tried to pretend nothing was amiss, but Arabella’s eyes widened immediately.
“I saw him approach,” Arabella whispered. “You look like a woman fleeing a duel.”
“I am,” Gwen murmured. “Only the duel is with myself.”
Eleanor gave her a long, pointed look. “Well, that is rarely a winning match.”
Gwen ignored the sting of the truth. She smoothed her gloves, slowed her breathing, and said, “I need your help.”
Arabella stiffened. “Gwen.”
Eleanor set down her teacup. “Tell us.”
“I spoke to my mother last night,” Gwen began, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “She will not come with me. She refuses to leave Howard.”
Arabella gasped softly. “Oh no.”
Eleanor’s face tightened. “I suspected as much.”
Gwen nodded. “She believes it is her duty to remain. She believes he loves her.”
Arabella placed a gentle hand on her arm. “She is frightened.”
“She is resigned,” Gwen corrected.
They fell silent, the music drifting over them like a veil.
Laughter rose from the other end of the room. A gentleman spilled wine on his waistcoat. A lady fluttered her fan too close to a candle. All the ordinary things of a ball continued, while Gwen’s life unraveled quietly.
“I must go alone,” she sighed. The decision poured out of her like a confession. “He means to send me to St. Agatha’s in less than three weeks. If I do not leave before he decides the exact date, I will be trapped.”
Tears welled up in Arabella’s eyes. “You cannot run away by yourself.”
“I must,” Gwen insisted. “I cannot stay in London, and Mama will not come with me. So I must save myself.”
“Where will you go?” Eleanor asked softly.
“To Cheltenham,” Gwen replied. “To my mother’s cousin. She has children. I could work there. As a governess. Or a companion. Anything, really. If I earn my own living, Howard won’t be able to touch me there. I won’t be dependent on any man. Never again.”
Arabella squeezed her hand. “You would make a wonderful governess.”
Gwen smiled weakly. “I hope so. Or at least a competent one.”
“And the Duke of Greystone,” Arabella blurted.
Eleanor groaned. “Do not bring him into this, Arabella.”
Gwen flushed painfully. “Victor has nothing to do with it.”
Arabella stared at her meaningfully. “That is not entirely true, though, is it?”
Gwen looked away, blinking hard. “It is my fault. I let myself believe that our arrangement meant more to him than he said. I let myself want something I should never have wanted.”
“That is not a crime,” Arabella whispered.
“It is foolishness,” Gwen said. “I should have known better. He is a duke. He does not feel as I do. He never will. I will not become my mother. I will not cling to a man who cannot love me.”
Her chest tightened at the word love, but she stood straighter.
“It does not matter,” she continued. “My feelings do not matter. What matters is a future that I choose.”
Eleanor nodded slowly. “Then let us make a plan.”
They moved into a quieter alcove behind a set of palms and marble urns. Eleanor drew a small notepad from her reticule, which she carried for emergencies of both practical and dramatic nature.
“First,” she said, “your letter.”
“Yes.” Gwen nodded. “I will write to Cousin Edith tomorrow morning. No names. No details. Only that I urgently need a place to stay and employment. I will send it with a private courier. Depending on how fast they ride, I should have a response in a couple of days.”
“Second,” Eleanor added, “your finances.”
Gwen touched the purse in her pocket. “I have enough saved for the journey there.”
“Third,” Arabella piped up, “your escape from London.”
“I will have to leave late,” Gwen explained. “When Howard is asleep.”
Arabella leaned in closer. “We will pack the essentials for you. We will distract anyone who might question where you are. I will tell Mama that we plan to stay for supper. She will not question it.”
“And I will prepare false directions for the coachman,” Eleanor said. “So no one will suspect where the hired carriage will go.”
Gwen’s throat tightened again. “I appreciate you both, but I will not put you in danger as well. I will make this trip by myself.”
Arabella swatted her lightly with her fan. “Nonsense. You are our sister in all but blood.”
Eleanor nodded. “You should not travel alone. The road to Cheltenham is well-known, but not necessarily safe for a woman alone. It will take you two days… and an overnight stop.”
“You are right, of course, but you underestimate my ability not to draw attention to myself. I am just as safe as any man would be. I’ll remain unassuming and keep to the main roads.”
Her friends eyed each other silently before looking at her, resigned. Both knew that there was nothing they could say to dissuade her.
Arabella squeezed her hand while Eleanor squeezed the other.
“We will still help you escape,” Arabella insisted. “True, Cheltenham is a little too far for the excuse I’ll be telling my mother. But if you wish to make the journey alone, El and I will at least make sure you’re set up for success. You will have a real life.”
Gwen smiled, though her heart still hurt. “Thank you, both of you. I hope, when I am in Cheltenham, that I can forget Victor entirely. Perhaps one day I might even find a husband who is gentle. Someone kind.”
Arabella’s eyes lit up. “A handsome widower with two children and a tragic backstory.”
“Someone practical,” Eleanor corrected. “With a stable income and no scandal behind him.”
Gwen laughed softly. “Either would be better than my current prospects.”
They leaned closer over Eleanor’s notes, whispering final details. The plan took form like a puzzle, slowly assembling into clarity.
None of them noticed the slight movement in the shadowed corridor behind them.
None of them heard the sharp intake of breath.
None of them sensed the silent presence just beyond the palms.
But someone had overheard. Someone who should not have.
Someone who stepped back into the shadowed corridor with the weight of their words echoing like a tolling bell.