Chapter 24
Victor had not intended to think of her again.
That was what he told himself each morning as he dressed, each afternoon as he pored over his ledgers, each night as he lay staring at the ceiling long after sleep should have claimed him.
He told himself that it had been a lapse in judgment. Foolishness that he had learned to treat as a contagion. He told himself that she was safer far from him, that their arrangement had ended, that he had done the right thing by sending her away.
He told himself all of it. But none of it settled.
Instead, he walked through the days as if through water, everything thick and slow, everything irritating, everything pricking at his nerves.
The steward asked about the timber contracts, and Victor nearly bit the man’s head off.
A letter from the Earl of Kinthrop arrived with questions about a shared boundary, and Victor very nearly tore it in half. His valet said nothing to him anymore unless it was absolutely necessary.
He could not shake Gwen from his mind. Her face when he had told her that their arrangement was over. Her quiet silence in the carriage. The way she had looked at the clouds, as if they were easier to bear than him.
And behind it all lurked thoughts of Howard Tull.
Victor assumed the worst. He could not help it. Gwen’s description of the man had been soft compared to what he imagined now. He pictured locked doors. Harsh words. Broken things. A woman shrinking in corners. A girl forced into compliance.
He should not think of those things. They were none of his concern. They had nothing to do with him. Yet each assumption lit a fuse that never reached its end.
On the third morning, his mother insisted on a walk in the park. She claimed the fresh air would improve his disposition, which she said had grown intolerably sharp. Victor did not argue. The alternative was remaining alone in the study with yet another ledger he could not focus on.
Dorothea kept her arm looped through his as they walked. She wore her most fashionable bonnet and nodded politely at every passing acquaintance, then frowned at Victor each time he failed to mimic her polished courtesy.
“Must you look as though someone has shot your favorite horse?” she whisper-hissed.
“I am not aware that I look so,” Victor answered.
“You look absolutely miserable,” she said. “If this is the result of mingling with the ton, I shall stop arranging invitations altogether.”
“That would be preferable,” Victor muttered.
Dorothea gave a soft huff of exasperation. “You cannot sulk forever, my dear. It is unattractive and gives people the wrong impression.”
“People have always had wrong impressions.”
They turned a bend in the path, and suddenly, two young ladies stopped short in front of them.
“Oh,” Arabella gasped. “Your Grace.”
Eleanor, ever composed, bobbed a graceful curtsy. “Good morning, Your Graces.”
Dorothea nodded with mild warmth. “Good morning to you both.”
Victor attempted nonchalance. “Lady Gwendoline is not with you?”
Arabella and Eleanor exchanged a look.
“No,” Arabella said softly. “She is not.”
“Why not? Is it not a lovely day?” Victor asked. The question came out more forcefully than intended.
Eleanor hesitated. “We have not seen her in several days, Your Grace.”
Dorothea looked between them with polite curiosity. “Is she unwell?”
Again, that look.
Victor’s pulse quickened, but he kept his voice even. “Explain.”
Arabella swallowed. “We received a letter from her last week, Your Grace. She said that she had returned home safely, but she could not come see us.”
“Why not?” Victor pressed.
Eleanor answered this time. “Her stepfather has forbidden her from leaving the house.”
Victor went still.
Arabella’s voice lowered. “She said he is… displeased with her. He has grown stricter. She cannot go out at all.”
A dull roar began somewhere behind Victor’s ears.
Dorothea frowned. “Such strictness seems excessive. Is she in trouble?”
Arabella wrung her hands. “She said that he has found her a suitor. Someone he means to push forward quite soon.”
Victor could not speak.
A suitor. Found for her. Chosen for her.
His mind conjured images he could not bear. Gwen in a locked room. Gwen crying. Gwen being told her future as if she were livestock. Gwen standing before some faceless man who would take everything from her, because that was what marriage meant for defenseless ladies.
Dorothea placed a hand on his arm. “My dear, you have gone pale.”
He ignored her entirely. He turned his attention back to the two women. “You are certain of this?” he asked, his voice low.
Arabella nodded. “She asked us not to worry, but… we are worried. He does not allow her to leave the house at all. We have not even seen her at church.”
Eleanor added quietly, “She asked us not to visit. She feared he might punish her for it.”
A crack formed somewhere inside Victor.
“Thank you,” he uttered, the words brittle as glass.
He inclined his head, took his mother’s arm, and walked on without another word.
He did not hear the birds. He did not hear the wind. He did not hear Dorothea calling out his name as she hurried to keep up.
He heard only one truth: he had left Gwen alone in that house, and he should never have done so.
Dorothea followed him halfway across the park, breathless, calling out his name repeatedly. Victor did not slow down. His mind was already racing ahead, calculating possibilities, outcomes, routes, and consequences.
“Victor, stop,” Dorothea commanded, her voice sharp enough to cut through the haze.
He halted. Barely.
She caught his arm and turned him to face her. “What on earth has set you off? You look ready to strike someone.”
The irony was not lost on him. The rumors of violence. The whispers that he was like his father. The distance he kept so that none of it could ever become true.
He schooled his features into neutrality. “Nothing.”
Dorothea’s eyes narrowed. “Do not insult me with such nonsense. Those girls said something that upset you.”
He looked away. “They said nothing of importance.”
“That is another lie,” she said. “I raised you. I know when a storm is gathering in your head. And I certainly know when you are lying.”
Victor clenched his jaw. He could not speak the truth. His mother would pry and interfere. And she would insist on marriage, propriety, and caution.
Gwen did not have time for Dorothea’s deliberation.
“Mother,” he said quietly, “I need a moment.”
“Well, I need an explanation,” she insisted. “Why does the Reeves girl matter to you?”
“She does not,” he replied.
Dorothea stared at him long and hard. She did not believe him, but her silence spoke louder than any accusation.
Victor drew in a long breath. “Mother, I will see you home. I have business to attend to.”
“Business?” she repeated, skeptical. “You look ready to dismantle a carriage with your bare hands.”
He did not deny it.
They walked the remainder of the path in strained silence. Dorothea’s gloved hand tightened on his arm once, then released. She knew better than to push him when he reached his limits.
Once he had delivered her to the townhouse, he did not linger. He strode away before the footman even closed the door behind her.
He walked without direction, his thoughts churning.
Gwen locked in that house.
Gwen hidden from everyone who cared about her.
Gwen unable to escape.
Gwen with a suitor she did not choose.
Gwen with that man.
Gwen with anyone else.
He should have escorted her inside.
No. If he had walked her to the door, Howard might have assumed the very thing Victor had been trying to avoid. Howard might have demanded marriage at once. Howard might have forced Gwen into a union with a man she had not chosen.
Victor could not have claimed her.
He would not bind her to a man like him. A man who carried shadows. A man who feared his own inheritance. A man whose touch had ignited her, who had wanted her, but who still feared what wanting her could become.
Yet the knowledge brought him no peace. Only fury.
By the time he returned home, his mind was made up.
Howard Tull would not imprison Gwen. He would not hide her. He would not own her future. Not if Victor had anything to say about it.
He walked into the drawing room, where his mother sat reading. She looked up, startled by his expression.
“Victor,” she said cautiously. “What have you decided?”
“We are hosting a dinner,” he announced.
Dorothea blinked. “A dinner?”
“Yes,” he said. “A large one. Select guests. Invitations must be sent at once.”
“Why?”
“Because it is necessary.”
“For what purpose?” she pressed.
He avoided her gaze. “I will not explain myself.”
“Victor—”
“Mother,” he said quietly, “do not push me.”
Dorothea studied him for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.
“Very well,” she acquiesced. “If you wish to host a dinner, we shall host a dinner.”
Victor inclined his head, then left the room without another word.
In his study, he pulled out paper and ink and wrote to Howard Tull.
The Duke of Greystone requests the pleasure of the Viscount and Viscountess Fenwick’s company at dinner. And that of Lady Gwendoline Reeves, whose presence is specifically desired.
He folded the letter and sealed it.
A duke’s invitation was not a suggestion; it was a summons. And Howard Tull would obey.
Victor did not sleep. He sat in his chair long after the household had fallen silent, the fire dwindling, the edges of his coat chilled by the draft beneath the door.
He should not care this much.
He remembered the terror in Gwen’s voice when she spoke of Howard. The quiet dread beneath her words. The way she had shivered in his bed. And he remembered the way he had spoken to her in the carriage, cold and purposeful, slicing the thread between them.
He thought he had done the right thing. Now, he knew he had been a fool.
He should have stayed until he knew she was safe. He should have done everything differently.
Yet what would Howard have demanded of him? Marriage. Public promises. A life Gwen had not agreed to.
The contradictions tore at him over and over again. Duty on one side. Desire on the other. Frustration lying beneath it all.
By the time dawn brushed the sky with pale gray, his decision was sharp enough to draw blood.
He would discover what Howard planned, and then he would act accordingly. Even if acting meant stepping into danger. Even if acting meant revealing a weakness he had spent years hiding.
He blew out a long breath, stood up, and summoned a footman. “Deliver this letter to Fenwick House,” he ordered. “Directly to the Viscount.”
The footman bowed and departed.
Victor closed the study door with finality. It was the first move in a game that Howard Tull did not realize he had already lost.
Gwen sat on the floor of her bedchamber, knees drawn to her chest, staring at the wall as if it might offer her an answer.
She had slept very little the past few days. Her cheek was still swollen from the slap. Her wrists were still sore from being pulled. Her throat was raw from swallowing tears in the dark.
She had whispered to herself that she would escape, but she had no plan.
She had imagined Victor beside her when Howard struck her, imagined his hand stopping the blow midair, imagined his voice saying, Enough.
She had imagined him standing beside her. Then she cursed herself for it.
He did not love her. And yet her chest ached for him as if he had been carved out of her ribs.
A knock startled her. The key turned. The lock clicked.
Howard opened the door. His expression was unreadable, which terrified her more than his anger.
“A letter,” he announced. He walked inside and tossed an envelope onto her lap. “From the Duke of Greystone.”
Her heart stopped.
The seal glinted in the light.
“He requests our company for dinner. Including yours,” Howard sneered.
She swallowed. “I am not permitted to leave the house.”
“You are not,” he agreed. “Unless I say you may. And now I say you may.”
Her pulse hammered. “Why?”
“Because a duke requests our presence,” Howard said. “And I will not give him reason to question my hospitality or my daughter’s eligibility.”
Gwen’s stomach twisted.
“Prepare yourself,” Howard barked, before leaving the room and locking the door behind him.
Gwen stared down at the letter trembling in her hands.
Victor wants me there? He has asked for me specifically?
Something fluttered in her chest, unwelcome and impossible to ignore. Hope. Foolish, dangerous hope.
She pressed the note to her sternum and closed her eyes, trying to steady the feeling rather than surrender to it.
Two days.