Chapter Twenty-Eight
After assuring herself Gwen was ready, Madame Eloise bid her wait, and let herself out into the corridor.
That left Gwen alone to stare at her reflection in the mirror, awed at the transformation the modiste had achieved.
She wore a headband of tiny white and pink flowers, interspersed with pearls and crystals, over loosely bound hair that just covered her shoulders.
Wavy tendrils framed her face. The gown she’d marveled over on the mannequin fit her to perfection.
Silk satin gloves, slippers, and even lingerie scented with rose oil completed the ensemble.
Minus one thing. She hurried to her vanity to retrieve Gideon’s mother’s ring and slipped it over her finger. Her hands shook for no apparent reason. Perhaps she had not eaten enough breakfast.
The door opened wide and Madame Eloise reentered. She moved to the side and gestured for Gwen to pass.
She stepped into the corridor and found Gideon waiting. He looked dashing as ever in his formal attire, all tall and dark, and exuding a palpable vitality.
But his eyes stole her breath. He looked at her, as if he beheld the most beautiful woman in the world.
“Well,” he said, as if he could not conjure anything more substantial, and held out his hand in a beckoning gesture.
She went to him, slipping her fingers into his.
“Gideon, you’ll never credit it, but it seems your father chose this dress for me, unless Madame Eloise was having me on.”
He looked so utterly taken aback she laughed.
“I thought I recognized the woman,” he muttered as if to himself.
“Shall we go see what all this secrecy is about, then?” he asked and glanced down at their joined hands, running his thumb over her knuckles.
When his gaze fell on the ring he’d lent her, a corner of his mouth crooked upward.
Tucking her hand in his elbow, he met her eyes, and the corners of his crinkled with a warmth, so inviting, it tempted her to fall headlong into it.
Gideon was missing something. He was sure of it. The secrecy, the strict edict keeping Gwen and him from seeing each other until the moment they descended the stairs. The gown, which was, admittedly, perfection on her. What on earth would inspire his father to go to such lengths?
They reached the landing and started down.
Flowers, everywhere. They adorned the banister, they scented the air as if someone had crushed a bushel of petals underfoot, just out of view.
He shot Gwen a look. “Were these garlands present when we returned from the river, earlier?”
She shook her head and the soft fall of her hair brushed her shoulders. “No, they weren’t. Clearly, someone raided the garden and stripped it bare. Massive bouquets adorned my side of the bedchamber, as well. Was it the same on your side?”
“No.”
They started down the stairs. Where was everyone else? Gideon knew he and Gwen were not late in coming down, yet they had not crossed paths with a single guest.
The haunting strains of a violin reached him.
And suddenly a strong inkling of what his father had planned congealed in his mind. He opened his mouth to share his suspicion with Gwen, then closed it with a snap. He should forewarn her, but he could not bring himself to do so.
They reached the ground floor and started for the grand parlor. His mouth went dry. He should warn her.
“Gideon? Is everything all right?”
He glanced at her.
She reached up to smooth the space between his brows with a gloved finger. “You’re scowling. What is it?”
He made a valiant effort to relax his features and made up a quick excuse for his frown. “I was trying to work out the tune. Do you recognize it?” Too late, he realized his mistake. He’d set Gwen’s sharp mind to the task of recalling the oft-played score—and she did.
“I think I do. It’s…” Her eyes went huge and her heels dug in as she jerked to a halt. She looked down at herself then up at Gideon, an expression of sheer terror on her face that confirmed his worst suspicion.
“Gideon,” she hissed. “I think your father has orchestrated a wedding ceremony for us.”
He gazed at her, keeping his expression carefully neutral, as hers changed to one of dawning comprehension.
“You knew?”
He shook his head. “I began to suspect only a moment ago.”
“What should we do?” Her harsh whisper bordered on hysteria as she glanced over her shoulder toward the front doors, clearly considering the merits of fleeing.
“As far as I can tell, there is only one thing we can do, Gwen.”
She waited, an expectant look on her beautiful face. As he watched, her color faded until her skin appeared nearly alabaster.
They look at you and see one thing—an exotic. A plaything. Women like Fannie marry men like your brother. They don’t lower themselves for a spell of momentary entertainment.
The sound of clipped footsteps over marble echoed off the walls. They were growing louder.
“My father, I expect,” Gideon said. He regarded Gwen and mentally girded himself for the confrontation to come with the duke.
He’d known all along all the warmth his bluestocking wife had brought into his life, although pleasant, had been temporary by design, despite his foolish belief he could make it last.
A lifetime of moving in circles with women like Gwen had taught him she was not meant for the likes of him, and he should never have contemplated otherwise.
He was a source of illicit entertainment for women—an exchange he benefited from equally.
With Gwen it had seemed like something more—likely a byproduct of their shared confidences.
When he spoke, his words sounded wooden to his own ears. “We shall confess all to him. He will understand. He will keep silent. We can trust him to put a spin on things to—”
“No,” she said, resolute. Color returned to her cheeks in a flood and twin splotches darkened her cheeks. “Absolutely not. It’s all right, Gideon.” She sent him a brave smile and his insides twisted.
He stamped down hard on the ridiculous longing her words fostered within him. “I cannot ask it of you. To go through with this—you realize it will be—”
“Gideon, Gwen,” his father said as he approached.
He looked every bit the duke, Gideon thought.
Impeccably dressed, not a strand of his sandy-brown-laced-with-silver hair out of place.
Unassailable confidence that his whim would not be questioned eking from his every pore, and underscoring all of it was joy, over Gideon’s seeming happiness.
His freedom to choose a wife without being bound by the constraints he and Grayson faced as a result of bearing the title.
He hated to take this from him, but needs must. “Father—”
“Lord Ashwood,” Gwen cut in, her voice warm and sure as if she had not, a moment ago, considered making a run for it.
“Gideon and I have a strong suspicion of what awaits us. Does it involve a recitation of our marital vows?” She levied her most disarming smile on his father, and, though dread pitted out Gideon’s stomach, he could not help feeling a modicum of sympathy for the old man.
He appeared dazed when blasted with the undiluted potency of her charm.
Seconds later, composure regained, he took one of Gwen’s hands between his and, like Gideon, immediately noted the ring she wore. His eyes, so like Gideon’s, went misty.
He cleared his throat before replying. “It does indeed. I hope you do not mind humoring an old fool who wishes to honor the two of you and, selfishly, to witness my eldest son embarking on his new life with you.”
“How could I mind, my lord?” Gwen said.
Ashwood’s face split in a gratified smile, then he chanced to glance at Gideon—and frowned, clearly disturbed by whatever he read in his expression. “Son?”
“Lord Ashwood, would you be so kind as to allow us a moment to confer?” Gwen asked, taking charge of the situation.
Out of nowhere a vision of her running her beloved publishing house came to him and he knew, without a shadow of doubt, she would manage the business masterfully, if she could ever pry it out of the stakeholders’ controlling fists.
“Yes, of course. I’ll wait right over there.” He flicked another glance at Gideon, before returning his focus to Gwen. “I thought, as your own father is not able to be here, I would escort you down the aisle.”
“I…nothing would make me happier, Your Grace,” she said, her voice husky with emotion.
Ashwood took her hand, squeezed it, then moved down the corridor, far enough to grant them privacy.
Gwen’s sky-blue eyes met Gideon’s. Without uttering a word, she told him all would be well, assured him she had no issue going through with, in her mind, another extension of their existing farce. Honorable to a fault was his bluestocking wife. If she only knew what her choice would cost her.
“You’re sure?” he asked, even though he knew now that she’d set her intention, she would not be deterred.
She sent him a tremulous smile and inclined her head in the merest of nods.
“Very well.” Do not be surprised, Gwendolyn Barnes, when I never let you go. Without another word, he turned and strode toward his father—and his future, for better or worse.
Pausing as he passed to squeeze the duke’s shoulder, he met the old man’s eyes. Something shrewd glinted in his familiar gaze, but Gideon did not spare a moment to contemplate precisely what. His course was set.
Nearing the parlor, he made out the quiet din of conversation from within. From behind, he heard Gwen’s soft footfalls and the more determined steps of his father.
Facing the open double doors, he surveyed the parlor. It had been converted into a chapel-like space. An aisle comprised of white velvet carpet strewn with rose petals divided two blocks of fold-out chairs where their guests sat, gazing toward Gideon with wide-eyed anticipation.
A temporary dais stood at the aisle’s end, a makeshift altar bathed in light thanks to all of the terrace doors standing open behind it through which sunshine streamed in.