Chapter Thirty-Five #2
Lady Mary flushed with obvious delight. “I would like that above all things,” she said. A few moments later, she collected her purchase and made way for the next customer in line.
Amelia inched closer and touched Gwen’s arm.
Gwen looked at her inquiringly, and caught the silent warning in the woman’s expression.
Without uttering a word, Amelia shifted her gaze toward the shop’s entrance where a tall, arresting, and all-too-familiar looking woman stood, surveying the crowd.
“I never told you what I learned as it wasn’t much,” Amelia said softly. “Mrs. Trent is a widow, an unknown who somehow rose in popularity to be invited to all the best soirees.”
“For how long?” she asked Amelia.
Amelia’s eyes clouded with confusion.
“How long a widow?” She clarified.
“Ah. For some time, I understand.”
The compassion in Amelia’s brilliant eyes told Gwen what her words had not, revealing what Gwen had once discerned on her own, but had discounted. Mrs. Trent was her husband’s previous mistress, and she was more striking looking than in Gwen’s memory.
As Gwen watched, the woman’s gaze locked on something—or someone. A pleased, feline smile curved the widow’s mouth, and her legs carried her in the direction of her gaze.
Gwen’s mouth went dry. She shifted her focus toward the last place she’d seen Gideon. He had not moved. He still leaned against the newel post, and still appeared immersed in the book he held.
Until Mrs. Trent appeared at his side, and touched his forearm. Gwen bristled at the woman’s familiarity.
Gideon glanced at the woman in evident surprise. Then his mouth curved in a warm smile and Gwen’s stomach threatened to upend itself.
Amelia spoke softly in her ear. “You mustn’t read too much into his greeting of an old friend, dearest. After all—” She broke off at the sound of a man’s throat clearing.
The man at the head of the line before Gwen was starting to become impatient. Mortified at being caught staring at Gideon and his ex-paramour, she closed her eyes briefly, scrubbed her damp palms over her skirts, then forced a ready smile and faced forward.
Her smile froze.
“Gwen,” said the handsome man whom she had not seen in nearly four years. “It is you. I confess, when I saw the advertisement promoting one GT Arlington, I dared to hope…” His words dwindled and his gaze drifted over her as if he could not quite believe he beheld her.
There was nothing overly forward in his manner, and a table separated them. Nevertheless, her fingers turned icy.
“Hello, Mr. Landry. I am surprised you recall me having worked with the author as it has been quite some time since…” She broke off, preferring not to continue along that vein.
“How kind of you to make a special effort on GT Arlington’s behalf.
Would you like to purchase one of the signed booklets? ”
His immaculate tawny brows furrowed. He darted a glance at Amelia and then looked back to Gwen. “I say, could you spare a moment? For an old friend.”
Gwen did not wish to spare a moment. She wished to tell him to go hang, and then go confront Gideon and his ex—hopefully his ex—mistress. But she dare not cause a scene.
Amelia aimed a ready smile at Gwen, which dimmed visibly as she seemed to notice something amiss. Still, she said, “Take all the time you need, dearest. I can manage things.”
She nodded. Her legs moved as if through sludge as she walked toward the table’s end where Landry already awaited her.
Once there, he reached for her hands, grasping them between his own before she knew what he meant to do.
“I was very sorry to hear about Reggie’s accident, Gwen. I want you to know I considered coming to the funeral, but I wasn’t at all certain of my welcome after our small disagreement.”
“Thank you, Mr. Landry.” She tugged her hands free of his.
“Mr. Landry? Bah. Steven is my name, as you well know.”
Gwen made no comment. What was happening at the staircase between Gideon and Mrs. Trent? Were they even now laughing over old times? Surely not. Surely they had greeted one another and gone their separate ways.
“May I ask how long you have been in London?”
“Only a short while. Several months.”
“Oh, that I might have learned of your arrival sooner. Gwen, finding you here after all this time, I believe is nothing short of fate. You must let me take you around, introduce you to some friends. I belong to a very well-attended poetry salon which I believe you would enjoy and”—his eyes searched hers—“I would like to start again.”
She gazed at him in stupefaction and found her tongue. “I beg your pardon?”
He ducked his head of carefully mussed tawny hair. “I know that I botched things, and I never had a chance to make amends.”
“Mr. Landry, as I recall, you resided for several weeks in mine and Reggie’s home after our so-called disagreement during which time you might have apologized. You had Reggie and my direction, as well, and could have written to voice your regret over your abhorrent behavior.”
He flushed. “I tried to talk to Reggie about the situation, and he wanted no part of it.”
She had not known that. “I see.”
He sniffed. “Between his dismissive attitude and your changed wardrobe before my departure, I assumed he held you at least partially to blame for the manner in which I conducted myself?”
She had come to the same lamentable conclusion—Reggie had blamed her—even if she also understood there was a degree of unwholesome jealousy behind her husband’s choice to clothe her in the dowdy gowns. It was almost as if he’d wanted to punish her for the poet’s interest in her—as opposed to him.
For some odd reason, the knowledge no longer cut so deep, nor did she harbor the old anger for Reggie for committing his final act.
Instead, she remembered the love she had for him, her dear, dear friend.
Compassion for the difficulty he’d faced for no reason other than being who he was, filled her.
But she could say nothing of that to Mr. Landry.
“Gwen,” he said, voice grave. “I never forgot you, and my feelings for you have not changed. I know you shared an affection for me, which your vows would not allow you to act upon, but now, we are free to explore—”
She held her hand up, palm out. “You are quite mistaken, sir. I esteemed you as a friend and a talented artist—only. Furthermore, I do not believe my current husband would appreciate me exploring”—she paused meaningfully—“your poetry salon, however well attended.”
“You are married? Again? Already?”
“Yes. Now, if you do not mind, I really must get back.”
He reached for her hands again, and this time, succeeded in capturing only one. He pressed a card into her palm. “Gwen, should you ever need anything, anything at all, I beseech you to call upon me.”
“I cannot imagine a scenario where that might be even a remote possibility. Good day, sir.”