Page 14

“You turned down the heir of Viscount Moreland?” Lady Astley’s voice rang out, aghast, like a bell proclaiming a scandal too rich to ignore.

Gwen resisted the urge to sigh. Was it so impossible to believe that a woman might not leap into a man’s arms, even one with a title?

“I did,” she replied simply, firmly, with all the poise she could summon from her very bones.

From the corner of her eye, Gwen could see Lord Abbott cock his head slightly, the firm line of his square jaw tightening at her declaration. A subtle shift, but enough to show he had not expected her to contradict his attempt to preserve her standing.

“I confess Miss Smythe had her reservations regarding my offer,” he said evenly, his voice carrying over the murmurs, “and I was attempting to persuade her to change her mind.”

Gwen nearly burst into laughter, an almost hysterical sound she just managed to swallow. To his credit, Lord Abbott was doing his utmost to raise her in the estimation of those gathered, subtly implying that it was he who fell short. That he was the supplicant. That she held the power.

What he did not understand, could not understand, was how little Gwen truly had to lose.

She could not force a marriage upon any man, not even one complicit in her disgrace. A union ought to be founded upon something real. On respect. On shared truth. Not because the eyes of the beau monde demanded satisfaction.

Though fear coiled tightly in her middle, unspooling and tightening again like a frayed ribbon, she was not a woman to cower from the consequences of her own actions. She would not forgive herself if she used the weight of a single kiss to entrap a man into lifelong duty.

Lord Abbott deserved to choose his future freely. And she … well, she would bear her punishment, as any woman must who lets herself be swept up in moonlight and poetry.

“I thank Lord Abbott for his offer,” she said steadily, “and for his attempt to protect my reputation, but I stand by my refusal.”

The gathering fractured into debate, hushed tones growing louder by the second. Gwen was certain she heard someone exclaim she was a stupid girl, most likely Lady Astley, that bitter old biddy who had never spared Gwen so much as a kind glance.

Still, she stood firm. Her principles outweighed the tittering of the crowd, and she would not sacrifice her self-respect to salvage public opinion. Her future, however lonely or diminished, must be one she could live with. The judgment of people who had never once taken the trouble to truly know her would not shape her fate.

Next to her, Lord Abbott exhaled sharply, the breath escaping him like wind against stone. Then, in his deep, deliberate voice, he cut through the din.

“It appears we cannot reach an agreement,” he said, “so I believe that Miss Smythe and I shall discuss this with Mr. Smythe.”

Lord Astley’s head immediately bobbed up. Waving a bony hand to quiet his wife and the others gathered beside them, he addressed the situation with the thin yet commanding voice of a man long accustomed to being heard. “Agreed, young man. I think we must step inside to find Frederick so you can debate this private matter without an audience.”

Gwen could not find fault with the suggestion. In truth, it suited her perfectly to end this humiliating public display. “I will be in the study,” she said quietly.

Without another glance at the sea of eyes still trained on her, she turned and walked briskly away from the crowd. Her steps carried her through the open doors and into the hush of the terrace beyond, where cool air brushed her cheeks. Entering the ballroom was unthinkable. There would be no regaining composure beneath the scrutiny of that crowd. Even a woman of iron will would falter after being caught in a romantic embrace before half the ton.

She slipped through the French doors and into the study, grateful for its shadowed stillness. The hush was a balm.

Moving through the room, Gwen lit the lamps one by one, the soft glow of the flame casting pools of golden light against the wood-paneled walls. When she turned to sit on the sofa across from her father’s desk, her brow furrowed in mild surprise.

His workspace had been neatened.

The inkstand and quill were perfectly aligned. The drawers were all shut. The desktop had been wiped clean, not a trace of pounce remaining. It was odd. Her father was meticulous in his dress, yes, but in matters of paper and pen, he had always been famously careless. He cursed under his breath when pounce dust blackened with ink collected in the carved buttons of his cuffs. An aggravation of his own making, yet one he never seemed to avoid.

Perhaps one of the servants had slipped in to tidy the room? Though it struck her as strange they would find the time, given the frenzy of preparations that had overtaken the household for this evening’s ball.

Still, the thought did not linger long.

Her mind was too tangled. Her hands trembled faintly in her lap, though she clasped them tightly together in an effort to still them. She hoped her father would come soon. That he would know what to say. That he might guide her in what must now be done.

She had thought herself strong enough to face anything. And yet … sitting here, alone in the quiet, her stomach was a tight, aching knot, and her palms were damp with dread.

The notion of re-entering the ballroom turned her breath shallow.

What have I done?

Allowing a stranger to touch her, to kiss her in so intimate a fashion. What had she done? Was she so starved for affection that her morals, her very sense of decorum, had been cast aside in exchange for a fleeting moment of pleasure?

She frowned at the thought. No, that was not it. That was not the truth of it.