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Eight

“Youth is easily deceived because it is quick to hope.”

Aristotle

AUGUST 18, 1821

Gwen awoke with a hollow pang of guilt to find Buttercup perched beside her on the coverlet, eyes unblinking and reproachful, as though the little creature had been appointed her moral sentinel.

“Do not look at me so.”

Buttercup’s slender snout twitched, and she let out a quiet whine from deep in her throat before hopping down and scurrying out the door, claws clicking against the floorboards. Perhaps she needed to visit the necessary, Gwen mused, though her hasty exit felt pointed, as if in censure.

Flopping onto her back with a sigh, Gwen stared at the canopy above her head and let the weight of the previous evening descend upon her shoulders. Had she been wrong to tell Aidan about the Yorkshire estate?

Would it wound her father’s pride to know she had revealed such a truth? He had always been fastidious about his reputation. Yet Aidan had asked her a direct question, and evasion had never been her strength. The truth had slipped from her lips before she had fully registered the implications. Still, what good would deceit have done? He would learn of it in time.

Life amongst the ton was exhausting. So many rules. So many unspoken expectations. And always the looming specter of scandal. It was absurd to her that the sale of one’s property could invite whispers of disgrace. The land had been her father’s to sell. Why must that choice imply failure?

Yet in society’s eyes, ownership meant everything. Her father had once possessed holdings that gave them standing, however modest. With only the London estate remaining, he now barely met the definition of “landed.” And in the rigid arithmetic of the beau monde, that changed everything.

Her marriage to Aidan would resolve much of this. It was a stroke of fortune, an unexpected turn in a Season that had begun with minimal expectations. Had the sale of the Yorkshire estate become widely known, she might have found herself entirely unmarriageable. Their family’s connections were acceptable but not the most impressive, their resources limited, and her dowry modest.

She rolled to her side, propping her head on her hand, and stared toward the window where light filtered past the drapery in pale stripes. Why was Papa doing this? She had suspicions, but he had kept his reasoning to himself.

“Do not concern yourself, Gwendolyn. I know what I am doing.”

Gwen turned over as the swish of drawn curtains filled the room with pale morning light. Octavia, ever punctual, had opened the drapes to let the day in. She hoped Aidan meant everything he had implied last night, but what could she do now but trust him? For years, her father had reassured her that the right man would appear. Against all probability, he had been proved correct.

“Word of your wedding is out,” Octavia announced briskly.

Gwen looked up at her lady’s maid, whose cap sat slightly askew from this angle, making her appear as though her head teetered precariously atop her shoulders. With a sigh, Gwen pushed herself upright to rest against the headboard, the coverlet pooling around her waist.

“Apparently, it’s a love match,” Octavia continued, moving to plump the pillows at the foot of the bed.

Gwen gave a soft huff of laughter. “That is a bit rich. We only just met the night of the …” She waved a hand, unwilling to summon the memory aloud.

“I have it on good authority that Lady Astley is telling everyone that Lord Abbott is smitten with your red hair.”

Gwen frowned, unsettled. “Does he have a history of chasing women with red hair?”

Octavia shook her head. “He has no reputation whatever in regard to women. Lord Abbott returned from his Grand Tour a couple of months ago, and until the ball, his name had not been linked with anyone.”

Seeing Gwen’s skeptical expression, Octavia raised her brows. “I checked again. No history of redheads. No history at all.”

Gwen looked down, twisting her fingers in her lap. “Do you think … that he is genuinely enthralled with me?”

Octavia bent to give her a quick, heartfelt embrace. “I do.”

“Would it be so,” Gwen whispered. “Imagine if we might be faithful partners and have many children together. Gareth would be an uncle, our family would grow, and Papa would have grandchildren. We have all been so lonely since Mama …” Her voice caught, tears welling. “I could teach them …”

Octavia straightened, her tone gentle. “Just as Mrs. Smythe once did.”

Gwen swiped the tears from her lashes and nodded. “Just so.”

“It’s well deserved, you hear?” Octavia’s voice took on a firm note. “All these Seasons, I knew you were a catch. We were just waiting for the⁠—”

“Right man.” They said it together, eyes meeting in shared amusement before laughter bubbled up between them.