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She was married now. That came with freedoms, did it not? Even Milly, dreadful as she had been, had shown no hesitation in bending the rules.

Perhaps it was time she did the same.

Gently slipping her feet from beneath the still-resting Buttercup, Gwen stood, her expression firming with resolve. She had spent years seeking solace in libraries and books, withdrawing from the callous treatment she had endured in her youth. But this … this was her life now. Her marriage. Her chance to build something new.

She strode toward the door, her decision made. She would wait no longer. Aidan needed to face her, and if he had any regrets, well, he could nurse them later. After he had done his duty and shown her the courtesy she deserved.

Whipping open the door, she let out a startled shriek.

Aidan stood on the other side, hand raised as if to knock.

He was in a state of partial disarray. Barefoot on the polished wood, his buckskin breeches slightly dusted from travel. His coat was on, but no waistcoat or stockings, and the column of his throat was bare, his shirt undone.

Clapping a hand to her chest, Gwen stared at him, her heart galloping behind her ribs.

“Where have you been?” The question burst from her lips before she could compose her thoughts.

Aidan held her gaze, his voice low, steady, and sincere. “Thinking about you.”

Her brows drew together. It was tempting to believe his words, to let her heart be soothed by them, but what did they truly mean?

“What does that mean … that you were thinking of me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aidan drew in a deep breath, as though steadying himself. “I was considering the honor of joining you in your bed.”

The air seemed to thin, caught somewhere between her chest and throat. His eyes drifted to her lips, framed by dark lashes, and when he spoke again, his voice had deepened into something velvety and slow, like a fine claret warmed with honey.

“‘O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!’”

Startled, Gwen felt a warm jolt run through her, not from the words alone, though they were exquisite, but from the fact that they were directed at her. Her!

Then, from the region near her ankles, came a low growl.

Both she and Aidan glanced downward.

“You have a dog,” he said with an air of surprise.

“Buttercup,” she replied. “I rescued her from a halfpenny showman last week after I saw him kick her in the ribs.”

His brows lifted slightly. He studied the small bristling creature with amusement and something bordering on admiration. “She has thoughts about me entering your room.”

It was true. Buttercup’s hackles were raised, her eyes narrowed, her growl now a steady hum of displeasure.

“I think she wishes to protect you.”

Gwen smiled, warmed by the little dog’s fierce loyalty. “I am afraid you must leave now, girl.” She stooped to gently gather the pup and swept her out into the hall, closing the door behind her.

When she rose and turned back, Aidan’s eyes were fixed on her.

Her breath caught as she saw the intensity in his gaze, something tender and yet powerful. The recitation of Shakespeare had sent a fluttering warmth through her, but it was the way he looked at her now, as though she were both mystery and miracle, that stole her breath entirely.

Her pulse quickened, her skin tingling beneath his gaze. She licked her lips nervously, instinctively and noted the way his eyes flickered in response, as though that small gesture had unmoored something within him.

He stepped closer.

Not with force, but with solemnity. His hand rose and lightly rested at her waist, his touch tentative, seeking permission.

There was a long silence between them. One filled not with words, but the rhythm of shared breath.