Page 54

And then the recollection struck.

She sat up abruptly, clutching the sheet to her chest, a flush creeping up her neck.

Had she told Aidan she loved him?

The thought drifted back like a intangible wisp of smoke. She could not remember deciding to say the words. Perhaps she had dreamed it, some half-conscious imagining whispered into the dark as sleep claimed her.

But … had he drawn her closer in reply?

Her breath caught. If she had spoken aloud … if he had heard …!

Zounds.

What a disaster.

It was too soon. Far too soon.

She threw off the covers and rang for Octavia, panic driving her as she hurried to the washbasin, splashing water on her face in a bid to shake sense back into her.

Buttercup raised her head briefly, one sleepy eye opening in mild curiosity, then dropped it again as though Gwen’s crisis were nothing of consequence.

Why, why would she say such a thing? They barely knew one another!

If she had uttered those words, what must he think? That she was a featherbrained chit with no understanding of love or consequence? Gwen began to count on her fingers, her mind racing.

Once for the moonlight encounter. Once for the offer of marriage. Then … two, three … four meetings before last night?

Their wedding night made five.

Ye gods.

He must think her bird-witted. Utterly ridiculous. A child playing at love.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted Gwen’s frantic pacing, and she called for Octavia to enter, her voice breathless with urgency. As the maid stepped inside, Gwen gestured wildly at the wardrobe while hastily sponging her face and arms at the washbasin.

“I must find my husband!”

Octavia’s brows drew together in mild confusion, but she offered no comment. With quiet efficiency, she pulled a soft morning gown from the press, followed by a clean shift and a pair of stockings. Her hands paused only briefly as she stooped to gather Gwen’s stays from the carpet, her expression neutral, as though such disarray were of no consequence.

Heat flared in Gwen’s cheeks. She turned her back, grateful for Octavia’s discretion. What explanation was required in such circumstances?

She slipped into the stockings and shifted the linen over her head, lifting her arms as the fabric settled over her shoulders. Octavia moved to assist with the stays, tugging the laces firmly while Gwen fidgeted under her hands, heart pounding with nerves rather than the constriction of whalebone.

It seemed an age before the final fastenings were secured. As soon as her gown was buttoned, Gwen darted from the room, hair tumbling loose over her shoulders in defiance of convention. She offered no explanation for her flight, simply raced down the corridor, her slippers striking the polished floor with unladylike speed.

Behind her, Buttercup leapt from the bed and gave chase, ears flapping, her little paws a percussion of loyalty echoing down the hall.

Gwen descended to the breakfast room in a flurry, glancing wildly through open doors before halting at the threshold.

There he was.

Aidan sat at the table, a plate of eggs and ham before him. Yet he was not eating. His gaze was fixed upon the garden beyond the window, his fork hovering in midair, forgotten.

“Aidan?”

No reply.

She stepped farther into the room, her voice a little louder. “Aidan?”