Page 55

He startled, his focus snapping back to her.

“Good morning,” he said at last, placing the fork down and lifting his coffee in greeting.

Gwen hesitated, her fingers knotting together. Something was not quite right.

“How are you this morning?”

There was a pause. He did not answer at first, and when he did, it was absentminded. “Hmm?”

She repeated herself, softer now. “How are you this morning?”

A faint smile lifted his mouth, but it lacked affection. “Quite well. And you?”

His words were polite, but his eyes remained distant, his thoughts adrift elsewhere.

Gwen clenched her fists beneath the linen tablecloth, her stomach fluttering with unease. Something had shifted. He was no longer the same man who had held her so tenderly the night before, and she feared she had ruined everything with the rashness of her words.

Panic flared. They had shared an evening so perfectly aligned with her dreams. Warmth, understanding, the quiet thrill of belonging. And she had sullied it with sentiment spoken too soon. Why had she not simply allowed their new marriage the time to bloom naturally?

Determined to bridge the distance, she stepped forward and took the chair beside him. Buttercup followed, her body folding beneath the table as she nestled against Gwen’s feet with loyal warmth. A footman appeared with a small plate of strawberries, and orange segments and set it silently before her.

Gwen stared at it. Her appetite had deserted her.

Should she mention her ill-timed confession? Or pretend it had never happened?

“Shall we do something together today?” she asked softly, the effort at lightness strained by the tension tightening her chest.

Aidan hesitated before answering, his voice distant. “I am afraid that will not do today. I … have plans.”

Gwen used her fork to nudge a single strawberry across the plate. He seemed entirely unlike the man who had come to her so willingly, so openly, under the starlight. Now he was all courtesy and reserve. She searched her mind in vain for some way to bring back the ease of that earlier connection.

“Oh.”

“I might not be here for dinner,” he added, glancing toward the window. “There are matters I must attend to.”

Desperation bloomed within her. Buttercup stirred, shifting uneasily as if in quiet sympathy. Gwen leaned in slightly, lowering her voice so the servant could not hear.

“Will you … will you come to my room tonight?”

She held her breath. Please. Please, say yes.

“We shall see what time I return.”

The hope within her withered. Aidan stood and left the breakfast room, his footsteps receding, the absence of warmth in his parting weighing more heavily than silence.

Gwen remained seated, the cut fruit untouched before her. Her thoughts whirled. She had spoken too soon, offered her heart without provocation, and now he was pulling away.

Beneath the table, Buttercup whined softly, as though understanding her mistress’s despair.

Aidan had been kind. Attentive. She had been too eager, too exposed. Too much.

And now she feared she had frightened him.

Aidan’s fingers brushed against the folded letter nestled in his coat pocket. As ever, Filminster’s words were cloaked in ambiguity. Careful, no doubt, to avoid revealing too much should the message fall into the wrong hands. Yet Aidan discerned the intent with clarity.

It was time.

Whatever Smythe was entangled in, the moment had come to act and to uncover the truth for himself.