Page 57

Twelve

“At his best, man is the noblest of all animals; separated from law and justice he is the worst.”

Aristotle

Gwen paced the length of the library, her steps rhythmic and increasingly forceful, as though she meant to wear a groove into the floorboards. Once, a fine Aubusson rug had muffled her footfalls, but her father had removed it the previous month, another vanishing luxury in a home slowly being stripped of its former treasures.

Her footfalls echoed, firm against the bare wood.

She was suspended in a peculiar limbo. Married, yet still living beneath her father’s roof. A new life had begun in name only, delayed by circumstance. The house, once so familiar, was shedding its character, one possession at a time. Surely, when she and Aidan moved into their own residence, everything would feel different. Better. More theirs.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

Patter, patter, patter.

Buttercup followed closely, her paws clicking along behind Gwen in a faithful mimicry of the pace, as though imagining it a sort of delightful chase.

But there would be no move for several weeks yet, and Gwen’s mind refused to be stilled. She had made a mistake, spoken too freely, and now she feared their union had begun upon shaky ground. Aidan had been distant that morning, and she was certain he regretted her too-earnest words.

There must be something she could do to restore the easy joy they had shared the night before.

She pivoted toward the towering bookcases, then turned again.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

Patter, patter, patter.

She made for the delicate library table she favored for correspondence, her every step echoing like thunder in her ears. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself not as a young lady but as a herd of elephants crashing through the underbrush, her thoughts too chaotic, her heart too full.

“Lady Moreland is here.”

Gwen stumbled to a halt, one foot slipping slightly on the smooth floor. “What?”

Octavia repeated the announcement, unfazed. “Lady Moreland is here.”

Gwen shot her maid a wide-eyed glare, but Octavia simply raised her hands in surrender, as though to say, “What would you have me do about a viscountess calling unannounced?”

With a heavy exhale, Gwen weighed her choices. Truly, there was little to do but fret about Aidan’s absence. Perhaps a visit might prove a welcome distraction. Perhaps Lady Moreland, with her poise and experience, might offer some wisdom. Perhaps, indeed, Gwen had no real choice but to receive her new mother-in-law.

Why, then, was she still standing there?

“Where is she?”

Octavia lifted a brow as if she had been asked whether the sun still rose in the east. “In the drawing room, of course.”

“Bring a tea tray?”

The maid nodded and clapped her hands softly. “Come, Buttercup.”

The dog obediently trotted after her, tail swaying, the pair disappearing down the hall in efficient tandem for the hope of nibbles.

Gwen drew a fortifying breath, smoothed her hair, then her gown, and ensured her composure was intact before leaving the library. Pausing in the hallway before one of the last remaining gilt-framed mirrors, one that had thus far escaped her father’s determined culling, she checked her reflection. Satisfied she appeared presentable, she made her way to the drawing room.

Lady Moreland stood near the fireplace, her attention elsewhere, seemingly absorbed in her own reflections. She was, as always, the very model of taste. Her gown of Carmelite silk paired with a sash of Egyptian brown, the tones perfectly suited her complexion and bearing. Gwen admired the older woman’s innate elegance. She wore fashion like second skin, always dignified and never ostentatious.

It was odd to see her woolgathering.

“Lady Moreland?” Gwen ventured gently.