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Crossing the back garden, he entered the house and prayed he would not encounter Gwen. Once he was in his room, he would summon his valet and get some assistance to clean up. Perhaps his man had some sort of ointment to alleviate the accumulating pains. Climbing the steps to the next floor, Aidan kneaded his neck, which he must have wrenched in the fall.

Blazes! I could have been killed.

Aidan was thankful he had had enough presence of mind to drop into a roll as he had. Fortunately, because of the traffic, he and Valor had been traveling at a slower speed, or he might not have avoided tragedy—it did not pay to be distracted when riding.

Finally reaching his room, Aidan slipped in. He rang the bell, which he hoped would result in his valet showing up. Then he proceeded to tug the clothes off his body impatiently. Once he was undressed, he walked over to the mirror by the wardrobe to inspect his leg, arm, and shoulder. Livid bruises were already discoloring his skin in dramatic hues, in testimony to just how dangerous the fall had been.

Aidan rubbed his hands over his cheek, which was thankfully unmarred except for the grime that came off under his fingertips.

As he had suspected, he would need to avoid Gwen catching sight of these. He did not wish to lie to her any more than necessary because he had their future marriage to consider. It would be better if she did not know.

The thought of his bride, now that he had not the distraction of Smythe to worry about until the man reappeared, had Aidan shiver with hot memories of their night together.

He was afraid the concerns weighing down on him this morning had made him act in an aloof manner when they had last seen each other at the breakfast table.

It was time for him to make amends to her once he was bathed and dressed once more, for he suspected it would be many hours before Smythe made a reappearance.

Gwen sat in the library, bent over her notebook as a shaft of sunlight slanted across the desk, illuminating the faded grain of the tabletop. She was translating Propertius, the Latin poet her mother had once hoped to work on before illness stole the chance.

Since her own health scare, Gwen had taken up the project with quiet determination. Life, she had realized, could change in an instant. Dreams deferred might never return.

Pursuing them while she had her health and youth had become a matter of urgency. It was the same reasoning that had led her to implore her father to take in a foundling. Now, a child of her own might be within reach, if only she could reclaim her husband’s attentions.

That was why, when Aidan returned home, she would no longer wait in silence. It was time to understand what shadow lay between them. Time to build a partnership, not simply a union.

Until then, she would remain busy.

Pausing her quill, Gwen ran her finger over the line of verse, the paper soft beneath her touch, the ink just dry. She would not waste time in idleness. She would wait with purpose.

Cynthia prima suis miserum me cepit ocellis,

contactum nullis ante cupidinibus.

Gwen returned to her notebook, tapping the quill against her lips as she considered how best to capture the essence of the verse.

“Cynthia first captivated wretched me with her eyes, I who had never before been touched by Cupid.”

The words fluttered in her chest like a heartbeat. She smiled, filled with the quiet joy of shared understanding.

“Cuncta tuus sepelivit amor, nec femina post te ulla dedit collo dulcia vincla meo,” she murmured aloud, breath held as if waiting for an answer from the room itself.

A soft chuckle stirred the silence behind her.

“Thy love has buried all others, nor has any woman after thee put sweet fetters upon my neck.”

Aidan.

Gwen turned her head just enough to glimpse him peering over her shoulder. Her heart leapt with such a surge of warmth it nearly hurt. He was here. And not the distant man from the breakfast table, but her gentle, poetic husband. The man of the night before.

“You put me to shame, husband,” she whispered. “What need is there for my efforts if you translate with such poetic skill?”

He moved to take the chair beside her, and she felt the absence of his nearness like a sigh against her skin. His presence, steady and calm, enveloped her like a balm.

“I am naught but an ordinary man,” he said, his voice deep and soft, “with a muse of great grace to lift my voice.”

His gaze caressed her face, and she blushed, her smile widening until it ached across her cheeks.

“You are home.”