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Gwen held herself upright until the door to the study clicked shut behind her.

Then the tears broke through, silent at first, then spilling freely over her cheeks in hot, uncontrollable rivulets. Her vision blurred, and the polished wood floor beneath her slippers shimmered as if seen through a veil of mist.

It had all been too perfect to last.

She had known that, of course. And yet she had allowed herself to believe in her father’s dearest hope. That the right man had come along and fall in love with her, not despite her differences, but because of them.

Her skirts rustled harshly as she fled down the corridor, the hem brushing against the paneled walls in her haste. She barely registered Jenson’s startled exclamation as she swept past him, only to collide with a tall figure at the foot of the stairs.

Lord Filminster’s strong hands caught her gently.

“Are you well, Lady Abbott?” he asked, his tone shaded with concern.

Gwen looked up into his kind eyes and felt something within her give way entirely.

“I … I liked you. And Lily. But you were all here to deceive us!”

She pulled her arm free, turned, and ran. Her breath came in hiccupping gasps as she climbed, one hand clinging to the carved bannister to keep her balance. Her glorious wedding day … it had all been a masquerade.

Only Lady Moreland, gracious and kind, had seemed sincere. The rest … the rest had been shadows in a play.

Like at school. Smiles masking jeers. Polite words cloaking disdain.

A sob rose in her throat and escaped her lips as her knees threatened to buckle. But she clenched her hands into fists and pressed on, half-running, half-stumbling toward the sanctuary of the family wing.

Her left slipper came loose and slid off, vanishing beneath a hall table, but she did not stop to retrieve it.

Her chamber door loomed ahead. She burst inside and slammed it shut with a resounding thud. Her hands shook as she turned the key, the metal cold beneath her damp fingers.

Then she crumpled to the floor. Silk and sorrow pooling around her in a tangle of crushed fabric and wracking sobs.

She had dared to believe.

She—Gwen, Gwen the Spotted Giraffe—had foolishly let herself hope that a man like Aidan could love her.

A soft scratching came at the door, followed by a low, anxious whine. Buttercup.

Dragging herself upright, Gwen unlocked the door. The little dog scrambled in with a flurry of claws on polished wood and nestled immediately beside her, whining low in her throat.

Gwen locked the door once more and slumped against the wall, her back cold against the paneling. She stroked Buttercup’s silky ears, seeking comfort in the familiar weight at her side.

“Do not worry, girl,” she murmured. “You and I will be all right.”

But even as she said it, her eyes flooded again, and the first tears traced a fresh path down her already swollen cheeks.

It had all been a cruel trick of the moonlight.

Aidan was still trying to gather his thoughts, to piece together what might be said to Smythe to begin righting the wrongs he had wrought, when a knock interrupted.

Jenson entered with his customary precision. “My lord, Lord Filminster is here to see you.”

Aidan froze.

The delicate hope that had only just begun to stir within his chest fell still. Cold dread took its place.

Something has happened to Lily! Why else would Filminster call upon me here?

His mind conjured horrors in rapid succession. Had his sister been injured? Was she ill again? Had Michaels—gallant, cantankerous Michaels—succumbed to the wounds he had received while defending her?