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Octavia snorted in surprise, spewing drops of tea. “You certainly have done that!”

Gwen flushed at once, the heat climbing all the way to the tips of her ears. She pressed a hand to her cheek and looked away, waiting for the warmth to subside before she spoke again.

“I do not know what happens next,” she said quietly. “It is our duty to produce an heir, of course, but I have begun to wonder … perhaps I should remain here, at Papa’s house. Give Aidan the freedom he clearly desires. He could visit now and then, and when we know whether or not I am increasing, he could choose to return … or not.”

Octavia shook her head at once. “He will not agree to that. I tell you now, Gwendolyn, Lord Abbott is in love with you.”

This time, it was Gwen who snorted. She stared at her maid in disbelief. One would think Octavia were the one who read novels, judging by the fanciful nature of her conclusions.

“I cannot indulge in hopes that will only make me weep,” Gwen replied, folding her hands tightly in her lap. “It is time to be practical.”

Octavia slapped the bench with her open palm. “I am being practical. True love is not a fantasy. Perhaps Lord Abbott did attend that ball because of Mr. Smythe, but no one made him kiss you. That he did of his own accord.”

Gwen narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps he only did so to gain entry to our household. Perhaps he thought seducing the daughter was the surest path to uncovering whatever secrets Papa kept.”

Octavia drank down the last of her tea, then set her cup and saucer down with a decisive thunk. “You must fight for your happiness, Gwendolyn Smythe!”

“If my husband is so distressed by our quarrel,” Gwen said bitterly, “why did he make only one feeble attempt at a reconciliation earlier? He knocked once, twice at most, and then disappeared. Buttercup is more persistent when she wants to be let in from the garden!”

Octavia slapped the bench again, this time hard enough to rattle the tea set. “Mr. Smythe is not upstairs with you either, yet I do not hear you complaining of his absence!”

“My father is quite possibly defending himself from a murder accusation,” Gwen snapped. “I think he can be excused for not calling on me this evening. His regard, at least, is not so easily shaken.”

The two women glared at one another across the room, their emotions flaring too brightly to be concealed. Then, quite suddenly, Buttercup shot to her feet from her sprawl in the middle of the floor. The little dog dashed to the window, barking furiously, her entire frame rigid with tension.

“What on earth is she doing?” Gwen asked, her voice nearly drowned out by the shrill yapping.

Octavia and Gwen exchanged alarmed glances. Their quarrel vanished in an instant as the terrier transformed before their eyes into a ferocious guardian, her bark rising to a snarl as she trembled with excitement.

Aidan growled under his breath. “The ladder will not hold. The ground is far too sodden. Look what it has done to my boots!”

Smythe, puffing from exertion, threw up his hands. “Burn my buttons!”

The Earl of Saunton doubled over with laughter, clutching his sides. “Did I ever tell you about the time my brother tried just such a thing to woo his wife? Last year, in the dead of winter⁠—”

Filminster began to chuckle as well. “I was there. We were trapped in the mud for days.”

Aidan cast a warning scowl at the lot of them and motioned for silence. “Hush, all of you! Buttercup is already barking loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Gwen will hear and catch us at this ridiculous business.”

From his post against the garden wall, the Duke of Halmesbury sighed deeply, arms folded across his chest as he surveyed the muddied chaos before him. “We may need to revisit this plan. Your intentions are noble, Abbott, but this …” He gestured toward the ruined ladder and the churned earth at its base. “This is hardly a dignified approach.”

Aidan straightened, releasing the ladder with a defeated clunk as it struck the side of the house. “Agreed. Let us return to the terrace before we rouse suspicion.”

The men trudged back up the garden steps, carefully wiping their boots before reentering Smythe’s office through the terrace doors. The fire crackled within, a quiet counterpoint to their muddy endeavor.

Aidan had entertained a fleeting notion of climbing to Gwen’s window and offering some poetic declaration—something Shakespearean and suitably romantic—but in truth, the thought had never quite sat well with him. And now, covered in mud and thoroughly humbled, the idea had been laid to rest with appropriate finality.

Once they had reclaimed their seats, they resumed their discussion, sorting through possibilities with renewed determination. Suggestions were made—some clever, others outlandish—but none seemed to suit.

Aidan shook his head with each new offering, his fingers laced together as he searched the depths of his mind for the right course of action. Something heartfelt. Something worthy of Gwen.

Anything.

As suddenly as it had begun, Buttercup’s barking ceased. With a huff of smug triumph, as though she had vanquished some dire intruder, the little terrier strutted back to her place on the rug, flopped down with exaggerated drama, and rested her chin upon her paw. Her eyes found Gwen’s, watchful and judgmental, as though she alone held the answer to some unspoken question.

Octavia and Gwen exchanged a frown, neither willing to hazard a guess about the cause of the dog’s fit. After a moment, Octavia shrugged and returned to the matter at hand. “I think you should give Lord Abbott a chance to explain himself. Speak to him plainly. Resolve this … before it becomes permanent.”

Gwen gave a weary sigh. “Aidan has a strong sense of duty. That much is undeniable. He will tell me what I wish to hear if it means easing my distress. But that does not mean it is true. He married me under false pretenses, believing Papa guilty, and now that he knows the truth, I imagine he regrets everything. He must. What man would not?”