Gwendolyn dropped into her chair and clutched its edges with fingers turned claws. Her heart beat outside of her chest, and she tried to breathe, tried to find a calm center.
Jackson appeared before her, crouching on the balls of his feet, hands engulfing her shoulders, eyes, worried, looking into her own. When had he moved? How had he passed so fast through the space between them?
“Gwendolyn, what’s happened?”
His rich honey voice soothed her. His warm hands calmed her racing heart.
“Nothing. I am well.”
“I don’t believe it.”
She stood, brushing him away and made for the door to the library. If she barricaded herself there for the rest of her stay at Seastorm, hid herself behind a wall of books, perhaps she could escape the knowing eyes of those who would reveal her secrets. If they found out after she left… very well. They deserved the truth, and perhaps it would soften her desertion. But before… a very rational part of her brain said they would not care, but the howling girl she used to be insisted they would. Everyone, after all, had changed toward her after they’d found out. Except Marianne.
Her mother had called her a whore, and her father had called her useless. The gossip sheets had lovingly lingered over the little detail that she was, after all, an unmarried lady who’d lived with a man she could not call her husband for an entire year. Never mind that she’d thought herself married.
The Cavendishes would never abuse her so. But abuse would be heaped onto their heads if her identity became known, if the association between them became common knowledge.
Jackson strode after her. “Gwen.”
But she slipped through the door like water through fingers and slammed it closed. Locked it. Held her breath.
But his voice never resonated through the wood at her back, and when her body grew warm pressed against the door, she finally heard the slap of his boots against the floor, the opening of a door and its closing. He’d left.
She sank to the floor and wrapped her arms around her legs. This was why she must leave. This very moment proved that not all the flirting and gifts between them in the world, an innumerable number of midnights wrapped around one another in towers—none of it made up for what she might let loose on this family. She was an unwilling Pandora, and the past her box. The marquess would eventually push his way out.
She inhaled and, with unsteady legs, she stood. She’d made herself strong enough to save the man with worry in his eyes from the dangers of her life.
But she’d had too many blows today, and she needed distraction, a bit of relief. She pushed open the heavy bookshelf door that led into the study. Empty, thankfully.
She knew exactly what she sought here. She found it laying right where Jackson had left it, and she carried it back into the library, locked herself in, and began to read. Surely young Theresa’s philosophies would prove a vital distraction from the morning’s difficulties. That is, if it did not pale to her own scandals.
Nine
Jackson went in search of Mrs. Whitlock. He knew Gwendolyn would consider it prying, but so be it. He’d endure her wrath to understand what had her locking a door between them and running from his seemingly innocent housekeeper.
He found her in the parlor, discussing something or other with two maids.
“Mrs. Whitlock, may I have a moment of your time?” he asked.
“Of course.” She bustled over to him. “Can I say, first, that I am sorry if I offended Miss Smith. It was not my intention. I hope you are not cross with me.”
Excellent. He’d not had to introduce the topic himself. He smiled to reassure her. “No, I am not. You did not expect to upset her so, I’m sure.”
Her face scrunched up. “No. Of course not, but I hope you don’t mind me saying, I can’t quite shake the look of her. IknowI’ve seen her somewhere before, though it displeases her so to hear it.”
“I can guarantee you she’s never been here before.” Couldn’t he? “She must look like someone you know or have met somewhere before.”
“No. It’s not that. I swear, I have a memory for these things. Faces, that is.”
A prickle of worry scattered across Jackson’s skin. It was possible Mrs. Whitlock had seen Gwendolyn before. He knew nothing of her past, so he could not say with any authority whether Mrs. Whitlock had ever glimpsed her.
“You’ve been employed here how many years, Mrs. Whitlock?”
“Two decades about.” She grinned. “It’s been lonely of late, but I do not blame you for wishing to avoid your home.”
He offered a grin as well. “That’s magnanimous of you, Mrs. Whitlock. I promise to be more available in the future.” A vain promise. He should not have said it, but it gave her pleasure.
“We would all love that.” She curtsied. “Good evening, sir.”
