Ah, that was it, then. Their minds, as usual, had run along the same path.
She surged forward to kiss him again.
He stopped her, pressed a hand against her lips. “Answer, Gwendolyn.” His hand slipped away.
“I do not want to.” An equivocation he no doubt noticed. Not a solid answer. But she could not quite shake the fear of the marquess’s letter despite Jackson’s logical response to it, despite her trust in him.
A tight nod as he sank into the squabs. “Were you ever in love… before?”
She pressed her eyes closed. “No. Infatuated, perhaps. A bit. Hewascharming.” But she’d not had enough trust and openness between her and the object of her affection to have experienced true love. “Have you? Been in love?”
His hand slipped around the back of her neck, into her hair, his fingers gentle claws into her scalp as he nudged her closer, rested his forehead on hers. “For six long years, Gwendolyn Smith.”
For six long years, she’d gathered her thorns about her, made a brittle shell to call home that kept everyone out. She poked about for it now. Gone. Swept away in Jackson’s joy, crushed in his loyal arms. Whatever threat came, she would face it beside him, the chains around her heart thrown open, and the beating organ resting in her open palm, held out to him alone. She had one more truth to share with him, and she no longer feared revealing it.
Nineteen
Gwendolyn looked back to her book for the fifth time in the last hour. Fifth? Probably an underestimate of the number of times she’d caught herself losing focus, drifting into the unknown. Despite the library’s perfections, she could not resist distractions. Her lack of concentration rubbed her raw, and she felt like a bear with too-sharp claws, hungry teeth, and little sleep.
Thank goodness Jackson had left early, a whistle on his lips and a spring in his step, despite the lowering clouds outside, to visit Mr. Stewart. He’d stayed up all night reading his father’s manuscript, and there was a notation he did not understand. He’d determined to seek the man’s help to peek inside his father’s mind.
Gwendolyn had happily settled at the long table in the library with her books. If she never had to see Mr. Stewart again, it was for the best, though if she and Jackson resided here most months of the year, she likely would have to. She would not let the man discompose her on those rare occasions. And if he insulted her, she’d merely slap him again.
She tried concentrating again, but the words blurred, and the letters rearranged, becoming something else—the words she planned to tell Jackson as soon as he came down from the cloud he’d been on since discovering the manuscript. She should not be so nervous. She’d already spilled so many of her tightly held secrets like wine over the edge of a goblet. A bit at a time to make a ruby-red mess all over.
But on some level she’d always known would happen, Jackson took each drop with grace and acceptance. She groaned, let her head fall into the book, smack against the paper and ink.
“Miss Smith?” A chipper voice.
Gwendolyn bolted upright, rubbing her forehead. Zeus. She didn’t have the energy to hide from the woman’s sharp gaze today, and what use for hiding now when all would be revealed so shortly?
“Yes, Mrs. Whitlock?” Gwendolyn asked, voice low.
“Lord Eaden has need of you.”
A distraction. Excellent. She closed the book and stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Whitlock. I’ll be right with him.”
But the woman did not leave. With her arms clasped behind her back, she stared daggers.
Gwendolyn reached up to pat her hair. Was it on fire? Did a large, fanged spider sit atop it? Nothing felt out of place. She stared at the housekeeper, trying not to glare at a woman who might one day have to consider Gwendolyn mistress of this house.
A shock of joy bolted through her. To consider such a future with such ease would never have seemed possible a fortnight ago. A week ago. But now… She grinned. She’d had no future before, and now she wanted to paint every bit of it she saw so clearly in her mind.
Mrs. Whitlock stepped forward, unfolded her arms. She was holding something, and she placed it on the table, slid it toward Gwendolyn. A book with bits and pieces sticking out from almost every page.
Mrs. Whitlock cleared her throat, nodded at the book, and stepped back empty-handed. “I realized where I’ve seen your face before. I thought you might like to see it.”
Gwendolyn’s legs went numb, and she dropped into the chair behind her and gripped the sides of it so hard the bones of her fingers bit into her skin. She sat up as straight as her spine allowed, as far back against the chair as she could, to put every bit of space possible between herself and the book.
“It’s Mrs. Cavendish’s scrapbook,” Mrs. Whitlock said. “She liked to keep abreast of town drama even though she preferred to live here.”
“I… I remember Jackson—Mr. Cavendish, I mean… he told me something of the sort. A”—she forced air in and out, in and out, forced a smile onto her frozen lips—“diverting practice.”
Mrs. Whitlock rocked toward the table and whipped the book open, rifled through several pages, back and forth, a blur of black and white and the muted colors of pressed flowers.
Gwendolyn dug her heels into the floor and pushed her body, the entire chair, farther from the table. Settled on the soft, thick Aubusson rug, it barely made a sound. The carpet hindered her escape as if it conspired with Mrs. Whitlock against her to entrap her.
The page flipping stopped. The housekeeper pointed. “See there.” She tsked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I remember this one. A sad story, such a young pretty girl. Her life ruined. Mrs. Cavendish thought it sad, too. Pressed chrysanthemums in her pages to give her a bit of hope for the future.”
