“I see.” Words barely choked out. “As Mr. Cavendish’s friend and work colleague, I appreciate that you’ve shared this bit of his life with me, but… I do not see why you would do so. Why this… this particular page. Perhaps—”
“Because that’s you, isn’t it?” Her finger stabbed at the illustration that had been pressed between the book’s pages.
Gwendolyn knew it well. Slashing black ink sloped her brow, her prim curls, her high-necked gown, the one she’d worn in court. And the tiniest drops of ink sketched out a line of tears down her cheek. The last time she’d allowed herself to cry. In front of everyone during her husband’s trial for bigamy. Her husband no more.
Gwendolyn stood. “That is not me. I can see the likeness, how you would make the assumption, but I am afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
Mrs. Whitlock frowned, first at the book then at Gwendolyn. “It’s a well-known secret no one knows much about you. Not even Lord Eaden.”
They were gossiping about her below stairs. Of course they were.
She swept around the table and gave Mrs. Whitlock her brightest smile. “I am a private person.” She slammed the book closed, snatched it from the table, and held it close against her belly. “But I assure you, I’m not—” She could not speak the wordsI am not her. Because she was. Shewas. “Thank you, Mrs. Whitlock. I’ll go see what Lord Eaden needs now.”
The housekeeper curtsied. “He’s in the study.”
Gwendolyn walked with measured steps to match her measured thoughts.
She waited for the dread and anguish to bury her alive. But she’d been walking steadily toward the girl in the book clutched to her belly for days now, and she felt ready.
She paused at the door, took a breath, and pushed through. She’d wanted to tell Jackson first. Perhaps she should wait until he returned. No. No. What if Lord Eaden heard whispers? She must tell him in her own words. Then she’d wait for Jackson and tell him too. Somewhere private and quiet and dark.
Lord Eaden looked up with a grin. “Good morning, Miss Smith.”
She crept into the room, closed the door behind her, and twisted her fingers together before her.
“You wished to see me?” Let him have his say first, then she hers.
He picked up a slip of paper from his desk, waved it at her. “I’ve just received a letter for you. Several, in fact.”
Slowly, as if stepping over glass, she took one of them, opened it. “Oh. Lord Birmingham welcomes my illustrations for his next publication. And… my… it’s an excellent salary.”
Lord Eaden raised a brow. “Better than I provide?”
She nodded, showed him the sum, a bit astonished herself.
He slammed forward, forearms and clasped hands making a strong V on the table. “I’ll double it.”
The way he looked at her, as he did the daughters of his blood, it broke her down into a river of tears. She reached up to her cheek, brushed a salty drop away. Had it stolen into her from the sea yesterday? But no—another, and another, and… she was crying. For the first time in years.
“Zeus!” Lord Eaden rose and hurried round the desk, guided her to a sofa and set her down. He wrapped her in large arms that could hold up the world, that had held up her world for the past six years. “Shh.” He hushed soft sounds into her ear. “Should I call for Sarah? You two had a rocky start, but she thinks of you as her own now. As do I. You must know that. And you must know that whether you continue to work for me or not, you are a part of my family. You always will be, Gwendolyn. Zeus. Let me call Sarah. She’s much better at comforting than I am.”
She stiffened at his use of her given name. It brought more tears that she wiped away. “I am sorry for crying. I do not relish the idea of leaving you. And I have reconsidered that move of late.”
“You have?” His voice a peal of joy.
She licked her lips, took a steadying breath. “I must tell you something first. You may not wish me to stay once you hear what I have to say. Though, I am trying to convince my heart to trust what my mind already knows—that you will not turn me away.”
“Whatever it is, I will not.”
She pushed out of his embrace and lifted her gaze to his. Brown eyes, so like Jackson’s looked back at her, steady and strong.
“I should have told you from the first,” she said, “but I wanted to forget. And you let me. Thank you. But… I’m ready to speak of it now.” She had to be or dishonor this man and another. She had to or dishonor herself. An odd and new notion, but it felt right as it settled in her chest near her heart.
His jaw hardened. “Are you sure?”
“I am sure. I do not wish to run any longer.”
He placed a hand over hers, engulfing it. “You do not have to. I—”
