“If you truly believe that, dear friend, it makes me sad.”
Minette stood and felt Gwen’s forehead as Aidan fought to compose himself. Why was he so afraid to look beneath his riches and his titles? Who was he, truly?
He was a man who had behaved badly toward his wife, and was ashamed to admit it. He was a man who had made terrible mistakes.
He was a man who would have to start all over again, and try to make things right.
Minette reached for the wet towel, wrung it out and mopped gently at Gwen’s forehead. “Is the fever coming back?” he asked.
“No. She’ll be fine. I imagine the both of you will be perfectly fine.”
He walked around to Minette’s side. “Do you think it will bother her if I sit on the bed?”
The lady gestured for him to take a place beside his wife, and then handed him the toweling. “It might soothe her to sponge her arms, and her neck. It’s calming for invalids to be touched.”
He took her hand before she moved away. “Minette. I still remember you tripping about in short skirts, with your curls in tangles and your ragged dolly hanging from your fist. When did you get so grown up, and so wise?”
“I suppose it was when I married, and realized the sheer complexity of loving another person,” she said. “It gives trouble to the best of us, but I’m sure you’ll be all right. Love is not an easy thing, but the struggles are worth it.”
“Barrymore is lucky to have you.”
She grinned at him. “And Gwen shall be lucky to have you too, once the both of you sort out your feelings.” Her smile wobbled, turned into something more sad and sober. “Just love her, Arlington. Don’t make her wonder and question. Don’t make her suffer anymore.”
* * * * *
Gwen opened her eyes and blinked into moonlit darkness. She felt as if she’d been sleeping a thousand years. She turned to her right and found her husband asleep beside her, still in his shirtsleeves, a blanket pulled up over his legs. Why was she in his room? Why did she feel so groggy? Her thoughts cleared as if from a fog, and she remembered. She had tried to run away from him, and as expected, he had brought her back.
She began to remember other things, like cold and numbness, and a fall from her horse. She remembered the ladies leaning over her, mopping her forehead, and a physician speaking to the duke in a hushed voice, and the duke yelling back at him.
He must be so angry. She feared to wake him and face the consequences of what she’d done. She’d run away in the middle of his party, doubtless ruining the whole affair and sparking a new spate of gossip. Now, afterward, she wished she had made a different choice.
She wouldn’t wake him, that was for sure. She wouldn’t hasten the reckoning between them. She slid from the bed, being careful to make no noise, and stood propped against the side of it until her legs were not so wobbly. She found a cold, weak pot of tea on the side table and drank the entire thing, staring out the window at the moon.
Why was she so thirsty? How long had she slept? Was Eira all right, and cozy in her stable stall? She seemed to remember one of the ladies assuring her some such thing. Gwen felt grimy, as if she needed washing. She crossed into the duke’s bathing room and lit a lamp, and ran some lukewarm water into a basin.
Her flannel nightgown felt as grimy as her skin, so she cast it aside and stood naked, and washed herself all over with one of the duke’s soft towels. Her hair was a tangled mess so she washed it too, undoing the snarls with scented water and a fine tortoiseshell comb.
It must be Arlington’s comb, she thought, looking at it. He had uncommonly long hair for a man, and always kept it in decent order. She wrapped herself in a towel and sat on a bench near his other things, razors and brushes and bottles of cologne. He kept an army of valets for when he wished to look smart, but sometimes he dressed himself.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the comb, or rather, how he would look standing there combing his hair, dealing with snarls and knots just as she did. His grooming tools were so practical, like any other man’s, like her father’s, or her brothers’.
She felt cold, and she didn’t want to put the flannel gown back on, so she took the lamp into his dressing room and found a long row of linen shirts. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she borrowed one. She squeezed the last of the moisture from her hair, set aside the towel, and pulled his shirt over her head. How soft it was. It smelled like him, like the fragrant herbs they used to launder it.
She knew the scent of him so readily. Why could she not know him, the man who combed his tangles out? The man who got dressed in this room, after putting on one of these shirts? She went to the next shelf, studying his shoes and coats, and hats, and cravats. There were drawers of gloves and stockings, all arranged in impeccable order, sorted by color. Help me understand him, she prayed to the heavens. I don’t want to run away. I want him to love me.
She crept along the shelves, touching bits of lace and silver buckles, and velvet-covered buttons. She found the outfit he’d worn on their wedding day, the fine dark coat with glittering embroidery. How handsome she had thought him, and how horrible at the same time.
But had he really been horrible, or just unfamiliar? She had been so frightened to go to bed with him that first night, but he had taken the time to calm her. Told her silly tales of marauders and medieval maidens. The next morning, when everyone had come barging into the room, she had been clothed.
Somehow.
It could only have been by him.
She had never thought of it until now, that he had done those things for her when he barely knew her. And what had she done in return? Cried, and reviled him, and caused him trouble at every turn. Perhaps he would have loved her if she had not been such an adversarial shrew from the outset. Now, since she had run away and humiliated him again, she feared he would never love her.
She wished she could start all over and do things differently. Perhaps when he woke and started shouting at her, she could appeal to him with those words. Give me another chance. Maybe she could appeal to his sensual side. Maybe that was all they would ever have, their lurid compatibility in bed. Maybe that was what she deserved, to be pleasured, but not to be loved.
She crossed to the other side of his dressing room, past a leather-covered bench and chest of drawers. There was a large, rectangular parcel propped against the chest, swathed in a cloth. She peeked beneath it, then pushed it back to reveal their formal painting. Tears rose in her eyes. Someone had savaged the thing, torn it to shreds.
“Gwen.”
The deep voice startled her. She spun to find her husband watching her. His gaze traveled over her shirt, or rather his shirt, and returned to her face. She didn’t know what to say. Nothing came to her lips. No excuses for her flight, no asking for another chance. Nothing came but anxiety.
“Someone has ruined it.” She gestured to the torn canvas. “Someone destroyed our painting.”
“I destroyed it,” he said.
So it was that bad. Gwen shrank away, ducked behind the ruined
painting as if it could protect her from this moment.
“You put my shift back on the morning after the wedding,” she blurted from behind the frame. “It must have been you. And the night before, you told me those stories about wedding nights and marauders to distract me, so I wouldn’t be afraid.”
He said nothing as she reminded him of these things, only stood there looking at her with his hands open at his sides.
“And you tried to stop me running off on Eira that time, so I wouldn’t be hurt,” she said. “And you kept her for me, when you would rather have gotten rid of her. You loved me once. In the beginning, you loved me, at least a little.”
His voice sounded soft after her panicked outburst. “I have always loved you, Guinevere. Not just a little.”
“Then why...why did you rip up our painting?”
“Because I thought it was horrible.” He held out a hand. “Come here, please. Come away from that wretched thing.”
She crossed to him and he caught her up and sat with her on the bench, holding her in a smothering hug.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for all the ways I’ve hurt you. I tore the painting because I was cold and wrong, and I’d like to start over. I’d like another chance.”
Gwen blinked at him. “I was going to ask you that same thing. For another chance. I’m so sorry I ran away and ruined your party.”
“I don’t care about the party, Gwen. I care about saving this marriage. I care about your happiness, because I believe it is inextricably tied up with mine.”
His eyes were so sad. So deep and blue and sad.
“I want to make you happy,” she said. “I want it more than anything. I just don’t know how.”
“Darling.” His hand trailed up and down her arm, over the soft linen of his shirt. “If I’ve been unhappy, it’s my own fault. There’s nothing at all wrong with you. It was my loftiness, my pride.”
“No, it wasn’t all you. I asked you for love when I behaved so unlovably. You must admit it’s true. I’ve been awful.”
“Not awful,” he said with a hint of a smile.