Page 103 of The Lyon Returns
Gideon was missingsomething. He was sure of it. The secrecy, the strict edict keeping Gwen and him from seeing each other until the moment they descended the stairs. The gown, which was, admittedly, perfection on her. What on earth would inspire his father to go to such lengths?
They reached the landing and started down.
Flowers, everywhere. They adorned the banister, they scented the air as if someone had crushed a bushel of petals underfoot, just out of view.
He shot Gwen a look. “Were these garlands present when we returned from the river, earlier?”
She shook her head and the soft fall of her hair brushed her shoulders. “No, they weren’t. Clearly, someone raided the garden and stripped it bare. Massive bouquets adorned my side of the bedchamber,as well. Was it the same on your side?”
“No.”
They started down the stairs. Where was everyone else? Gideon knew he and Gwen were not late in coming down, yet they had not crossed paths with a single guest.
The haunting strains of a violin reached him.
And suddenly a strong inkling of what his father had planned congealed in his mind. He opened his mouth to share his suspicion with Gwen, then closed it with a snap. He should forewarn her, but he could not bring himself to do so.
They reached the ground floor and started for the grand parlor. His mouth went dry. He should warn her.
“Gideon? Is everything all right?”
He glanced at her.
She reached up to smooth the space between his brows with a gloved finger. “You’re scowling. What is it?”
He made a valiant effort to relax his features and made up a quick excuse for his frown. “I was trying to work out the tune. Do you recognize it?” Too late, he realized his mistake. He’d set Gwen’s sharp mind to the task of recalling the oft-played score—and she did.
“I think I do. It’s…” Her eyes went huge and her heels dug in as she jerked to a halt. She looked down at herself then up at Gideon, an expression of sheer terror on her face that confirmed his worst suspicion.
“Gideon,” she hissed. “I think your father has orchestrated a wedding ceremony for us.”
He gazed at her, keeping his expression carefully neutral, as hers changed to one of dawning comprehension.
“You knew?”
He shook his head. “I began to suspect only a moment ago.”
“What should we do?” Her harsh whisper bordered on hysteria as she glanced over her shoulder toward the front doors, clearly consideringthe merits of fleeing.
“As far as I can tell, there is only one thing we can do, Gwen.”
She waited, an expectant look on her beautiful face. As he watched, her color faded until her skin appeared nearly alabaster.
They look at you and see one thing—an exotic. A plaything. Women like Fannie marry men like your brother. They don’t lower themselves for a spell of momentary entertainment.
The sound of clipped footsteps over marble echoed off the walls. They were growing louder.
“My father, I expect,” Gideon said. He regarded Gwen and mentally girded himself for the confrontation to come with the duke. He’d known all along all the warmth his bluestocking wife had brought into his life, although pleasant, had been temporary by design, despite his foolish belief he could make it last.
A lifetime of moving in circles with women like Gwen had taught him she was not meant for the likes of him, and he should never have contemplated otherwise. He was a source of illicit entertainment for women—an exchange he benefited from equally. With Gwen it had seemed like something more—likely a byproduct of their shared confidences.
When he spoke, his words sounded wooden to his own ears. “We shall confess all to him. He will understand. He will keep silent. We can trust him to put a spin on things to—”
“No,” she said, resolute. Color returned to her cheeks in a flood and twin splotches darkened her cheeks. “Absolutely not. It’s all right, Gideon.” She sent him a brave smile and his insides twisted.
He stamped down hard on the ridiculous longing her words fostered within him. “I cannot ask it of you. To go through with this—you realize it will be—”
“Gideon, Gwen,” his father said as he approached. He looked every bit the duke, Gideon thought. Impeccably dressed, not a strand of his sandy-brown-laced-with-silver hair out of place. Unassailable confidence that his whim would not be questioned eking from hisevery pore, and underscoring all of it was joy, over Gideon’s seeming happiness. His freedom to choose a wife without being bound by the constraints he and Grayson faced as a result of bearing the title.
