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Standard disclaimer.
Next morning, Gwen came to breakfast late.
She had considered skipping the meal entirely...pleading a headache or fatigue...but she didn't want to invite any questions.
She wasn't sure how she'd even look at the duchess this morning. The woman had the perception of a hawk.
She would have to mind her every move, word and glance, to avoid giving anything away.
As she neared the breakfast room, she stopped in the corridor and took a moment to compose herself.
She could hear voices from within...both the duchess' and Arthur's.
'Drat!'
He wasn't supposed to be awake this early. How was she going to manage this?
The same way he managed it, she supposed.
After their encounter in the dining room the previous morning, knowing him, he would have no difficulty.
He would barely acknowledge her presence, no doubt.
In fact, that was probably why he'd come to breakfast...because, he was worried she would blurt out, how she'd shamelessly thrown herself at him, mere hours ago.
He wanted to quell any speculation, between the two of them.
'Just pretend nothing happened,' She told herself. 'You were not alone with him in the library. He did not gather you in the most tender, needing of embraces. And he most especially did not lift your skirts and give you delicious pleasure, while whispering the most tender, arousing words, to ever caress your ear.'
The memory was so acute, Gwen bit her knuckle, to keep her reactions in check.
When she had her resolve firmly in place, she turned the corner and entered the breakfast room, keeping her eyes downcast.
"Beg pardon for my tardiness, your graces. I slept rather..."
The scraping of chair legs interrupted her, the sound freezing the blood in her veins.
'Oh no. Surely he hadn't.'
She looked up in horror.
He had.
The eighth Duke of Bradford, had risen to his feet, when she entered the room.
Without thinking, apparently, because, he couldn't possibly have meant to do such a thing.
Gentlemen rose to their feet when ladies came in. They did not rise for servants.
No man had ever stood for her. Not once in her life.
It was the best, most thrilling sensation. But when it came to the cause of discretion, this was a complete disaster.
And then he made it worse...he inclined his handsome, blonde head, in a sort of bow.
"Miss Campbell," he said.
Up went the duchess' eyebrows.
"Well..."
That one syllable spoke volumes. Her grace knew everything. At least, she knew something had happened.
And Gwen could only pray, the details remained a rough sketch, in her imagination.
"Be seated, Miss Campbell," Arthur said.
She shook her head.
"You first, your grace."
"Both of you, remain as you are," the duchess said. She rose from her own chair. "I was just about to leave for the morning room, and now I've saved you both the trouble of rising twice."
"Do we have lessons this morning, your grace?" Gwen asked.
The duchess gave her a strange look.
"No. It's Wednesday. My day to be at home to callers. I expect a great many inquisitive ladies this morning."
"You don't want me to sit with you?"
"Best to keep them wondering, I think. If they want another look at you, there's the fete at Vauxhall Gardens this evening. For now, you may be at your leisure."
Gwen curtsied, as the duchess exited the room.
As soon as the older woman had gone, she turned to Arthur and whispered,
"What are you doing, standing for me? You shouldn't stand for me. You saw the duchess' face just now. How smug she looked. She'll think something has changed between us."
"Everything has changed between us," he casually said.
Everything changed inside Gwen, at that statement. Her internal organs began scouting for new neighborhoods.
"When you've finished your breakfast, get your things. We're going out," he said.
"We? Out? Where?" Gwen was suddenly aware, she sounded something like a yipping dog. But her mind was full of questions.
"You and I...will go out of the house." He walked his fingers in demonstration. "On an errand. Did you have some other plans for the morning?"
She had just been contemplating an hour or two of reading, followed by a nice long nap.
"I don't have any plans," she said.
"Very good. Meet me in the entrance hall, when you've fetched your wrap."
She still wasn't sure what last night meant to him. Or even what it meant to her.
But this morning, she couldn't turn down the chance to spend time with him.
She wanted to be with him, more than she wished to be anywhere else.
In her heart she knew, this meant she was on the verge of something emotional and treacherous...and she was at serious risk of falling in.
'Be careful, Gwen. Nothing could come of it.'
For today, she decided to ignore the posted warnings and dance on the edge of heartbreak.
Surely, she could teeter on this brink, a few hours longer, without falling completely in love with the man.
After all, it was only an errand.
Except it wasn't only an errand.
Oh, no. It was something far better. And far worse.
He took her to a bookshop. The bookshop.
When the coach pulled up before the familiar Bond Street shop front, Gwen's heart performed the strangest acrobatics in her chest. It tried to sink and float at once.
Those cruel words echoed in her memory. 'I'll chase you off with the broom.'
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked, accepting Arthur's hand, as he helped her down from the carriage.
"It's a bookshop. If you mean to open a circulating library, don't you need books? They don't sell very many of those at the fruiterer's or linen draper's."
He tugged at her hand.
"Come, we'll buy up every naughty, scandalous, licentious volume in the place."
He pulled her towards the shop entrance, but she held back.
The duke looked bemused.
"If you're too proud to accept a gift, I can deduct it from your thousand pounds."
"It's not that."
"Then, what is it?"
Gwen chided herself for her reluctance. He meant well. He meant more than well. He'd brought her here, for the express purpose, of making her dreams come true.
"Isn't there another bookshop in London? A bigger one, with a larger selection? This one looks rather small."
"Shilling is the best. My family has patronized this shop for generations. They offer bindings done to order, of the finest quality. That'll be important for your circulating library. You'll want the books made to last."
Gwen's heart ached, at how much thought he'd given this.
This was the extravagant shopping trip her heart yearned for...not a whirlwind of pink in the dressmaker's shop, or hours spent poring over trays of gold and jewels.
And the fact that he understood it, meant he knew her.
"You were right yesterday," he said, more softly. "About Hubert and the hat. I can't just hand you a thousand pounds, brush the gold dust from my hands and walk away. If this is your dream, I want to be sure you'll make a go of it."
'Oh, Arthur.' Her heart softened, but the thought of what happened the last time she'd gone into the shop, overshadowed it.
"I can't go in there," she blurted out.
"But of course you can."
"No, I mean I'm...I'm not welcome there."
Arthur's face went serious.
"What makes you say that?"
There was nothing for it, but to tell him the truth.
As Gwen related the tale, he received it with a stony, impassive expression.
It hurt to own up to the humiliation. But if she were going to refuse his help, he deserved to know why.
"So you see, I can't go in. Not this shop."
He didn't answer her. Not in words.
When his footman opened the door, Arthur ushered her into the bookshop, with a firm hand.
The shopkeeper rushed out from behind the counter, to greet him with a deep bow.
"Your grace. What an honor."
Arthur removed his hat and placed it on the counter.
"How may I serve you this morning, your grace?"
"This is my mother's friend, Miss Campbell. She is looking to acquire some books for her personal library. I believe you made her acquaintance earlier this week."
The clerk's gaze flicked to Gwen and his tongue darted out in a reptilian manner.
"Er...I'm afraid I don't recall, your grace. Please forgive me."
"I understand. This is a busy shop."
"Yes, yes. So many people come and go, you see. I can't possibly remember each face."
'The snake.' Gwen knew he recognized her. His gaze kept darting in her direction, and his face was showing hints of crimson.
It was on the tip of her tongue to confront his lies. She wasn't afraid of him. Not now, with the duke at her side. This time, she would stand up for herself.
But Arthur's hand pressed gently against her back, relaying an unmistakable message...allow me.
"So you do not remember Miss Campbell?" he asked the shopkeeper once again.
"I'm afraid not, your grace."
"Let me shake your recollection," the duke said, stressing the word 'shake' with the crisp ring of a threat.
His voice was smooth, aristocratic, commanding, and honed to a blade-sharp edge.
And Gwen thought it was the most arousing thing she'd ever heard.
"You had a conversation with her," he continued evenly. "About oranges, Leadenhall, the Queen of Sheba, and chasing vermin off with brooms."
The man's stammering became a violent tremor...nearly as violent as the blood-red flush of his cheeks.
"Your g-g-grace, I humbly and abjectly apologize. I had no idea the young lady..."
"It is not I who deserves your apology."
"Of course not, your grace."
The scaly man turned to Gwen. He barely met her eyes.
"Miss Campbell, please accept my profoundest apologies. I didn't realize. I am deeply sorry if you interpreted my remarks, in any way that offended you."
"Well?" The duke turned to her. "Do you accept his apologies, Miss Campbell?"
She glared at the shopkeeper.
His was the worst, most insincere apology possible. To say "I'm sorry you were offended" was not the same as apologizing for the offense.
She didn't believe he was sorry in the least, and if she'd been alone and feeling brave, she would have told him so.
But she was here with the duke and he'd meant this to be a pleasant errand. Part of her fairy tale.
So, she said quietly,
"I suppose."
"Very well, then." Arthur clapped his hands together. "Let's begin an order. Take a list, Shilling."
The shopkeeper's relief was plain to see.
He scurried behind the counter and turned his ledger to a fresh sheet, before dipping his quill in ink.
Arthur began to dictate, rattling off titles and authors, with an arousing tenor of authority.
"We'll start with all of Mrs. Radcliffe and Mrs. Wollstonecraft. All the modern poets, as well. Byron and his ilk. The Monk, Moll Flanders, Tom Jones, a good translation of L'École des Filles...Fanny Hill. Make it two copies of that last."
Shilling looked up.
"You did say, these are for the young lady's library, your grace?"
"Yes."
"Your grace, might I suggest..."
"No," Arthur clipped. "You may not offer suggestions. You will continue to write down the titles that I name."
Gwen's mouth went dry. 'Good heavens.'
If the duke had torn every scrap of clothing from his body and held the shopkeeper at the point of a glimmering sword, every muscle flexed in anger...she could not have found him more attractive than she did right now.
Arthur went on listing titles and dictating names.
When the list filled an entire page, front and back, he said,
"I suppose that will make a start. Now, for the bindings."
He turned to Gwen and waved her over, to view samples of leather.
As she neared him, her heart began to pound.
Last night he'd skimmed his rough, hungry touch over her breasts and filled her with his wicked fingers.
But nothing...none of the previous night's exhilaration...could compare to this moment.
She stood next to him, buffeted by the full, soul-rattling force of her adoration.
How could he fail to notice?
How could the world not have changed around them?
She'd been struck by lightning, and he just went on speaking in that same, even tone.
"You must have Morocco bindings, of course. It's the best. Gold leaf embossing for the title and the spine. Do you have a favorite color?"
"Favorite color?" She was lost in his inquisitive stare.
"I...I like brown."
"Brown?" he scoffed. "That's too commonplace."
"If you say so."
She ran a loving touch, over the scrap of fawn-colored leather she'd admired the other day.
It was just as butter soft as it appeared, but wholly impractical.
So she tried to focus her attention on the samples of Morocco Arthur suggested, instead.
"I should think red," she decided. "Red, for all of them." She lifted a scrap of supple crimson kidskin. "Red is the best color for naughty books, don't you think?"
"Indubitably."
"And people will know at a glance, they came from my library. It will be a good advertisement," she added.
"Red it is, then. With marbled end-papers and gold leaf. Write that down, Shilling."
The shopkeeper scribbled greedily in the margins. And Gwen could tell, he was already tallying up the outrageous profits he'd turn, on this one order alone.
"May I view the list?" the duke asked.
"But of course, your grace." Shilling turned the ledger, so the duke might view the page.
Arthur ran his finger down the list, nodding with approval.
Then, he grasped the page and ripped it from the ledger.
"Thank you," he said, folding the paper in two and creasing it smartly. "This will prove helpful, when we place the order with your competitor."
The shopkeeper flashed a nervous smile.
"Your grace, I don't understand."
"Really? Don't you? Then, permit me to make it clear."
He approached the man, until the difference between their heights was evident.
"Perhaps, Miss Campbell accepts your measly, insulting apologies. I do not."
"B-But, your grace..."
"I would offer you a farewell, but I don't bother with insincerity. I hope you fare very ill indeed."
Gwen wanted to cheer and applaud, even kiss Arthur, in full view of everyone. Or at least stand there and gloat a few moments longer.
But he was eager to leave.
He ushered her out the door.
"Don't worry. We'll find another shop."
"We don't have to do that right now."
"Yes, we do," he replied. "I sent the coach around the corner to wait. Do you mind walking?"
"Not at all."
He barely paused to gain her agreement, before storming down the sidewalk at a terror of a pace.
His boots hit the pavement with crisp reports, and his gloves flapped comically in his grip.
Gwen had to dash, to keep up with him.
"Sorry," he said, when he noted her struggles, and slowed his pace. "I'm angry at the moment."
"Thank you for being angry...for what you just did. The way you handled him was marvelous."
He stared into the distance and snapped his gloves against his thigh.
"Arthur, I'm going to work so hard for you, the rest of this week," she promised. "Starting with Vauxhall tonight. I'll be the best, most comprehensive failure you could imagine."
He made a dismissive wave, brushing off her vows.
"No, I mean it. Truly. That was..." There was no other way to say it. "It was the best thing anyone ever did for me."
He stopped, then turned to her.
"And that, Miss Campbell, makes me angriest of all."
The fiery look in his eyes undid her.
She knew that look.
It mirrored the fast-blooming vine of devotion and rage that grew inside her, whenever Danielle was harmed.
She knew it well...the pure, un-reasoned fury, at a world that would allow such things to happen, coupled with the frustration, that she was powerless to prevent it from occurring again.
The duke felt that same frustration right now. On her behalf. And he wasn't even bothering to hide it.
If she'd harbored any hope of not falling in love with the man, it vanished that instant. It was only a matter of time.
She would love him before the week was out, and it would be gloriously terrible and wonderfully hopeless.
Her heart was now a coin with two sides...dread and joy...and it seemed to flip back and forth with every racing beat.
"Miss Campbell?"
At the sudden address, Gwen startled.
"Why, it is you." Lady Haughfell appeared on the pavement before them. "And your grace. What a pleasant surprise. We've just come from your house."
"Is that so?" Arthur replied.
"Yes, we came, hoping to make a social call and further our acquaintance with dear Miss Campbell. We do so long, to hear more about her and her people. Our copy of Debrett's was of very little help."
Gwen didn't miss the implication in Lady Haughfell's words. 'You're not one of us. I know it, and I mean to learn the truth.'
"We were out," Arthur said.
"Obviously," the lady replied.
"My apologies for the inconvenience," he said coolly. "Perhaps you will be so good, as to call another day."
"Yes, yes. And allow me to express my deepest concern for the duchess' health and my best wishes for her speedy recovery."
"What?" His voice changed instantly.
Lady Haughfell arched a brow.
"Were you unaware? The butler informed us. Your mother has taken gravely ill."
Stay safe!