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Standard disclaimer.
"How long have you known the duke?" Lord Leon asked, as he led Gwen capably through the dance.
He was so elegant a dancer, she scarcely had the opportunity to misstep.
"Only this week," she answered truthfully. "And you, my lord?"
"We were at Eton together. Close friends ever since." He fixed her with an unreadable gaze. "We have a pact, you know."
"A pact?"
"Yes. A pact...blood-sworn on our crossed blades. To protect one another in the face of all threats...treachery, betrayal..."
"Death?" she finished.
"No, worse...marriage."
Gwen laughed. She couldn't help it.
"How old were you when you made this pact?"
"Nineteen. But it never lapses. It automatically renews."
"I see." She tried to look thoughtful. "Lord Leon, if a duke wishes to avoid matrimony, isn't he capable of protecting himself?"
He shook his head.
"You really are new in London, aren't you? A man like Arthur needs a trusted friend, to watch his back at all times. The town is rife with fortune-hunters. And as fortune-hunting goes, his fortune is the elusive white tiger's pelt...the greatest prize to be had. There are women in this town, who'd stoop to poisoned darts and man-traps just to bag him."
He arched one brow and swept a playful look around the crowd.
His gaze returned to her.
"You never know when they'll strike."
"So you think I'm one of those women," she concluded. "A fortune-hunter like the rest. My lord, let me assure you...I have no designs on the duke. There are no sharpened arrows or slingshots in my reticule. And this may surprised you, but I possess no qualities, which could remotely tempt a man like the duke, into marriage."
Where was that punch bowl anyway?
She didn't feel like explaining her bargain with Arthur to Leon, but acting it out, might serve the same purpose.
Surely he wouldn't view her as a marital threat, once he was drenched in arrack punch.
"You're aware of Arthur's reputation, I hope," Leon said. "Fling your favors at him all you like, but he won't marry you."
"What makes you think I'd 'fling my favors' at anyone?"
"I beg your pardon, Miss Campbell," he said stiffly. "I didn't intend any such implication."
'Liar. You meant exactly what you said,' she thought, as though he could look at her, without having any knowledge of her humble, common origins...and just know she was that sort of girl.
But he was right...to a point. In her youth, she hadn't guarded her 'favors' as closely as she should have. But the duke knew about that, and he never made her feel lesser for it.
Gwen looked about, growing desperate to end her time with Leon. She wanted to get back to Arthur.
'Aha! There it is!' she screamed in internal excitement. She'd spied a vast silver tub of punch, shaped like an open clam-shell and an idea came to her.
As soon as they reached the far end of the dance floor, she'd ask Lord Leon for some refreshment. They'd approach the bowl...he'd lean over to dip with the ladle...
And from there, just one good push, would do the trick.
"Lord Leon, your friend is in no danger from me." Mentally, she added, 'You, on the other hand...'
"I'd like to take you at your word, Miss Campbell." His eyes wandered to a spot beyond her shoulder. "If only Arthur himself, weren't about to prove you wrong."
"What?"
"That'll be enough." The duke appeared out of nowhere and stopped them in the middle of the dance. "I'll take it from here."
Leon resisted.
"Oh, come on, Arthur. Let us get through one dance. We're having a conversation."
Arthur gripped his friend's lapel, pulled him away from Gwen and lowered his voice to a growl.
"I said, she's mine."
Leon raised his hands.
"Very well. She's yours."
With a little bow and a wary look in Gwen's direction, Leon disappeared.
As Arthur took her in his arms and resumed the dance, Gwen stared at him, amazed.
"Why did you cut in? I was on the cusp of brilliant disaster."
He shrugged.
"I decided, I didn't care to watch you dive into the punch bowl. Someone worked too hard on that gown you're wearing. And on the punch. Not to mention, there's a breeze this evening. You might catch cold."
'Might catch cold?'
"You do realize," she whispered, "That for our bargain to work, sooner or later, you will have to let me stumble."
"Well, it won't be tonight. Tonight, I'm here for you. And I will not let you fall." He leaned close and whispered in her ear. "I could see you were upset, Guinevere."
Her heart twisted.
The fact that he'd been able to tell from all that distance and wasted no time coming to her side...it warmed her deep inside.
She didn't care what anyone said about his past or reputation. The duke is a good man.
Gwen clutched Arthur's shoulder tight.
"It's all right," he started and firmly placed his hand against her back. "Just follow my lead."
He danced her to the side of the pavilion...the one opposite his friends' booth.
And instead of rejoining the party, he steered her away from the orchestra and onto a dimly lit path.
Once they left the crowds behind, he turned her to face him.
"What happened?" he asked, bracing his hands on her shoulders and searching her face. "Was it something Leon said? I can easily kill him for you."
Gwen smiled weakly.
"Please don't." Even though Leon had insulted her, she knew he was trying...in his own warped way...to be a good friend to Arthur.
And she didn't want to be caught in the middle.
"Did someone else insult you? Are you ill?"
"No. Nothing like that."
"You're homesick, then."
"Yes..I am homesick." It wasn't a lie. "This place has me awestruck. Everywhere I turn...I think Danielle would love to see this. And from there..."
He drew her close.
"Another landslide."
She nodded.
"It will pass. A walk will help," he said.
Arthur offered his arm, and she took it. Together they ambled away from the orchestra and into a darkened grove.
And once again, Gwen found herself wondering, how he understood her feelings so completely. Almost as if they were his own.
"May I ask you something?" she said.
"Only if it's nothing to do with cataclysmic smelting."
She smiled.
"It's about my sister. You were perfect with her. Just perfect. Do you have someone like her in your family?"
"No," he answered. "I have no siblings at all. Not anymore."
'So, he had lost someone.' She squeezed his arm.
"I'm so sorry Arthur, I didn't know."
"It's not like you're thinking. I mean, it is...but it isn't. My mother bore four children, but I'm the only one who lived longer than a week. I have no clear memories of my brothers and sister."
He moved a low-hanging branch out of her way, and she ducked under it.
"I found Danielle charming. You're lucky to have her."
"I am. I didn't always know it. But I am."
Gwen wasn't a saint, and neither was Danielle. Like any sisters, they had their episodes of bickering and resentment.
And there'd been that shameful day in their girlhood, when they'd traveled to market with their father.
Gwen, about eight years old, had run off to make new friends, to steal a bit of joy from someone else's life.
And when Danielle had caught up with their merry group, she had been embarrassed. She could still hear the conversation.
"Is that dummy your sister?" a boy had sneered.
"No way, Len," she'd replied. "I've never seen her before in my life. Make her go away."
Even now, Gwen could still see her sister's horror-stricken face.
The guilt had crushed her like a millstone. She'd known, in that moment, that she'd denied the only person, who loved her most in the world.
And for what? To impress a few children at market?
She had dashed after Danielle, begging forgiveness. And they'd clasped each other tight and cried and cried. It was a painful memory, but one she didn't dare forget.
She would never let anyone make her feel ashamed. And she would never betray her sister again.
"I am lucky to have her," she repeated. "And no one else understands that. No one."
"Perhaps, they have siblings to spare. We aren't all so fortunate."
With that, Arthur fell quiet.
Gwen stared at him, tracing his handsome features in the lamp-lit darkness.
He was a complex man, with a rich family legacy and responsibilities she couldn't begin to fathom.
Who was she...a serving girl from Sussex...to tell him anything?
But she had to try. There was no one else who could.
She turned to him, placing a hand on his sleeve.
"Arthur..."
"Don't." At the new tone in her voice, his eyes narrowed. He backed away, leaning against a nearby tree. "Don't, Miss Campbell. Don't start this."
"Don't start what? I merely said your name."
"But in that tone. I know that tone. You're embarking on some vain attempt to fix me...to mend the brokenness of my life. Whatever foolish womanly notion you're entertaining, abandon it now. You'll only embarrass yourself."
'Good heavens.' The man was so transparent, it was like she could look at his waistcoat and see straight through, to the tree trunk he leaned against.
If he thought a few boorish words could shake her off, after the way he'd clutched her to him last night...and the sweet words he'd whispered...
"You are being ridiculous," she said calmly. "So ridiculous, I can't even be angry with you, so don't think you're pushing me away. I know you're hurting somehow, Arthur. I know it. I can feel it, even that first day, and..."
He turned his gaze.
"I'm not having this discussion."
"Fine. Deny it. I don't care. I don't know if that's male pride or aristocratic phlegm. But whatever quality it is, it's not one I possess. You can pretend you're not hurting. I can't pretend not to care."
She steeled her courage to continue.
"I'm not asking to be in your confidant. I can understand why you wouldn't share your problems with a girl like me, but...perhaps, you shouldn't dismiss the idea of marriage entirely. I hate to think of you alone."
"Who says I'm alone?" he scoffed. "I don't lack for companionship if I want it..."
"Yes, yes. You're a great rake and libertine...or so I hear. But I haven't seen any evidence of it. From my observation, you're just an impulsively generous, occasionally decent man, who roams the house alone at night and tinkers with old clocks."
His arm shot out and he pulled her tightly to his chest.
"Don't mistake me for a decent man."
In one swift move, he had their positions reversed. His broad chest pressed her against the tree.
Gwen struggled just a little, and the gauzy fabric of her dress snagged and caught on the bark.
She would not let him see her trembling.
"You declined to ravage me last night," she said. "Surely you don't expect me to fear it now."
"Not at all." He leaned forward, until they were nose-to-nose. "I expect you'll enjoy it."
With that, he took her mouth in a deep, demanding kiss. His tongue moved against hers, again and again, and he angled his head to slide deeper still. Exploring her, possessing her. Relentless.
And it didn't stop there. His hand slid to her bodice, claiming her breast.
'Oh, sweet heaven.'
He cupped the batting-enhanced mound capably, his fingers lifting and stroking.
His thumb skimmed back and forth, searching for her nipple, but the padding thwarted him.
He gave up with a curse and tugged at her off-the-shoulder sleeve, working her neckline downward.
Gwen sucked in her breath. He couldn't mean to do this here.
Or perhaps he could.
With a firm, unapologetic motion, he gathered what there was to gather and lifted, hiking her breast above the border of her corset and exposing it to the cool night air.
It was dark, but she felt thrust into a spotlight, vulnerable and quivering.
He kissed her again, exploring her mouth with possessive sweeps of his tongue.
As their tongues sparred, he rolled her nipple with his thumb. His masterful caresses destroyed all will and all reason.
Somehow, between the delicious sparks and shivers of bliss, one simple, straightforward goal began to coalesce.
This time she wanted to touch him, too.
She slid her gloved hands inside his coat, surveying the ridged, stony muscles of his torso and chest.
Even through his waistcoat, the power in his body was palpable.
She yanked his shirt free of his waistband and thrust her hands beneath.
He growled in encouragement, as she ran her flattened palms over the hard cobblestones of his abdominal muscles and traced the light furrow of hair bisecting them.
Then, she swept her touch upward, grazing over his nipple and centering on the fierce thump of his heart.
Boom.
Something exploded.
She felt the concussion of it in her chest, and thought it might have been her heart bursting.
Then, flashes of sparks from the heavens, lit the space between them.
She laughed at herself, as the realization dawned.
'Of course...fireworks.'
With one last brush of his lips against hers, Arthur lifted his head.
Gwen held her breath, expecting him to speak. But he didn't say a word. He just stared down at her, the same way he had, that first day in Spinster Cove...as though she were the most wonderful, terrible, puzzling, perfect thing, he'd ever beheld.
'No, no. This was all too much.'
She held his heartbeat in her hand. He treasured her small, insignificant breast with his.
And overhead, great bloody fireworks exploded with trails of silver and gold.
The power in the moment was soul-rattling.
Without the shield of a kiss, she couldn't hide her own feelings. There was nowhere she could look but straight into his darkened blue eyes.
Her own pulse was an incoherent flutter, but there was no hesitance in the rhythm beneath her palm. No stutter, no doubt. Just a strong, insistent beat of wanting.
Gwen, could almost imagine it calling her name, over and over, with each beat.
That couldn't be right. It had to be saying something else, she thought.
Probably, You fool, you fool, you fool.
Somewhere nearby, love was an ominous, gaping hole in the earth, widening every moment. Unless she was very careful, she'd be sure to fall straight in.
"Arthur," she whispered. "You need someone. Everyone needs someone."
With an impatient motion, he hiked her bodice, covering her breast. Then he stepped away.
"You don't understand this." His words were dark and fierce. "Don't tell me I need someone. My whole life has been an endless string of someones. Another 'someone' is exactly what I don't need. I most especially, do not want to stand in a room of pitiful, lackluster young women and hear, 'It's your duty to marry, Pendragon. Just choose someone.' "
Gwen reeled away from him, stung.
"Oh. I see."
He cursed.
"That's not what I..."
"No, you're right." She edged away in small, hurried steps. "Choosing a lackluster girl from a crowded room. What a nightmare. No good could ever come of a scene like that."
"Guinevere, wait."
She turned and ran, leaving him in the darkened grove and emerging into an open square, where a crowd had gathered to watch the fireworks.
She stopped in her tracks, gathering her breath. All around her, people were laughing and cheering and gasping with joy.
An unseen man bumped into her, hard. The old Gwen would've elbowed him back, but she didn't have the heart for it right now.
Instead, she turned to face him, laying her hand to her throat in apology.
'Oh, God. Oh no.'
He was gone. It was gone.
Arthur made his way through the grove, searching for Gwen.
At last he caught sight of her gown on the far side of the crowded green. That throbbing blur of pink, illuminated by gold pulses from above.
He felt as though he were watching his own heart, separated from his body.
Then, a man emerged from the shadows...and his heart stumbled.
"Guinevere!" he shouted.
She didn't hear him...or didn't turn. Instead, she paused for a moment. Then she rucked up her skirts and tore away, darting into the night.
She was chasing someone. He heard her call,
"Stop! Stop, you bloody thief!"
'Thief?'
Arthur ran after her, but he still had the crowd to navigate, and she had a formidable lead.
He was amazed, at how fast she could run in all those skirts.
She was giving the villain...whoever he was...quite a chase through colonnades and across lamp-lit groves.
And as she ran, profanity unfurled behind her, like a brightly colored banner. Whatever gains she'd made in elocution this week, had all disappeared.
"Bastard!" Gwen shouted, jostling past a bemused gentleman, Arthur recognized as an Austrian ambassador. "Stop, you black-'earted devil!"
Well, if she'd wanted a disastrous public spectacle...she had it. No punch bowl necessary.
"I'll 'ave your bollocks, you filthy whoreson!"
Arthur made an apologetic 'no, no, not you' grimace, in the direction of the royal booth, not daring to slow down long enough to explain.
He would have laughed, if he weren't so breathless...and so worried for Gwen.
They reached the borders of Vauxhall and plunged out into the surrounding neighborhood...a jumble of factories and shipping merchants' homes and tenements.
None of the streets were lit. God only knew what dangers lurked in the alleyways.
Still, she charged on.
What was she thinking?
Whatever the brigand had taken, it wasn't worth risking her life.
She was losing ground on the thief, but Arthur was gaining on her.
"Guinevere!" he shouted, digging deep for breath. "Let him go!"
"I can't!"
She turned a corner in pursuit and Arthur lost sight of her, for a few bleak, endless seconds.
He kicked up his pace, just praying that she'd still be whole and unharmed...so he could catch her and shake her silly.
Just as he neared the same corner, a short, piercing scream rent the air.
'Holy God. Please.'
He rounded the corner, and there she was...crumpled on the ground, in the middle of the lane.
"Guinevere! Guinevere...are you hurt?"
"Don't stop for me," she cried. "Run after him."
"He's gone," Arthur said, not bothering to look. "He's gone. And even if I could catch him, there's no way in hell I'd abandon you here."
People were already filing out from the nearby dwellings, having a good look at the fine lady and gent in the street.
Arthur stood tall and turned a wary glance in all directions, letting any ruffians know, that they'd better not take their chances.
"What's happened?" he murmured, crouching down before her. "Did he hurt you? Strike you with something?"
He began searching for splashes of blood and a horrid thought struck him.
"He didn't have a pistol or a blade, did he?"
"No," she sobbed.
He breathed again. 'Thank God.'
"Nothing of the sort. It's just these dratted shoes. I caught my heel between the paving stones and my ankle turned."
She lifted her skirt, and he could see her stocking-clad ankle, caught at an angle, that made him wince.
He freed her foot first, then the shoe. With gentle fingers, he explored her swelling ankle. She choked back a sob of distress.
"Is it so very painful? Perhaps it's broken."
She shook her head.
"It's not broken. And the pain isn't so bad. It's just..."
"What?" he said darkly. "What did the villain do to you?"
"Oh, God. You'll despise me."
"Never."
Gwen slumped against him, as if all the fight and fire had gone out of her.
"He took the necklace, Arthur. Your mother's amethysts. They were worth thousands. And now they're gone."
Stay safe!