Thank you for your patience, your continued interest and support. I appreciate it.
I do not own Merlin or the characters, neither do I own Wicked In Your Arms.
The dowager duchess' country seat sat nestled amid manicured lawns. And a great lake stretched before the massive gray-stone edifice like an inviting carpet of velvet blue.
Gwen could almost imagine the geese floating across the lake's glassy surface in the spring.
She held her breath as they were escorted up several steps into a cathedral-like foyer by the butler, and tried not to feel like a total impostor.
He led them to the drawing room, even as discordant music erupted from a pianoforte within, escaping through the tall, cracked double doors.
They were then ushered in to join a gathered group.
Apparently, they were the last to arrive, seeing as several other guests were taking their tea, the dowager included, who sat on a great throne of a chair before the fire, reigning like a pasha over the assembly.
Following the butler's stiffly delivered introductions, the Grande Dame waved them to chairs with plump, beringed fingers.
Their father, Reginald Davies forged ahead like a blustery wind, greeting the dowager in jarring tones, heedless of the soft tones everyone else used, even as a young lady painfully banged her way on the pianoforte.
Gwen and her sister exchanged glances at the smirks their father earned from the half-dozen guests lounging in chaises and sofas about the room.
Wealthy or not, invited or not, they were objects of disdain for the dowager's guests.
Gwen pasted a polite smile on her face and tried not to feel like a mongrel who had snuck inside to escape the storm.
She belonged here just as much as anybody else. She was an invited guest.
For some reason the image of Prince Arthur's face swam in her mind just then...
He, of course, would disagree. He thought she was common and beneath such elevated company.
The realization stung as it shouldn't. And she bit back a groan of frustration that he'd somehow found a way into her head again.
Shaking memories of him away, she lifted her chin a notch and inquired after the dowager's health.
The dowager offered a reply and smiled, to which Gwen tried to detect artifice in the brittle curve of her ashen lips.
The same artifice she'd met at every turn within the ton. But then she called a stop to such wonderings. Such thoughts were pointless.
Of course the smile was a sham... The dowager didn't want her or her sister to wed her grandson. She merely wanted their father's fortune to save her family.
It didn't take much to assess the direness of the dowager's situation... The evidence was there, all around for all to see.
The faded wallpaper wouldn't be so obvious but for the few squares of brighter, cleaner paper where paintings had once hung... Sold to fetch much-needed funds.
Then there were the maids standing in attendance... The funds were also likely to pay for the servants required to run this mausoleum.
And there were other signs...
The drawing room furniture, once of the finest quality, was worn and faded. Something Gwen easily noted after residing with her father for the last month and being surrounded with the finest furnishings and most lavish décor.
The dowager snapped her wrist and the viscount appeared, lifting up from a chaise across the room where he had been in close conversation with a pretty brunette.
The girl's eyes followed him longingly as he moved to his grandmother's side and bowed over Gwen and her sister Elizabeth's hands.
On the other side of the girl, her plump friend patted her arm consolingly and stared sourly at Gwen.
Gwen frowned...
Was the girl in love with him?
Was he in love with her?
'Perfect. Another reason to feel uncomfortable.'
The viscount did his part admirably though. He smiled and bowed over the sisters' hands with perfect grace.
His boyish good looks betrayed nothing.
He showed no sign that his heart was otherwise engaged. He was a gentleman to the core. Unlike a certain prince whose memory Gwen could not seem to dismiss.
She angled her head and took a bracing breath, silently reprimanding herself for thinking of that brash scoundrel again.
Would he never be far from her thoughts?
Over the course of their journey to reach the dowager's estate, his face and taunting words filled her head more often than not.
It was strange, really.
Suddenly...
'Holy hellfire!'
She almost imagined that one of the two gentlemen stepping inside the drawing room even now resembled him.
She blinked and looked again as he approached...
The gentleman didn't resemble him.
It was him!
'He's here. My prince is here. No! Not my prince...'
She swallowed tightly, cursing herself for that slip. Arthur wasn't her anything. And he never would be.
Panic swelled up in Gwen's chest, tightening her throat. How was she to forget Arthur when he attended the same house party with her?
He would be here, underfoot the entire time. For well over a week!
She would see him down the length of the dinner table and constantly hear his voice everywhere she turned.
His gaze found her, those blue-grey eyes widening with recognition. And something akin to amusement flickered in his eyes before it was gone.
Then his well-formed mouth flattened into an unsmiling line...
Gwen sniffed and held up her chin, struggling to appear unaffected. She stared coolly at him and through him, behaving like him...the austere, unfeeling royal.
She acted as though she didn't know him at all. And she didn't. Not really. Their one evening together scarcely constituted an acquaintance.
Just then, her sister lightly touched her elbow, and she dragged her attention back to the viscount, focusing on what he was saying...
"...delighted you are here. When you did not arrive yesterday with everyone else, we feared the elements would keep you from joining us. Such wretched weather. I profess all the gentlemen present are heaving a sigh of relief at the arrival of two more such lovely ladies."
"That's kind of you to say, my lord," Gwen murmured.
The viscount pressed a hand to his heart...
"I only speak the truth."
"Quite so, quite so," an elderly man chimed in, banging his walking stick upon the floor as he swept both Gwen and her sister a lecherous look.
Lord Gilbert nodded, acknowledging the old man who was somewhat lesser in rank than him.
"Yes, the marquis here, was quite displeased at the lack of females present."
"Now it shall be a true country party," the old man returned.
At that, his leer deepened, revealing missing teeth and a wet, roiling tongue that seemed to have difficulty staying inside his mouth.
Elizabeth managed to get out a polite response, but Gwen could only cringe at him.
Surely she was not to consider him?
The viscount was vastly more appealing.
"Eh, lovely." The marquis crooked a finger at her. "Come sit beside me."
Gwen gave him a wobbly smile, eyeing the small settee upon which he sat with great reluctance. Never had she felt so out of place, wondering what the proper thing to do was.
She felt the prince's gaze on her back, burning through her clothing, branding her, seeming to call her out for the impostor she was. And at that moment, she had never felt the truth of that more keenly.
She was an impostor, fighting for position in a world that didn't want her.
Resolve firmed her lips... A world that didn't want her yet.
"Cease your flirting, Hornsby," the dowager called. "Can't you see you're frightening the girl?"
'Frightening isn't exactly accurate. Repulsing is much more closer to the truth,' Gwen thought.
She smiled, but her lips felt brittle and tight on her face. Thankfully, her father provided a distraction just then, diving into a diatribe on their perilous journey across snow-laden roads.
Her father did not exaggerate, though. Elizabeth had come down with an ague, delaying their departure by a day. A day in which a winter storm arrived.
The roads had been nearly impassable, but that hadn't deterred their father. Not from a house party at the dowager's estate.
Gwen and her sister settled back onto the comfortable sofa as a silent maid placed a teacup in her hands. She took a warming sip, listening as her father described the two hours they had spent mired in a snowdrift while the driver, the groom and him, laboured to pull them free.
"Quite the adventure," a voice murmured beside her.
With that, she sent a sharp glance to her left.
As stealthy as a jungle cat, the prince had positioned himself just above her, standing with soldier-like rigidity, his hands clasped behind him.
Gwen straightened her spine and looked away... His voice, however, was still there, puckering her skin to gooseflesh.
"How fortunate we are to have you here safely with us."
She slid him another look, trying to decipher if he mocked her. And was unable to hide her shock that he even deigned to speak to her where it might be witnessed.
Lifting her cup to her lips, she murmured softly,
"Are you certain you wish to be seen speaking to me, Your Highness?"
His eyes glinted down at her.
"I see no harm."
"How magnanimous of you."
"Ah, Your Highness, have you met the Misses Davies?" the viscount asked. He had apparently noted their exchange. He looked back and forth between them...
Gwen opened her mouth to deny having met the prince, but he spoke first.
"Yes. In Town."
"Ah, of course."
The viscount nodded cheerfully. He really was a nice sort. Quite willing to be the sacrificial lamb. Or was he?
His stare drifted, floating somewhere beyond her shoulder as he sipped from his teacup.
Gwen followed his gaze to the lovely girl she'd seen him talking to earlier. At her stare though, the girl quickly looked away, a pretty pink stain colouring her cheeks.
But not before Gwen saw that she, too, had been looking at the viscount.
Shifting uncomfortably, Gwen faced forward again, feigning interest as her father regaled the room with their adventures.
Only she couldn't focus on him for long. Not when she felt the stare of the prince mere feet away.
A hot itchiness spread across her face until she had to look up at him again.
He stared at her with what was becoming familiar aloofness. Why did he bother to look at her at all?
With a snap of her head, she faced forward again.
After some moments, the dowager interrupted her father's narrative.
"My, how harrowing. Perhaps your daughters would care to see their rooms and refresh themselves before dinner?"
Gwen tried not to nod too earnestly at the suggestion, even as her sister rose beside her.
Then a maid appeared as if by magic from a remote corner of the room to escort them upstairs.
As they were leaving, Gwen felt one intent stare drilling into her back...
It did not require much imagination to conclude who watched her so intently. For it was the very same man who had stared at her so coldly and deemed her fit only for a tryst...not for mingling among the echelons of Society.
This time she managed not to look back.
Dinner was a tiresome affair, with too many courses to count. And even after a rest in her bedchamber, just concentrating so hard on how she sat, ate and conducted herself throughout the elaborate meal, made Gwen's shoulders knot with tension.
The duke was present... Apparently, he'd spent the day hunting game in the woods with his dogs.
Oh how Gwen envied him. It sounded decidedly more enjoyable than her choices. Such as...
Taking a nap or suffering the company of ladies who preferred to discuss the latest fashion plates and gossip from Town.
Still, she could endure it. And she would. Because the end goal would make it all worthwhile.
As the highest rank present, the prince held the seat of honour at the head of the table. The duke sat beside him, both engrossed in a discussion.
The snatches of conversation drifting Gwen's way proved far more interesting than the conversation at her far end of the table.
She was seated beside Miss Portia Smythe, the young lady she'd caught staring so hungrily after the viscount.
All her attempts at conversation with the girl were met with stilted responses. It was like talking to a wall. And she couldn't decide if this derived from shyness or simple disdain.
Again, Gwen glanced with longing down the length of table. Not because the prince himself sat there, looking handsome and formidable as ever in his all-black attire, she assured herself, but only because, at that particular moment, they were discussing the merits of bow hunting.
One of her slippers tapped a fierce staccato beneath the table. It was difficult sitting still in her chair and remaining silent when a subject she was actually interested in was being discussed several feet away.
But what could she do?
Shout down the length of the table?
She bit her lip and swirled her spoon in her leek soup, reminding herself that no one here would care to hear her thoughts on matters of hunting. In fact, they would be appalled to know she possessed knowledge on such an unladylike subject.
Her father slurped loudly beside her and several distasteful looks were sent his way.
And as easy as that, she felt the gulf between herself and all these lily-handed aristocrats widening.
'You need only find and marry your country gentleman and you'll endure no more of this. With a title attached to your name, you'll be free to be yourself. No one will dare ridicule you again.'
With those thoughts in mind, Gwen turned her attention to the viscount sitting several seats away...
The candlelight cast shadows on his boyishly rounded features. Was he younger than she?
The notion sent a frisson of discomfort through her. And the uncomfortable feeling settled in the pit of her belly.
Again, she thought of the prince and his comments... He'd called her old and made her feel like a veritable hag.
She shook off such musings and blinked her attention back to the viscount...where it should be...resisting the temptation to look even farther down the table where the prince sat.
The length separating them served as reminder enough of the distance between them. He had no business in her thoughts.
Focusing on the viscount, Gwen wondered if he enjoyed the hunt and what he would think of a wife who did.
She also wondered what would he think of a wife who eschewed parties and shopping on Bond Street and would rather flush out grouse.
It was worth finding out.
What else was she here for except to explore her options?
"And do you, Lord Gilbert, enjoy the hunt as well?"
She lifted her voice to carry to the viscount, sending a slight nod in the direction of the duke and prince, who talked without once looking down the table length, even though the subject of their conversation could be heard.
Tonight it was as though she did not exist for the prince. He never looked her way. Unlike before, his aloof stare did not so much as stray in her direction.
Lord Gilbert cast a glance towards his brother, the duke, his smile rueful.
"I'm a passable shot and have spent a fair amount of time chasing the hounds in my youth. Growing up alongside my brother, how could I not?" He took a sip from his soup spoon. "However, I confess I can hardly claim to be the expert huntsman my brother is. I spend a good amount of time in my library, my nose buried in a book. I'm not much for the outdoors." He chuckled then. "That must make me sound a dreadful bore."
Gwen smiled and lied,
"Of course not."
Not that she didn't enjoy a good book now and again. But to claim no liking for the outdoors? That was not at all what she had been seeking, but then, must her future husband have to hunt and ride as much as she to tolerate her love of hunting and riding?
Beside her, Portia cooed...
"I love to read as well. Novels, mostly."
The viscount smiled...
"Perhaps it's unmanly of me to say, but I'm quite the fan of Mrs. Radcliffe."
Portia clapped her hands merrily, her chestnut curls bouncing on each side of her head.
"Oh! But I adore her work!"
Gwen stifled a wince. Her reading preferences were mostly histories and biographies, but she decided to keep that to herself.
She swept another spoonful of savory broth into her mouth and unable to stop herself, she let her gaze drift to the table's far end, where it collided with the prince's.
Heat flooded her face...
Was he aware of how many times she had been looking his way tonight?
His inscrutable stare gave nothing away. He just studied her over the rim of his glass of claret.
Her fingers tightened around her spoon and she resisted the urge to toss it down the length of table at his head.
It was unaccountable really, this effect he had on her.
Looking away, she returned her attention to those around her and reminded herself that her purpose this week was to become better acquainted with the dowager's youngest grandson...and any other gentleman worthy of consideration.
With that thought firmly in place, she pasted a smile on her face and did not glance down the table again for the rest of the night.
Stay safe!