Gwen paces the garden after dinner, hoping to stretch her legs as she works off the lamb stew. The oppressive summer sun is finally on its descent allowing the blanket of stars to rise over the indigo sky. She glances heavenward, lost in the beauty of the constellations and nearly misses the jangle of boots upon cobbles.
At the last moment, she yanks her chin down as Lord Rutherford appears in the midst of the rose bushes. The floral and wine scent erupts into the air as his arm scrapes across the flowerheads. He skitters back on his boots at the surprise of Gwen standing before him.
"My Lord," she too gasps in surprise. He never wanders the gardens at night, as far as she knew.
"Governess," he responds, a hand parting through the mass of curls on his head. "You're here," he points out the obvious, then clacks his teeth as if he realized his error.
"Forgive me," she moves to curtsy, prepared to slink away to her chambers, when he raises a hand.
"No, wait. You should remain, it's a lovely..." a smile flirts with his lips, drawing her attention to that scar, "It is a lovely night."
"Indeed so," Gwen agrees, dropping her skirts. She does not flee but demures back from the Duke.
"We seem to keep winding about such topics," he says as if needing to talk to anyone who is not family. There certainly are many of them visiting at the estates as of late. "Weather, my nephew, weather again..."
"They are the most pressing matters of the day," she responds. "For if we did not have weather to speak of, how would people pass time in parlors? Drinking lukewarm tea and listening to a great aunt's bunion tale? Perish the thought."
A snicker rolled off his delectable lips, a twin rising upon Gwen's mouth as well. "I admit," he says with a sigh, "I was never one for parlors, or salons, or drawing rooms."
"If I may be blunt, Sir?" Gwen speaks without thought. He nods his head, his amber eyes sizing her up, "It is not a striking surprise."
The Duke laughs at that, soothing her concerns. She was always too loose with her tongue, which worked well with children, less so the adults who employed her. "I require action, focus. To linger in a drawing room with naught but the weather to speak of is purgatory for my soul."
"I imagine if you were left to your own devices in a parlor, you'd discover a way to turn the furniture into a trebuchet," Gwen muses to herself before realizing he could overhear her.
But to her delight, he wrings a hand over his scruff and says, "That is closer to the truth than you might realize." He leans towards her, the pair walking together through the roses. In a soft voice, he whispers, "When I was a lad, I tried to build a catapult using my mother's good silverware."
"Once I turned my great uncle's humidor into a house for my toad."
"You kept a toad?"
"Even made him a tiny table to eat his dinners upon," Gwen smiles at the old memory, less so her uncle exploding for what she did to his good cigars. They made for perfect toad bedding.
He tips lower, his knees bent as he all but whispers in her ear. "You are a breath of cleaning air, Miss Trevelyan."
"As are..." she turns her gaze from the row of white roses to face him. His lips are quirked to the side, the scar taunting her for a taste. With a slow breath, she whispers, "...you."
"Duke Rutherford!" a voice shouts from the house. Both parties leap apart, Gwen's skin prickling as she realizes how close she drew to the man of the house. A man with no wife. The last thing she needs is another scandal upon her head.
"Yes?" the lord turns to the steward bearing down on him. "James, what is it?"
"The florist requires your signature," James hoists out bills of lading while Lord Rutherford pulls into his arms.
"Why do we need a florist?" he growls while barely reading over them.
"For the ball, Sir."
"My sister's influence, of course. Very well, I will handle it," he wafts his hand through the air, dismissing the steward. Gwen turns to face the north, assuming the Lord will return to his office for longer nights at his desk. When she hears a sigh soft as a feather, she glances over her shoulder.
He stands with shoulders slumped, his head tipped up towards the heavens. With amber eyes shut tight, he whispers, "I never wanted this."
Before Gwen can ask what he means, he returns to his duties as Duke of the manor.