5 Chapter Five

"Caroline?" his voice catches in his throat, Cullen stumbling into the steps. Without a second's pause, she swoops around him, guiding him into place. Just as she always had when they were children.

"Hello Lord Rutherford," she begins, but he grimaces.

"Please, Cullen." They place their palms together, Cullen staring down into her face. He remembers far too well the young child of the Earl who would insist he fetch her an apple from the highest branch the tree. Then, when he inevitably fell, cushion his head in her lap.

It was decided she was to be his wife before his tenth birthday, neither child thrilled with the prospect. But as time passed, and the fear of girls faded, Cullen found himself warming to the thought. He certainly didn't suspect he could do better. She seemed excited about the idea of being a Duchess in her own right.

"Your husband...?" Cullen stutters, glancing away from the shine of her beauty to the older men clogged together in puffs of smoke. One of the more aging ones is the Count that Caroline pledged herself to. A second wife, no less, with stepchildren older than herself. "He does not care that we are dancing?"

Caroline laughs, her chuckle golden and contained. When he was sixteen, he tickled her so she snorted hard and made him swear he'd never reveal that fact to anyone. Cullen kept his world. "Dear Count Worthington cares little what I do, or who I do it with." She whispers the last half into Cullen's ear, causing his body to shiver but a bitterness spreads across his tongue at the thought.

She is a social climber. He ignored the accusations of her family in his younger days, having more pressing concerns. But when he renounced his blood-earned title and enlisted, Cullen quickly learned how he should have listened to the rumors. Still, the reminder of days before tragedy blanketed his home brings a lightness to his step.

Glancing up to him through her lashes, she says, "I am sorry about Branson and your father. They were...good men."

"Yes," Cullen's head drops, his chin striking his cravat. Better than I.

"I will be in the county for the summer," Caroline throws off without a thought. As the song fades through the ballroom, she slips her hand from inside of his to grip his waist. "If you need to talk, I'm always there for you, Cullen."

Gwen slips into the library, her ears tuned to the muffled natterings of the peerage as they enjoy their dance. After lighting the lone candle upon the desk, she sits in the chair and dips into the ink. While the first three lines fly from her pen, she finds herself stumped upon the next. Her thoughts wander from the pastoral setting in her mind to man who usually resides where she sits. It smells of him, his oil mixture for the hair with a surprisingly fruity concoction curls off the headrest. A cologne of amber wafts from where her arms sit, and deep from the southern regions of her body a musk that speaks of men braving the oceans with naught but their courage by their side.

She sighs at the metaphorical trip her brain takes from a few scents. Foolish to even wonder. He is a Duke, lord of a manor house, tasked with wooing all the lovely women of wealthy and noble families right beyond those doors. The chances of him looking upon her were as high as Merlin emerging from his cave.

Chuckling to herself at such an idea, Gwen dives back into her writing when the knob to the library begins to turn. An amorous couple hoping to avoid public and scandal? She grabs onto her few papers knowing she has no leg to stand on to remain, when golden curls slip inside.

He closes the door quickly behind him, but walks no closer. With his back placed to the wood he tips his head up, eyes closed, and pulls in a cleansing breath. She saw a hint of his regalia for the night, while young Master Branson was put to bed. But so distracted, Gwen drinks in the perfect cut of his coat, navy blues in deference to his past. How the vest of a brocade silver is tailored tighter than most to his stomach, and the cravat already being unfurled by his fingers as if he cannot breathe.

Oh God. She should leave. She shouldn't be here. He clearly didn't anticipate...

Amber eyes land upon her, Duke Rutherford realizing that he is not alone. An undignified snort erupts from her nose, Gwen raising a shoulder. To her surprise and relief, he chuckles, his head dropping to his chest. "We meet again."

"Forgiveness, I..."

"Wanted to enjoy the garden?" he wafts his hand towards the closed window, the blooms waning by summer's heat.

"I'm afraid the flowers are all sleeping," Gwen sighs while hefting up the manuscript she should have worked on in her room.

He notices the stack in her arms and asks, "What were you doing? Candlelight is a strain to read by."

"One that I'd often suffer regardless," Gwen admits before wincing. His eyes, sharp as a lion's in the tall grass, won't leave her arms. "I'm...I'm writing a book. Trying to. It's nothing important. Frivolous nonsense, but..."

"A," Duke Rutherford raises his chin, his tongue ticking in thought, "a book? What is it about?"

Strings of the orchestral symphony slither through the cracks in the door, the rugged man's stern face softened by either the amber flare of candlelight or his childlike curiosity. Gwen, who'd been hiding her book's creation for years, opens her lips and let's slip, "Love."

"Hm," he snorts, no doubt dismissing the silly subject out of hand. "I'm afraid I don't have much advice on the subject."

"It's all well and good. I only, I..." she's trapped, the Duke remaining by the door so she cannot flee up to her room and bury her head in her pillow. Who tells a Duke that they're writing a book about love? Foolish girls with fluff for brains. "I thought with the party you'd be too busy to need your office and..."

"You write here?"

"When I can," she admits, Lord Rutherford finally moving free of the door towards his desk. Gwen can run for it, but suddenly she's curious to remain. "I cannot explain why, but it feels as if the shackles of writer's block lift when I sit at the desk. Your desk. Which I shouldn't do, I..."

He raises a hand, silencing her babble. "If I am not requiring it for all the bills of lading, you are free to make use of it. I'd never thought it a source of creativity before." Running a finger over the edge, he whispers, "To me, it was a yoke. But it's nice to know that it can be other things."

"My Lord?" There's pain in his voice, buried under protocol and politeness, but she can practically taste it in the air. How his eyes drift across the room, shuddering at edges that aren't right. The Duke raises his head, his wounded but shielded eyes meeting hers. "Are you well?" Her question bulges in the air, the man seeming to weigh it as if he should tell her, as if she knew a tonic to cure him of clear heartache.

"I could call the Steward?" Gwen throws out, scrambling to find her place.

Rutherford smirks with his scar, shaking his furrowed brow, "No need. May I ask you something though?" He barely pauses for her nod before beginning, "What is it in a woman's makeup that causes her to obsess about fixing a man? About ensuring that his wishes be ignored and trampled over because she knows best?"

This must be about his sister. The Lord certainly made no bones about his disapproval of the ball, or any of Lady Mia's other changes. But badmouthing one Rutherford to another seems unwise. "Sir, if I may...we are bred from the nursery to heal, to comfort and help in any way we can. While our strengths may be limited, and our approach seemingly unwanted by those we care for, it comes from a good place."

His mood lifts as a smile brightens upon his handsome face. Nodding, he says, "Thank you, Lady Trevelyan. You've given me a...helpful perspective I had not considered."

"Always happy to serve, my Lord," she crosses her legs and dips, her arms too full for a proper curtsy.

Knocking the door handle open with her elbow, Gwen prepares to leave when the Lord speaks once more. "I am glad that you answered the job."

She glances back, awash in the warm glow across his face. The smile stretches from his lips to his eyes, brightening the room against the darkness. "As am I, Sir."