Octavia must have caught a reflection in the opposite window, spinning around to clap a hand over her mouth when she made eye contact with Lady Moreland.
Dipping into a deep curtsy, Octavia stumbled slightly in her distress. “Milady!”
“And who might you be?”
“Mrs. Hanning, milady. I am lady’s maid to Miss Smythe.” Octavia’s voice quavered.
Lady Moreland arched a chocolate eyebrow as she walked up to the servant to inspect her carefully. “Indeed. Is it customary to address your mistress by her first name?”
Octavia made a sound of distress, shaking Gwen from her surprise.
“Mrs. Hanning served my mother in my youth. We are … rather close.”
While she had responded, the room had filled. Her father, Lord Moreland, and Aidan Abbott were now all standing in the doorway, watching the confrontation between Lady Moreland and Octavia, who was quivering as she threw a glance back at Gwen. It was terrifying to draw the glare of condemnation on herself, but she did it to defend Octavia.
Lady Moreland’s gaze moved to Gwen, who wished the floor would open and swallow her up. She squashed a grimace even as Octavia took the opportunity to abruptly depart the room, evidently too overcome to attempt further explanation.
“Miss Gwendolyn Smythe, I presume?”
Gwen bowed her head in affirmation, her stomach churning with anxiety. Lady Moreland came sweeping forward, taking hold of Gwen’s upper arms in something akin to an embrace.
“Your lady’s maid is not wrong, Gwendolyn. We are very fortunate to invite a young woman of such accomplishment into our family.” Reaching up, Lady Moreland bussed her on the cheek.
Gwen’s eyes widened in shock, flicking over to Lord Abbott—Aidan—in question. He smiled with a small shrug, apparently accustomed to his mother’s inconsistencies.
“We will welcome your babes as if they are our own children.”
Gwen blinked repeatedly. “Babes?”
“Our grandchildren. Have you thought about names yet? I can suggest a number of estimable family names from the Abbott line.”
Her mouth dropped open in amazement—Gwen was sure she must be dreaming. Surely this was not how one met the parents of one’s betrothed? It must surely be the night before the dinner, and she was still in a deep slumber?
Lord Moreland came forward, taking hold of Gwen’s hand to bow as his wife stepped aside. “A pleasure, Gwendolyn. Lady Moreland is quite excited to welcome a new generation of Abbotts, but first I think we have a wedding to discuss, my dear.”
The last was directed to Lady Moreland, who waved her hand in dismissal, as if such trivial details were not worthy of attention when grandchildren were under discussion. Gwen surreptitiously reached down to pinch herself on the leg. Just to be sure. It was a genuine possibility that she was dreaming this introduction.
Nothing changed, and Gwen wondered if she could have merely dreamed the pinch. Across the room, her father wasbeaming with his blue eyes twinkling. Apparently, the mention of future grandchildren had met with his approval. It seemed like an ill-conceived idea, considering the fact that Gwen was clearly losing her mind. She managed to drop into an awkward curtsy. “Thank you, Lord Moreland.”
With some relief, she found herself facing her betrothed. His handsome face bore an expression of sympathy as he bowed in greeting. “Good evening, Gwen. You are ravishing tonight.”
His gaze swept over her in appreciation, and for a moment, the stresses were forgotten as Gwen was struck by the memory of their moonlight interlude.
“Lord Abbott,” she breathed out. It was strange to think that they were only meeting for the second time. She had grown closer to this man than any other in a matter of one night. They had shared a passionate embrace, and then the intimacy of a marriage offer, all in the course of one evening. Now she was meeting his parents, and the subject of grandchildren had been raised.
Just a week earlier, she had been convinced she was destined to remain on the shelf, and yet here she was, experiencing the clumsiness of meeting her future relations and discussing inappropriate and intimate subjects.
“I think it is acceptable to address me as Aidan?”
His lively brown eyes were dancing in the dim light of the oil lamps, daring her to reject his offer.
Aidan.
She had been mouthing the name to herself since she had found it in Debrett’s.
Lady Gwendolyn Abbott.
That had been playing through her head, too. She liked the sound of it.
