Chapter 3

“Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together;

it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature. Each of us, then, is a matching half of a human whole … and each of us is always seeking the half that matches him.”

Plato

“Plato is dear to me, but dearer still is truth.”

Aristotle

Aidan was fortunate in discovering Frederick Smythe’s study at the end of the hall that Trafford had led him down, just two doors from the library. The room was in darkness when he entered it, but after fumbling around in the dark for several minutes, he managed to light a candle by the cabinet positioned near the door.

Holding the candle carefully, Aidan made his way over to the desk near the fireplace. He sat in the desk chair, grimacing in irritation at the height. Smythe was several inches shorter than he, making for an awkward placement of his long legs.

Opening the drawers on the right, Aidan pulled out a stack of pages into the lit space on the surface. Flipping through, he whistled quietly to himself in the shadows of the room.

He was holding bills of sale. Paintings, objets d’art, even a piece of land located north of London. Thousands of pounds, even tens of thousands. All within the past six months.

Rumors of Smythe’s financial troubles had not been overstated. Why would a man need to liquidate so much? Had the heir fallen into debilitating gambling habits? Was he facing bankruptcy for some reason?

Excitement unfurled in Aidan’s gut. The sheaf in his hand pointed to a tangible motive. Smythe appeared to be desperate for funds, which meant he could very well have been desperate to silence Filminster’s uncle by thwacking him to death.

If they could uncover evidence of Smythe’s violent act, and have him arrested, Lily would be safe and this terrible time would be over.

Aidan pulled an inkstand closer, picking up a quill and searching for a blank leaf of paper. Methodically, he made notes, writing down the details from the bills. The purchaser, the amount and the item sold of each, and any addresses mentioned. The runner, Briggs, could use the list to track down more information.

Finding the pounce, Aidan sprinkled it on to dry the ink. Blowing it off, he carefully folded the list and put it away in the inside pocket of his coat. His lurking had proved successful, and perhaps they had found their man. It would be a relief to end these furtive activities, which were a constant source of disquiet. He was not made to engage in such deceit, the ethics of the matter raising perpetual questions to dwell on.

Aidan carefully returned the bills to the drawer, then placed the inkstand and quill where he had found them and used a handkerchief to wipe away evidence of his presence from the surface of the desk. He rose, pushing in the seat where he had found it before making his way back to the cabinet to return the candle and its holder. Leaning down, he blew the flickering flame out.

Walking over to the door, he paused. The sound of voices in the hall outside made his heart pick up speed. Looking about in the light of the full moon, his eyes slowly adjusted to notice that the windows across the room were French doors leading to a terrace. The voices grew louder, and Aidan realized he needed to move quickly.

Loping across the room, he fumbled to open the doors. He flickered his eyes back and forth to ensure that no one was about to witness his departure from the study.

About thirty feet down the terrace stood a woman, framed by the light of the full moon and enthralled by the view. Aidan drew in a deep breath and prayed the door was well lubricated. If it squeaked, she would be alerted to his presence and know he had exited Smythe’s study, which would ruin his mission.

He slowly opened the door and mentally praised the servants for their diligence when it failed to make even the slightest of sounds. Stepping through onto the terrace, he quietly drew the door shut behind him and made his way to the stone balustrade as if he had been viewing the gardens.

He placed his hands on the stone, which was still warm from the afternoon sun, gazing up at the silvery moon above and humbled by the majesty of the night sky.

Glancing to his right, he realized the woman must be Miss Smythe. The young woman from the receiving line was so taken by the evening firmament, she had failed to notice his arrival. The moon lit her in profile, revealing the curve of her chin along with the perfection of her elegant nose. Without thinking, he spoke the words that entered his heart in the sheer perfection of the moment.

“Who can know heaven except by its gifts?”

Miss Smythe jumped slightly, startled at his voice disrupting the silence of the night. After a moment, without turning to see who had interrupted her observation of the heavens, she responded in the most surprising manner.

“And who can find out God, unless the man who is himself an emanation from God?”

Aidan blinked, almost stepping back in his amazement. “You have read Astronomica?”

“Marcus Manilius was one of the greatest poets of Ancient Rome.”

Her voice was melodic and confident, and Aidan realized he was beholding a scholar of the Classics with a deep appreciation for the works.

The breath caught in his lungs, and the words of Plato sprung unsummoned into his mind. Was Miss Smythe his other half?

The folded list in his breast pocket mocked his romantic optimism. Did he truly believe that the heavens would reveal the other half of his soul to be the child of the man responsible for the attack on his sister two weeks earlier?

Yet, how else did one explain this synchronization, this attraction he was feeling for the young lady? He had traveled the realm and the Continent and never encountered such feminine perfection as a divinity who quoted the great minds of the ancient world. How was such a woman unwed? Undesired by the bucks of the ton? Was she surrounded by deaf and blind imbeciles?

If only …

His feet had a mind of their own, leading him to stand at her side to view the haunting grandeur of the night together. His duplicitous behavior was temporarily forgotten, all thoughts wiped from his mind other than to behold her with the awe of a mere mortal in the presence of sacred womanhood.

Gwen was not accustomedto tall, handsome gentlemen seeking her out, but the stranger on the terrace now stood a mere foot away. Perhaps the dramatic evening landscape had drawn him in. Certainly, he was not aware that he was flirting with Gwen, Gwen the Spotted Giraffe.

Seconds earlier, she had wished she could enjoy a magical moment such as this with a suitable gentleman, and it would appear the deities had answered her fervent wish to experience the romance of a lover by her side. He had materialized as if wished into being by her very thoughts. Silent after their odd exchange about Astronomica.

Letting out a shaky breath, she accepted it for what it was. An aberration brought on by the pale light. Clearly the man had no idea he was standing next to a spotted ginger. He most likely thought she was a svelte brunette, with flawless skin that had never been touched by the sun’s rays. Whatever his reasons, she was going to accept this opportunity to behold the beauty of the night and pretend she had a beau to share it with.

The fear of ruining the moment had her squeezing the stone beneath her fingers, as she clung to the fantasy that an eligible man wished to share the view with her. She was terrified she would ruin the moment and it would end before she had gathered every sense, every second, that she could before returning to the solitude of her real life.

Not only was he physically impressive, from what she could see from the corner of her eye, but he had perfectly translated the Latin poem and attributed it to the rightful source. He was a true scholar to engage in such a discussion, and for just a fleeting second, Gwen dared to believe that this was the man who her father had promised would appear. Gwen released her cynicism to allow the magic of possibilities to enter her heart.

It is to savor the moment, she told herself. But despite her pragmatic nature, deep in her soul she felt that something unexpected was unfolding.

From the corner of her eye, she saw that his hand had come to rest next to hers. It was the tiniest fraction of an inch away, so close she could feel the heat emanating from his glove to soak into her skin. If she had the courage to move, she could touch him, but she was too afraid it would end their interlude before it had begun. She willed her hand to remain in place.

It was without surprise when she felt his large hand extend to cover hers, and she accepted that she was dreaming this entire encounter. That soon she would awake to find out she had dozed off on the terrace and imagined this entire circumstance but, in the meanwhile, she would bury herself in the dream. If only every slumber included such wonderful happenings.

The man gently tugged at her hand, turning to pull her into his arms ever so slowly as if to give her the opportunity to protest, and Gwen was amazed at the realism of this apparition. She could feel the strength of his arms wrapping around her waist and shoulders, smell the leather of his boots and his freshly laundered linen, as he pulled her against his hard body. Tilting her chin, she watched him lower his head and accepted the press of his lips against hers, sighing in pleasure when she was enveloped in masculinity.

His lips were firm, hesitating before she felt them part and the flicker of his tongue. Her mouth fell open in invitation, well aware of this type of kissing due to her reading of their extensive library. Obviously, this was fantasy from the depths of her sleepy mind, so she imagined what she had read. They kissed deeply, his satin tongue tangling with hers to light the flames of desire, sweeping through her body to engulf her lower belly.

Gwen pressed her thighs together to quell the throbbing sensation springing to life, and kissed the stranger back with all the passion she had banked within her soul while she had waited, and then wearied of the search for the right man, as her father liked to refer to him.

Her arms stole up to circle the stranger’s neck, and she heard him growl in the back of his throat with approval as he drew her closer to his muscled body. Her imagination was far more developed than she had previously realized, she thought to herself, as her bosom flattened against his hard chest. She wished she might sleep forever if she could hold on to this fairytale that a veritable Adonis had appeared out of her deepest desires to ravish her in the moonlight.

Moaning, she pressed closer, reveling in pressing her belly against the hardness that revealed his desire for her, and understanding what it was to be wanted by a man for the first time in her many years.

He was tall and muscular, a god stepped out of an Italian painting to wreak havoc on her senses, and he made her feel captivating as his lips trailed across her cheek to breathe deeply of her hair near her sensitive temple.

“Citrus …” he whispered, before finding her earlobe and suckling it between his warm lips. Gwen gasped as delicious sensation shot out in waves, her head rolling back to give him better access as she delighted in the overwhelming pleasure.

She reached her hands up to curl her fingers into his dark hair, while his hands ran up and down her back, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Panting hard, she felt his hands gradually slide down to cup her buttocks, his lips returning to hers while a growl emitted from deep within his chest. She shivered with the delight of the moment, his hips pressing against hers, and she wanted to grab his coat and rip it from his shoulders so she might?—

Behind them, the sound of a door opening onto the terrace made her and the stranger freeze in each other’s arms. Gwen panted, no longer with passion but with fear that curled through her organs as they parted slightly to stare at one another. The man slowly shut his eyes for a moment in a pained manner. When he reopened them, he turned his head to look over her shoulder.

Gwen prayed that he would find no one there, but she saw his eyes focus and knew without a doubt that they had been caught.

Her reputation was ruined.

With her unique height, even if the guest did not see her features, they would know who she was. That she had been caught in the arms of a man, and had sullied the only asset she possessed as a young woman of the ton—her pristine conduct.

He released her, placing himself between her and their newly arrived company. Gwen took the opportunity to straighten her gown and raise a hand to check her hair. The gentleman would bear little aftermath, but she … she was about to bear the bitter consequences of losing her mind under a full moon.

She could only whisper a prayer that when she turned to face her consequences, she would find her father rather than any of their guests. If it was anyone else, she was utterly ruined and would have to retreat from the public eye.

Aidan was stilldrunk with desire for Miss Smythe, but he was sobering up quickly when he took in a crowd of guests who had spilled around the corner of the terrace and were now agog, staring at him as if he had sprouted a second head.

At the back, Trafford stood with wide eyes, before casting his anxious gaze down to run a hand through his wheat curls. A moment later, he threw out his hands as if to say there was nothing he could do.

Several matrons stood with their husbands, none of whom Aidan recognized, but apparently they recognized him.

“It’s Moreland’s heir!” The impasse was broken when an older woman with graying blonde hair practically shrieked.

“Is that Miss Smythe?” asked the gentleman she was holding by the arm.

Trafford cleared his throat. “I am sure it is not what we think. Lord Abbott is a nobleman of the highest order.”

Aidan stared at his accomplice, thinking about the list in his breast pocket. Soon they might reveal Frederick Smythe as a murderer, and this revelation of womanhood, the only woman who had ever made him lose his head, would not just be publicly ruined by his actions tonight but would be even further humiliated by her father’s arrest in the near future.

The thought of the lovely and intelligent Miss Smythe being destroyed within their rather cruel community made his blood run cold—a fact that could only be embraced as the last remnants of his passion subsided, to his relief. He could only hope the dark had hidden the evidence of his ardor when he shielded Miss Smythe with his body upon realizing they had acquired an audience.

Miss Smythe deserved better. He had instigated their kiss, and he had no choice as a gentleman but to act with honor. It was his duty to protect her, not just this night but all her future days when events unfolded as he thought they might.

Staring at Trafford, he slowly considered his options and found that the obvious solution was not one he unduly objected to. It seemed fitting somehow, despite the complications it would introduce.

Drawing a deep breath, Aidan prepared his announcement, certain it was the right thing to do. Trafford stared back at him, an expression of horror crossing his features as he comprehended what Aidan was about to do. He shook his head, putting a hand up to stay Aidan from his decision?—

“I just offered for Miss Smythe’s hand in marriage … and she accepted.”