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It was over. Not guilty. Case dismissed. Gwen’s knees went as watery as goat’s milk, and she clung to Pen for support as he drew her away.

“Surety?” she murmured.

Pen nodded. “Sutton and Vaughn had to pay the constable twenty pounds each in bond as testament they had a valid complaint. Keeps the justice from wasting time with frivolous suits. Since the evidence didn’t stand, they lose the forfeit.

And as justices of the peace don’t have a stipend, they are at liberty to request fees for their services. Robert has daughters to support.”

Gwen stifled a laugh. “Thank goodness I wasn’t levied a fine.

We’ve no money.” She tugged at Pen’s hand, so strong, so firm around hers.

“You must let me buy St. Sefin’s nevertheless.

We will find the funds somehow.” It seemed miraculous that she’d been spared.

Now, finally, she could settle the thing she’d wanted from the beginning: his promise that St. Sefin’s would be hers.

He lifted one eyebrow in that manner she hated. “And deny me the pleasure of defending you in court? I quite enjoyed this little fracas. So rare that I get to win. Besides, any property of yours will become mine when we marry.”

He slipped an arm around her and nodded as people clustered before them, delivering congratulations along with curious stares. He’d made a wonder of her with his claim that she would be his viscountess. Baronets were the biggest titles they saw in Newport, and he was Penrydd, one of their own.

“As to the matter of marriage,” Gwen stammered.

“Milord Penrydd.” The prim, silent woman in the corner rose and pulled back the black netting of her veil. Though lined with strain, her pale face was more bewitching in its beauty than Gwen had ever seen her.

She flowed across the room and lightly touched Pen’s arm. “Anne Sutton. Milord, I had no part in my brother’s schemes. Please believe me.”

Pen’s jaw tightened. Gwen recognized the flare of anger. Anne Sutton had seen Pen in his workman’s jacket and cap and had looked past him like a fencepost, as had her brother. Put him in fancy garb and address him as milord, and she was clinging to his hand.

As was Gwen. She squeezed his fingers, treasuring that silent marker of their connection. Their belonging to one another.

“What do you want of me, Miss Sutton?” Pen said in a measured tone.

“Please, milord. Take me with you. Away from him. Away from here. I long to go to England, and I’ll do anything you ask of me. Your mistress. Your—I’ll be your viscountess. I’d be a sight better at it than Gwen could.”

The girl she’d known could never be so heartless toward an old friend, Gwen thought. Anne’s swift, despairing glance, laden with apology and defiance, softened Gwen’s heart even as the insult pricked her ire.

“But you see, I have offered my hand to Gwen,” Penrydd said.

“A farmer’s daughter? Don’t you desire a good match for you, milord?” Anne, in desperation, followed them out the door to the top of the stairs.

Gwen strove to hold her tongue. If she were to spend any time around Pen, she would have to steel herself to women flinging themselves at him before her very nose.

He was a lord of the realm, and eventually he would need to think about heirs.

He was handsome, assured, titled, and wealthy.

Many women would bear a surly temper or overfondness for rum from such a marital prize.

Could she bear it, though, her entire life?

Always feeling that she was stealing him from his real life, his true place as a lord and peer?

The very notion that she, so unequal in rank, could be his viscountess—his offer could only be a performance for the court, meant to shield her from Sutton’s schemes.

As a mistress she could be with him openly and no one would think the less of him for her inferior wealth and birth. But as wife—her mind veered away.

“Miss Sutton,” Pen said. “Are you familiar with the ancient Greek legend about how the original humans were split in two, so each spends their mortal life looking for their other half?”

Anne watched him warily. “Milord? There is no such Christian belief.”

“I quite liked the tale,” Pen said. “Though I cannot recall now where I read it.”

“Plato’s Symposium,” Gwen murmured. “Surely you remember, Anne, when your tutor tried to teach us ancient Greek?” She turned to Pen.

“It was Zeus who divided humans into their current form, fearing their power. And I am quite sure the moral had something to do with philosophical completion. With Plato, the moral is always philosophical.”

“Love is a form of completion.” Pen laced her arm around his, his eyes glowing as if he were lit from behind. “I think it a sound philosophy, too.”

Anne’s lower lip trembled. “I cannot stay in Llanfyllin.”

“Then perhaps you ought to have thrown yourself on me, and not Penrydd,” Gwen said. “Come to St. Sefin’s, Anne, and we will make up a room for you. It’s not grand like Vine Court, but you will be free of your brother’s shadow.”

“I am taking you to Bristol,” Pen said. “There are two viscountesses who are very eager to make your acquaintance.”

Anne fell back in dismay as her brother shouted her name. Pen drew Gwen out of the room, down the stairs of the pub and to the street outside, where Ross stood holding the reins of a pair of expensive-looking horses.

“Pen,” she said. “I need to return to St. Sefin’s. They need to know?—”

“Yes, and you may tell them our happy news. I expect they will be thrilled that I have finally succeeded in my suit.”

Pen swung atop the larger animal as if he did such things every day, which, Gwen realized, in his real, lordly life, he did.

She stared with apprehension at the enormous gelding, who eyeballed her back with disdain.

She flinched as Ross, with apologies in advance, put his hands at her waist to lift her into Pen’s arms.

“Pen, I didn’t agree?—"

“I will persuade you,” Pen said. “Come, my Welsh warrior princess, courage! This horse and my stepmother are not the worst things you will face as a viscountess.”

“What could be worse?” Gwen said, but she allowed Pen to settle her before him in the saddle and place his arms around her, and she realized that this could be her life, if she chose it: Pen’s arms around her, and untold dangers ahead.

She couldn’t live like that. She couldn’t ask him to. But she didn’t know how to stop him as he clucked to the horse to take them first to St. Sefin’s, and then to God knows where after that.