Page 4 of In With a Chance

“Miss Chance,” began the marquess stiffly.

“Lord Ravenshurst,” Gwen replied eagerly.

This has to be it—it has to be! Three weeks of courtship was more than enough time to understand whether or not they were compatible, and nothing had occurred during that time for her to think they might not be. There could be no issue with her family, save for the fact that her father had been born illegitimate—but that had been so long ago. They had been perfectly respectable ever since.

Well. Officially respectable. No one needed to know about her brother Michael’s ridiculous plan to immigrate, a plan that had transformed into eloping with a ship’s captain. A lady captain. Naturally.

Most people didn’t know the particulars of his wife’s origins, just that the new Viscount Pernrith had found his viscountess while traveling.

Actually, it had been before the ship had left the docks, but that was neither here nor there.

“Miss Chance, is your mother quite well?”

Gwen glared at her mother over the marquess’s shoulder. The woman was grinning from ear to ear, as though she had just been given the best news in the world.

“If she is, she won’t be in a minute when I’m through with her,” she growled, allowing her temper to get the better of her.

It so often did.

Lord Ravenshurst blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Oh, blast. “Nothing.” Gwen beamed, the picture of elegance and refinement and definitely not threatening one’s mother with physical injury. “Nothing at all.”

And she truly was the picture of elegance and refinement. Gwen had been very careful with her attire that morning, knowing that this was surely to be the day that the Marquess of Ravenshurst would propose, and her cerulean-blue skirts matched her jacket perfectly. Her hat was made of the same jacquard material and yes, it was getting heavy now that it was so waterlogged, but that was London for you. One had to acclimatize to being damp.

Gwen smiled. “You were saying?”

“I was?” The marquess blinked. “Oh, yes. Yes, I was. You are not born of a particularly noble house, Miss Chance.”

She flinched. “I beg your pardon?”

Lord Ravenshurst returned her gaze in unconcerned quiet. “Well, it is the truth.”

It doesn’t matter whether it is the truth or not!

That was what she wanted to shout. But then, Gwen had wanted to shout about a great number of things for a very long time, and she had never permitted herself to do so. Ladies did not shout. Ladies were refined, and quiet, and controlled.

Ladies did not lose their temper and start screaming that all of Society was a ruse and if she didn’t breathe, properly breathe, then she was going to go mad!

Even if a lady may wish to.

Still, Gwen knew that the Marquess of Ravenshurst was not one for social niceties—not in that way, anyway. And she should have been glad, she told herself firmly, that he was not interested in platitudes, nor in lying to oneself about one’s position in Society.

For he was not wrong, even if she might not like it. The fourth daughter of a mere viscount, one who had been given his title out of pity?

It was not the most likely of matches for a marquess.

“But your other features are most pleasing,” the marquess continued, as though he were rating a horse before a race. “You are pretty. You speak well. You are sufficiently educated. You have a significant dowry.”

Gwen tried to smile, though she was almost certain her face appeared more like a grimace. “Thank you, my lord.”

“You do not need to thank me,” he said stiffly. “It is the truth.”

It was the truth, but it was not… Well. Gwen did not believe she had ridiculous expectations of her future husband. Fountains of roses and waterfalls of champagne—she had never expected those. Honestly, she wouldn’t really know what to do with them. Surely, one would become sick of champagne eventually—and who was watering all these roses?

But she had rather hoped, deep down, that there would be some romance.

Kind words. Snatched kisses. Long, lingering looks.