Page 32 of In With a Chance

“But…” began Ernest.

The two of them looked at each other as her parents, brother, and sister-in-law half-walked, half-marched away from them.

Dear Lord. They were hardly subtle, were they?

Still, Ernest could not help but feel a little emboldened as he started to walk along the pavement beside Miss Gwendoline Chance.

Her family did not like the Marquess of Ravenshurst. That was a start.

Of course, the start should probably have been with Miss Gwendoline, but there it was.

All too late, Ernest recalled that the said Miss Gwendoline was penniless, not the sort of bride that an equally penniless Baron Frasemere should have been looking for.

But it was just a walk. Just conversation.

What harm could that do?

“I apologize for my family, Lord Frasemere,” Miss Gwendoline said stiffly.

Ernest tried to smile. “There we go again, apologizing.”

“Yes, but it is warranted this time.” She sighed heavily. “They really do think they know best for me, and I know it shouldn’t irritate—but they shouldn’t drag you into this and get your hopes up.”

Oh.

Ernest’s attempt at smiling was fighting a losing battle. “I won’t be getting my hopes up, Miss Chance. You are engaged to be married. I know the rules of Society.”

Perhaps there was a spot too much gruffness in his voice, for Miss Gwendoline glanced at him as they turned a corner and there was pink in her cheeks. “I know that. You are a baron, after all. You were raised for such a rank, a position in Society. You know all of this.”

His habits told him to leave it at that, that there was no point in explaining his family history, no point at all.

Ernest exhaled slowly as his instincts took over. “I was not.”

Miss Gwendoline stared curiously, her pace slowing. “Was not…what?”

“Was not raised to it. The barony, I mean.” Had he ever told anyone this? The full story, that was? He could not recall doing so. Did Michael know?

“I admit myself intrigued,” said Miss Gwendoline with a small smile.

And has Lord Ravenshurst ever made you intrigued?

That was the question Ernest desperately wanted to ask but did not. It was not his place—could never be his place.

So he focused instead on not tripping over his own errant feet and telling the brief yet sad story of his life. “My father—”

“The previous Baron Frasemere,” Miss Gwendoline supplied promptly.

Ernest allowed himself a small smile. “No. Not quite.”

“‘No’?” There it was again, that burst of curiosity. “But… Well. Tell me. Tell me everything.”

Tell me. Tell me everything.

Such a simple request should not have made his toes curl and his pulse skip a beat, but it did. Ernest swallowed, trying desperately to remind himself as they wandered along the bustling London streets that he was escorting a friend’s sister as a favor, and anything he told her should be in the spirit of friendship, not…not an attempt for more.

So. The truth.

“My father was a Baron Frasemere,” Ernest said with a huff of a laugh. “He was an exacting man, and when he married, he expected a lot from his wife.”