Page 5 of In With a Chance

Lord Ravenshurst did not give her a lingering look. “You are aristocracy, and though you have no title, you are adequately provided for with a dowry. You are genteel, and you are charitable.”

Gwen blinked. “‘Charitable’?”

She could not recall the last time she had ever given to charity. Her pin money being what it was, there was almost never sufficient coppers left over at the end of the month to put in the poor box at church.

The man seated opposite her nodded curtly. “Your work with the Marquess of Aylesbury’s project.”

Oh. Cousin Samuel’s home for retired actors and actresses—well, yes. Gwen had visited there a number of times, helping with rehearsals and allowing one retired magician to cut her in half. Twice.

“You are precisely the sort of woman that a man in my position…” Lord Ravenshurst trailed off and gave her an awkward smile. “And you like me.”

Gwen grinned weakly. “I… I do.”

The echo of the marriage vows clanged in her ears even as she…well, not exactly lied. She did like him. She liked him well enough.

She did not love him, certainly, but Gwen had decided long ago that she would not likely marry for love. It was not the purview of every young lady, and she would take a comfortable home and a respectable title any day, when the other option while waiting, perhaps forever, for that ‘magic moment’ she felt madly in love was remaining in her parents’ home as a spinster with a bad temper.

Though admittedly, she had the bad temper already, and Gwen could not consider herself at eighteen a spinster.

Lord Ravenshurst cleared his throat. “So I believe we should be married.”

She let his words sink in.

Was… Was that it?

Was that the proposal? That blink and you’ll miss it statement of fact, not even intent? Seven words that could radically alter the course of her life, and they had been uttered so blandly that Gwen had found herself nodding along in the expectation of more?

“So you agree,” the marquess said quietly. “You also believe that we should be married.”

It was a statement, again, not a question.

Panic, or something that tasted very similar to it, started to rise. Was… Was this it? She hardly wanted to be seen as a woman who made unrealistic demands of her suitor, but she had thought that the proposal would have been…well, exactly that.

A proposal. A suggestion, a question she would have to answer.

Not this cold, unfeeling, factual declaration.

“I… I…” Gwen swallowed, her mouth dry and her throat tied in a knot.

What on earth was she supposed to say? That she did not want to become engaged in such a manner? That she greatly wished to marry the Marquess of Ravenshurst, of course, but she had privately hoped to be swept off her feet?

The man hadn’t even flattered her!

Gwen swallowed again, desperately attempting to get her fluttering thoughts under her control as graceful, feminine laughter—not hers—rolled across the lawns of Hyde Park.

She could see the woman out of the corner of her eye. She was not well-dressed; that was, she had her arms through all the right holes, but even from this distance, Gwen could see that the woman’s gown was of a cheaper sort than her own. The material was not the finest silk, and her bonnet was askew, and the man whose arm she held was shabbily dressed in a suit that had clearly been much mended…

And they were staring at each other with such delight, even in the rain, that Gwen’s pulse skipped a beat.

That.

That, if she were being honest with herself, was what she wanted. Adoration, and need, and mutual appreciation. The sense that the sun never shone as brightly as it did when she was with that special someone. The knowledge that with the gentleman about to be her husband, she was complete.

She had told herself not to expect it. That securing the right type of man was more important than finding the right man.

So why was she feeling anything approaching regret?

Gwen cleared her throat and turned back to the marquess.