Page 61 of In With a Chance

“About my wedding!” Gwen said, heat burning her cheeks so thoroughly, she was surprised she couldn’t see her nose pinking.

And Ernest…said nothing. He merely shrugged.

Now what on earth was that supposed to mean?

Suddenly painfully aware of her own hands, Gwen clasped them before her and said primly, “I think a well-organized wedding bodes well for a well-organized marriage. Don’t you?”

Baron Frasemere shrugged again, and Gwen was overcome with a sense of righteous indignation.

What, so he could come here and criticize, but he couldn’t actually contribute anything? What on earth was this man doing here if only to—

Gwen narrowed her eyes. If only to make me second-guess myself.

The nerve of the man!

“I think, when it comes to wedding planning,” Ernest said quietly, turning slightly so he was facing her and not the dining table, “that you should do whatever makes you and Lord Ravenshurst the happiest.”

Gwen had opened her mouth to unleash a tirade of anger upon the man who seemed desperate to sabotage her best hope of happiness. It was unfortunate, therefore, that he was suddenly so nice about it.

“In that case you can stuff it up your—wait. What?”

Ernest shrugged. “Take the food, for example.” He waved the menu card he was still holding. “What is the marquess’s favorite dish?”

A shudder of uncertainty rushed through Gwen.

His favorite dish? How was she supposed to know?

“Or his favorite wine,” Ernest said quietly. “Red? Or white?”

Red or white? Gwen desperately tried to think back to the dinners that she and the marquess had attended. Had he drunk mostly red wine or white? Of course, both colors had been served at different courses, but which had he preferred? Had he shown a preference? Could she even recall him drinking wine? Could she even picture his face?

“Or dessert,” continued Ernest, his voice low and without judgment. “Does he prefer cold desserts or hot?”

“I… I, erm,” said Gwen helplessly.

“I’ll make it easier for you. Does he prefer the dessert course or the cheese?” Ernest’s eyes blazed as he looked at her, a wry smile lilting his lips. “You don’t know, do you?”

It was most unfair of him to—to barrage her with a thousand and one questions! How was a woman supposed to think under such an onslaught?!

“I will know,” Gwen shot back in an undertone, her gaze darting to her parents, who were now holding up the card examples to the light streaming through the windows, “once we are married.”

“And does he know any of your preferences?” Ernest said, his voice level.

Gwen blinked. “What on earth do you mean? The Marquess of Ravenshurst doesn’t need to know my preferences—I’ll tell him what I want.”

“But don’t you want a husband who adores you?” Somehow, Ernest had stepped closer to her, too close, for his presence was making her flush and despite that, her feet could not move. “Who watches you closely, who pays attention to such things? A husband who wants to make you happy, bring you the strawberry ice you prefer and the ginger wine you adore far more than red or white?”

Gwen’s lips parted. “I… I…”

How on earth had he noticed such things? How was it possible that a man she had known for mere weeks had watched her more closely than her betrothed?

It’s because Baron Frasemere is living with me, Gwen thought, adding hurriedly—not living with me! Living with my parents. He’d had more opportunity to observe her than Lord Ravenshurst. Yes, that was it.

But then, a voice at the back of her head most inconveniently muttered, you have eaten plenty of times with Lord Ravenshurst and he has never mentioned any of your favorites. Never treated her before she’d asked, never preempted her desires.

Which is fine, Gwen thought decisively. This was not a love match.

It was only now that she was starting to regret it.