Page 72 of In With a Chance

Gwen swallowed, desperately wishing her mind was working faster than it currently was.

Ernest needed to marry a fortune. She did not have a fortune. On paper, that would suggest the whole thing was a disaster.

But then again…

“True love, a love that overcomes not only all rational thinking, but also planning, family ties, obligations, previous commitments…”

True love.

Gwen’s pulse skipped a beat and her whole body seemed to hum with the ardor and affection she felt for the man seated opposite her. What was she supposed to do in the face of such overwhelming emotion?

Obviously, they could be together. They should be together! Money could be found, a home could be made on any budget—she loved him, and as soon as she had the opportunity and the bravery to say so, she would tell him.

They would be together, and their story would not end like that of Charles Quintrell and Laura Johnstone. She and Ernest would find a way to make it work—how, she did not know.

But she would. They would be together forever, and there was no one who could stand in their way—

“—and I believe Lord Ravenshurst will be at the ball too,” Ernest said lightly. “Won’t that be nice?”

Gwen quickly dropped to the Earth like a stone after soaring so high in the clouds.

Oh, yes. Lord Ravenshurst. He would stand in their way. It was the lady’s prerogative to end an engagement, but she did not imagine the marquess would go graciously.

Well, she did not love him, and she was certain that he did not love her. The man had never even attempted to kiss her, far more interested in going riding with Sir James than seeing her.

Right. Well. Something had to be done.

Gwen lurched to her feet to Ernest’s audible gasp, declared something along the lines of, “Must go, important letter, goodbye!”

And rushed out of the drawing room.

“Gwen!”

“Dear me, is the girl quite well?”

Gwen had already stepped down the corridor toward the library before she could even think to reply to her father’s question, and she slammed the door behind her as she entered the quiet, still room full of books.

There—at the desk. As she had suspected he would have, her father had left a few sheets of paper and an envelope upon it, along with a half bottle of ink and a pen.

Just what she needed.

The trouble was, it was only when Gwen had settled herself at the desk and gave a long, deep sigh, that she realized she had absolutely no idea what one was supposed to write in such circumstances.

My Lord Marquess, I don’t want to marry you anymore. Yours faithfully, Gwen.

No, that wasn’t right. Not apologetic enough.

My Lord, I cannot marry you, terribly sorry. Gwen.

Gwen crinkled her nose. Bother. No, it would have to be a darn sight longer than that, and he would want some sort of explanation, wouldn’t he?

But what sort of explanation could she reasonably give, considering she hardly understood her own thoughts and feelings on the matter at the best of times?

She stared down at the paper. She had to get this right. They were not made of money, as her father so frequently liked to inform them, and she hardly wanted to waste paper on such an errand.

Slowing her breathing for a moment and focusing on the wall as though her gaze could bore a hole through it, Gwen took a moment to desperately attempt to think.

Then she slowly lifted up the pen, dipped it in the ink, and began to write.