Page 21

That…was ridiculous.

Surely, she could see that. Surely, Miss Gwendoline Chance was not so dense as to think that the mere action itself was worthy of such a term?

Ernest waited, expecting a further explanation, but none came. Instead, Miss Gwendoline ate two more mouthfuls of the strawberry ice, with much murmurings, and he was forced to bite his own tongue.

After all, he had seen love. Not found it himself, no, but seen it in the eyes of his brother…a brother he would never see again.

His stomach tightened.

“Don’t you think so?” Miss Gwendoline said conversationally, as though she were not pouring images into his mind that would keep him awake for several hours too late. “I mean to say, take motherhood. That’s love, and it’s through actions that one knows it. What did your mother do to show you that she loved you?”

Ernest did not react. At least, not on the outside. Inside was quite another story, but he marshaled himself carefully and did not allow a single quiver to enter his voice as he said, “She died.”

Miss Gwendoline halted a spoonful of strawberry ice halfway to her lips and turned to him in evident horror.

“Sorry,” said Ernest hastily. Damn it, but he was doing a lot of apologizing with this woman. “I did not intend to be so blunt—my mother died in childbirth. She gave her very life for mine.”

“That… That’s terrible. I am so sorry,” Miss Gwendoline whispered, her eyes wide as she examined him. “So you grew up without a mother?”

And without a father, really, Ernest did not say. But he did not say it very loudly. “Tell me about Lord Ravenshurst. How has he shown you that he loves you?”

Perhaps it was his imagination, but Ernest rather thought a shadow passed over the woman’s face.

The woman’s beautiful, kissable face.

Damn it, man!

“I told you,” Miss Gwendoline said slowly, as though the ice had somehow frozen his brain. Maybe it had. “He proposed to me.”

“But surely, there must have been hints of love during your courtship,” Ernest said, trying to sound offhand but with a horrible feeling that he sounded far too interested. “Something that should how he cared about you.”

He saw the answer on the young woman’s face before she spoke.

“He… He invited me to the opera. And the ballet. He dined with my family four times,” Miss Gwendoline said, actually counting on her fingers, “and I took tea with him twice. We danced together at the Daltons’ ball and the Axwick ball and the Cothrom ball, and…and he declared that we would be married.”

There was a defiance in her eyes, a fire that challenged him to critique her words.

And Ernest did not intend to.

Such a shame that his intentions were melting away quicker than his ignored strawberry ice. “And that’s it?”

Miss Gwendoline’s temper flared. “What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?”

“What are you two talking about over there?” asked the dowager viscountess politely.

“Nothing!” snapped Miss Gwendoline before turning to Ernest and lowering her voice. “What do you mean, ‘that’s it’? What else does one expect from a courtship in 1841?”

“No flowers? No gifts? No declarations of affection?” Precisely why Ernest was nagging at this he did not know.

Well. He knew, but it was a shameful thing to do, critique a man for his courtship when Ernest hadn’t even met the man. Perhaps the marquess was shy. Perhaps he was quiet. Perhaps he had no imagination and did not deserve the attentions of a beauty like—

Careful, man.

“I do not require flowers or declarations of affection.” Miss Gwendoline sniffed, finishing her strawberry ice and dropping her spoon into the bowl.

Oh, yes, you do, Ernest wanted to say. Not only do you require them, but you deserve them because you crave them. I can hear the disappointment in your voice, taste it in your tones. You wanted so much more and you accepted less. But you shouldn’t have.

And that was when he said something truly unforgivable. “It all sounds very dull and staid to me.”