Page 37

Gwen cleared her throat and turned to Lord Frasemere with flushed cheeks. “I mean…since when were you so interested in wedding couture?”

Her words were not quite as calm as she had hoped, but they were still a darn sight calmer than her first declaration.

The baron shrugged. “As I said, I came in here to seek out some silk for a cravat. It is no concern of mine what fabric you choose for a wedding gown.”

Which was unequivocally reasonable.

It was just such a shame that this, in fact, piqued Gwen all the more.

A ridiculous notion; she should not have wished for random gentlemen to be interested in her wedding gown! The only person who should care for such a thing was her father, who was paying for it and had begged her not to select anything too outrageous, and her future husband. Lord Ravenshurst. Obviously.

So why did it matter quite so much what this man thought?

Lord Frasemere leaned past her to pick up a swatch of material and Gwen tried desperately not to breathe him in.

At least, she tried. It was impossible not to gently inhale the delicate musk that was Baron Frasemere, along with a hint of lavender and something she could not quite put her finger on.

Tell you what she did want to put her finger on: Baron Frasemere and his wide, muscular chest—

Gwendoline Chance, get a grip!

“You will have to give me your opinion,” the baron was saying lightly, as though absolutely nothing had happened between them. Which it hadn’t. “It has been so long since I’ve been in London. I am not yet sure what the fashions are.”

‘Fashions’?

“There are no fashions in cravat silk,” Gwen said dismissively.

Lord Frasemere arched an eyebrow. “Are you certain? Your brother certainly wears a different style than your father.”

“That is because my papa has never met a fashion he would recognize,” she returned, unable to prevent herself from grinning. “Besides, that’s a difference in knot, not fabric.”

Was she truly having a conversation about cravats with a man who was not her betrothed?

Gwen knew that she should extricate herself from such a thing immediately, find her sister, say goodbye to her two cousins, and disappear off back home.

But despite her mind’s determination that what she was doing was wrong, it didn’t feel wrong.

It didn’t feel wrong at all.

“You are telling me that a cravat in this fabric is the height of fashion?” Lord Frasemere leaned past her—once again causing a flood of heat to wash through her—and picked up a swatch of lurid, pink fabric.

Gwen giggled. “Well, perhaps not that.”

“I can’t see you choosing this for a wedding gown, either.” The baron smiled. “It’s not your style.”

A flurry of tingles, a catch in her throat. “What do you know about my style?”

It had not been intended as a challenge—or perhaps it had been. Gwen could not help but grin as the man raised an eyebrow, stepped around her, and murmured as he brushed his fingers along the rows of fabric, “Too dull, too bright, too utterly ridiculous—”

“That’s a perfectly good white muslin!” protested Gwen, following him down the row as though unable to prevent herself.

Because she was unable to prevent herself.

“It’s too pale for you. Your dark hair, it demands something more…” The baron leaned forward. “This.”

Gwen wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. Something elegant, she supposed, in that vague way that anything Lady Romeril liked was elegant and anything she disliked was the very worst of fashion.

What she had not expected was…