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Laura.

Even thinking her name was painful. He had to stop.

The woman before him was still glaring. “Who is Laura?”

“No one,” said Ernest quietly. Well, it was still mostly true, and it had the added benefit of having distracted Gwen’s glower. A peace treaty should surely have been possible.

Gwen’s brows were still furrowed in a glare. “You underestimate me sometimes, you know, Lord Frasemere.”

“‘Ernest,’” said Ernest before he could stop himself, dropping into the chair opposite her.

The glare deepened. “I invited you to call me ‘Gwen’ and you have refused. Most of the time.” She swallowed. “So I assumed you did not think it proper.”

“Perhaps I did not,” he admitted, unable to argue with that. “But I would like to be friends even so.”

And maybe it was the startling honesty that forced her from the temper she had slipped into. Whatever it was, Gwen’s glare cleared and she looked up at him in blatant curiosity, her head tilted sideways. “Would you, indeed, my lord?” she said quietly. “Why?”

Why?

Oh, blast. Another question to which he did not know the answer.

“Because I think you do not have a great number of friends,” were the words that poured from his mouth, totally unbidden.

Where they had come from, Ernest did not know, though now that he came to think about it, in the painful silence that fell between them as Gwen stared, open-mouthed, perhaps he had started to spot the signs.

Miss Gwendoline Chance did not receive letters. The rest of her family did, and often, but she had not received a single missive aside from an invitation or two from her betrothed since he had joined the household.

Miss Gwendoline Chance did not attend events. Oh, if Lord Ravenshurst invited her, that was different, but the notecards and invitations that arrived for her parents often included Miss Chance and Miss Gwendoline merely by extension.

Miss Gwendoline Chance did not seem to have friends of her own. She went about town with her family and met with her innumerable cousins, but actual friends? Ernest had never seen any.

She was lonely, he realized with a sinking feeling as he saw the defiance in her eyes. Gwen was lonely.

“I am reading a most interesting book on the history of Scotland,” Gwen said fiercely, as though the book were a core part of her character and she was mortally wounded that he had overlooked it. “Lord Ravenshurst’s estate borders some parts of Scotland and I wish to be better informed, as its future mistress.”

Of course she did.

Once again, Ernest had to admit—though only to himself—that he had drastically misjudged her.

This was a woman who took her marriage, one which was to be without romance, or affection, or charm at all as far as he could see, entirely seriously.

She took her future responsibilities seriously. She understood what it was to the mistress of an estate and she wished to prepare herself accordingly.

She would be, Ernest knew, the most spectacular marchioness the Ravenshurst lands had ever seen.

And his admiration for her burst forth, pouring through him like a tidal wave, and it was in that moment that he knew the feelings he was starting to battle with for Miss Gwendoline Chance were not just going to disappear because he decided they were unfortunate.

And that meant three things.

Firstly, that he should attempt to dampen them at every opportunity.

Secondly, that he should definitely not attempt to seduce her.

Thirdly, that his first two decisions meant he was going to have a very uncomfortable conversation, indeed.

“Miss Chance,” Ernest said quietly, shifting uncomfortably in the chair opposite her. “I need to tell you something.”

Her sardonic expression would surely not last, but while it did it created unexpected flutterings in his chest. “You do?”