Page 59

“Mama!” Honestly! Their poor housekeeper had far better things to do, surely, than traipse about London talking to engravers!

Her mother did not look abashed in the slightest. “What? She is as excited as I am about this wedding—a darn sight more excited than you are, may I point out.”

There was just a hint of sharpness in her mother’s voice Gwen could not quite ignore, however much she might wish it.

It was infuriating. Here she was, Gwen observed darkly, getting married to Lord Ravenshurst and everyone should have been thrilled for her. She was certainly thrilled. Entirely thrilled. Utterly thrilled. More thrill lying about than she knew what to do with.

And yet none of her family seemed particularly bothered.

Oh, her mother was focused on planning the best possible wedding, but only as she would plan a ball, or a luncheon, or a dinner. There was no…no real excitement to it. Her father had asked her once politely if the marquess played backgammon, and Gwen had admitted—more than a little shamefaced—that she did not know, and that was the total sum of their conversation about her betrothed.

Jessy and Reeny and their husbands were out of town. Getting more than five words strung together from Teddy on any topic was a miracle. Michael was off to France with Phylis on the Dreamer.

Gwen sighed as her mother rattled on about card thickness and the blackness of ink. It all seemed rather… Well.

Dull.

Which was preposterous, she knew. She was marrying the Marquess of Ravenshurst! She should have been riveted with excitement, delighted to plan every little detail of the day she would become a marchioness and begin her new life.

If only her thoughts didn’t continuously meander toward—

Gwen stiffened at the sight of a familiar face through the dining room window.

“—and yet I think if we added gold,” her mother was saying placidly, “perhaps this option would not be—”

“Mama,” murmured Gwen, unable to help herself.

Well, what sort of woman would she have been if the sight of Ernest Quintrell, Baron Frasemere, grinning outside the window did not reduce her to silence?

“What is it, Gwendoline?” Her mother turned around, but by that time, Ernest had disappeared from the window and Gwen merely looked like a starstruck fool. “Honestly, are you not interested in selecting the perfect card for your wedding invitations?”

Honestly, no.

That was the answer Gwen knew she absolutely should not and could not give. It was most unfortunate, therefore, that she knew the precise response she would receive if she were so foolish as to say it.

No. She was not interested in selecting the perfect card for her wedding invitations. She did not care if the gold foiling was exact, or if the ink was black enough.

She was marrying the Marquess of Ravenshurst because it was the logical thing to do. The right thing, for her future.

And it was surely her own fault if her mind kept drifting to—

“Lord Frasemere has been invited to a picnic hosted by the Duchess of Axwick,” said Gwen’s father cheerfully as he strode into the dining room with said man by his side. “And he’s gained invitations for us, too. Isn’t that splendid?”

‘Splendid’? That is one way to look at it, Gwen thought joylessly, but she had perused Amberleen Trinkett’s The Eligible Ladies of High Society carefully after Ernest’s loan of it, and she had spotted what she had feared.

The Duchess of Axwick had three unmarried daughters.

“That is splendid!” said Gwen’s mother cheerfully, thrusting two card samples into her husband’s hands. “Which of these do you like?”

“‘Like’?” The Dowager Viscount Pernrith stared at the two pieces of cream card in his hands, and Gwen was forced to stifle a grin as her father looked utterly bewildered. “Are… Are they not the same?”

“Frederick!”

“Is this the center of operations?” asked a familiar voice that made all the hair on the back of Gwen’s neck stand up. “The war room, as it were?”

Gwen scowled at Ernest, who had drifted to her side. “No.”

“Certainly looks like it,” he said cheerfully, not bothering to lower his voice.