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The poor man was thanking her for her impressive understanding at the tragic death of his brother and his betrothed, and she was asking him whether he had tracked down any wealthy heiresses lately?

If there had been a look of momentary shock from Ernest, it swiftly departed. “Not well, I’m afraid.”

Gwen smiled weakly as her sister finished off her piece at the pianoforte and started playing a concerto. “London currently a little thin on the ground when it comes to heiresses?”

“Apparently so,” Ernest said lightly with a brief smile, as though they were discussing a horse race that had not gone his way. “Not even my uncle and aunt have anyone particular in mind, but then again, they’ve never been that helpful. My aunt said I should consider scouring Scotland or the Continent for a match. But I know she’d never give my cousins the same advice.” He shook his head, and Gwen wondered, not for the first time, why Sir Arnold and Lady Quintrell had not hosted their nephew for his London stay. Then again, she had conversed with the Quintrells and their daughters many a time, and she knew they could be a bit…supercilious.

Ernest sighed. “The more I seek out a wealthy bride for the Frasemere estate, the more I am reminded how… How unsuitable each of the ladies I meet are.”

Gwen swallowed.

She was not going to look too much into that statement. She was not.

Even if her mind had already turned it upside down and inside out looking for the compliment.

“I shall have to ask my cousins if… If they know anyone suitable,” she managed.

Ernest’s smile widened. “I don’t suppose you have any wealthy cousins available?”

And a roar of anger, of possessive control, of determination not to share the man whom Gwen knew was her own ricocheted through her.

Maudey and Frank.

They were the only two of her cousins who were unmarried—among the ladies, at least—and both of them had significant fortunes. Larger than forty thousand pounds.

And the idea, the very thought of either of them having Ernest…

No.

No, it was not to be borne. It was completely impossible for Gwen to even consider it, and the fury which she felt at the idea of Ernest marrying anyone, anyone except her—

Oh, hell.

“Gwen?” Ernest looked concerned for some reason. “Are you quite well?”

“Mostly well,” she croaked.

“For a moment there, you looked—”

“I’m fine,” Gwen said, clearing her throat and hoping her voice had strengthened.

It certainly didn’t feel strong. She felt weak, utterly destroyed by the sudden knowledge that whether it was one of her cousins or not, Ernest Quintrell, Baron Frasemere, would eventually find a bride with a large enough dowry…and marry that woman.

Not her.

And it was in that moment that Gwen realized the terrible, achingly awful truth.

She could not marry the Marquess of Ravenshurst.

How could she, when she was so desperately in love with Ernest?

“—attending the ball tomorrow with your family,” Ernest was saying from a long way off, clearly utterly ignorant of the explosion of thoughts that were occurring within Gwen’s mind. “Your mother is hopeful that she will be able to introduce me to several young ladies with sufficient funds.”

Gwen turned to glare at her mother, who was happily conversing with her husband. Traitor!

“After all, I have no choice,” came Ernest’s quiet voice, and she turned to him just in time to see a hopeful expression tinge his face, a soft jut of his chin, his eyes unblinking. “Do I?”

Did he?