Page 1 of In With a Chance

Chapter One

September 2, 1841

Do not think about a proposal.

Do not think about a proposal.

Do not think about a proposal.

Which is all very well, Miss Gwendoline Chance, retiring wallflower and the youngest daughter of the former Viscount Pernrith, thought darkly as she attempted to sit on a slightly damp rug in the middle of Hyde Park. But had anyone else noticed that the more one attempted not to think of a thing, the more the thing crowded out one’s mind and made it impossible to think of anything else?

Surely, she could not have been the only one in the world to have noticed this?

“Such a pleasant day,” said the Marquess of Ravenshurst politely, staring off into the distance. He could have been speaking to a valet. Or a gardener.

Gwen tried to smile. “Yes. Yes, so pleasant.”

It was not pleasant. Autumn had arrived swiftly in London this year, bringing with it a certain gray dullness that made her long for the excesses of the summer. It had also brought with it a great amount of drizzle, which was this very moment forcing her hair into an untamable frizz.

“Are you quite well over there?” called her mother, the former Viscountess Pernrith, from her own rug about fifteen feet away. She was huddled under an umbrella and looked a little worse for wear, though her patrician beauty had never diminished with age. “I do believe it is officially raining.”

No, it was not. Gwen had waited for this moment for three whole weeks, and she was not about to abandon the attempt now merely because of a touch of moisture.

Even if that moisture was starting to invade her behind.

“No, no, this is fine,” Gwen replied with as broad a smile as she could manage. “We are quite enjoying ourselves, aren’t we, Lord Ravenshurst?”

The marquess did not reply. Instead, he leaned his long, angular body forward, took another soggy cucumber sandwich from the basket, and munched it thoughtfully.

Gwen sighed and attempted not to allow her general disappointment to show on her face.

It was too bad, really.

Here she was, the fifth of five children of a viscount—a dowager viscount, he styled himself, now that the title had passed to her brother prematurely in the eccentric Chance family style—with very little money, and though her Cousin Samuel—now a marquess himself—had gifted her and her sister Teddy twenty thousand pounds each for their dowries, there were very few gentlemen of note who were truly interested in connecting themselves with a family who… Well.

The Chances were refined, and elegant, and fashionable, and charming.

Her three uncles and their families were, anyway.

Then there was her father. The half-brother, half a Chance, and with all the frustration and ostracization that came with being illegitimate—despite being legitimized long before Gwen had been born.

And then there was the Marquess of Ravenshurst.

“What a delicious sandwich,” the weak-jawed man said in a monotone as his top hat became increasingly damp. “Cucumber. Very nice.”

Sighing once more, Gwen forced another smile as she reached for a cucumber sandwich of her own. “Yes. Very nice.”

And he was. The marquess, that was. He was very nice. Polite, and pleasant, refined as one would expect a marquess to be, and…

Dull.

Oh, dear God, so dull.

Gwen drew herself up, thrusting her bust forward in the hope it would catch the man’s attention. She had not permitted herself to be courted by the Marquess of Ravenshurst for his conversational skills.

Absolutely not.

No, she was tired of being the Chance who was dismissed, the youngest of them all, cousins included, the baby everyone thought was not yet grown. There was always one of her sisters or her brother causing a ruckus, and it was always little Gwendoline left on the sidelines, too small to be included.