Page 14 of In With a Chance

His aunt? She could barely have been a year or two older than Gwen!

“I…” mumbled Gwen as she half-sat, half-staggered onto a seat at the table. “I’m sorry—your aunt?”

She recalled a line from his brief invitation. “A mother to me these last few years.”

What kind of man considered a woman so clearly his junior a mother?

It was terribly rude, and if she had not already received his offer of marriage, she would never have spoken to the Marquess of Ravenshurst in such a way. But, well, as she had received the offer, and her mind would not permit her to move on from this incredibly bizarre thought—

“My grandfather was married three times,” Lord Ravenshurst said stiffly. “I am his eldest son’s son, from his first marriage. My aunt is his youngest daughter from his third.”

“Yes, it’s all a tad odd, isn’t it?” Lady Heather remarked, raising an eyebrow. “But never fear; I’m not here to size you up or anything. We were raised almost as brother and sister, and my husband—yes, there he is.”

Gwen looked over her shoulder, utterly bewildered, and saw a cheerful young man striding toward them.

Right. Well. That at least explained that, she supposed. And sister made more sense than mother, considering.

When she turned back around to the table, it was to catch a smile of brilliant joy on Lord Ravenshurst’s face.

Then it was gone.

Did I dream that?

No, surely not—but then, Gwen could not imagine the Marquess of Ravenshurst smiling, and it had been gone so swiftly…

“Just added some Victoria sponge to our order,” said the baronet happily as he sat down. He was also fair-haired, though his complexion was more rugged than his wife’s. He had a rather handsome smile and deep dimples in his cheeks. “They will be go excellently with our cucumber sandwiches. Ah. You’re Miss Chance, then. Sir James Stuart, baronet.”

It was utterly bewildering. There had been a moment of—well, not warmth, not exactly, but something akin to warmth in her betrothed’s expression, just for an instant. But now it was gone, and Gwen was seated uncomfortably at a table with a silent and morose-looking Lord Ravenshurst, a silent and absorbed in her tea Lady Heather, and a silent and whistling while he glanced about the tea room Sir James.

It did not get better. Despite attempting four different topics of conversation, Gwen was not able to elicit more than singular lines from any of them, and by the time the hour was up and Sir James and Lady Heather were murmuring how pleasant it had been, she was exhausted.

“We must do this again sometime,” said the marquess stiffly, as though he could think of nothing worse.

“Yes, I suppose we must,” said Gwen helplessly as they stepped outside Mrs. Wainright’s Teashop and Emporium. “Tell me, Lord Ravenshurst, your aunt—”

“Yes, I must escort them home,” Lord Ravenshurst said brusquely. “You are being met, I suppose?”

Gwen glanced about the busy street. There was no sign of the carriage, nor her mother or sister. “Yes, my mother intended to—”

“Excellent. Well, good afternoon, Miss Chance.” A brief kiss dashed across her knuckles, and the man was gone.

Gone! Gone to escort his aunt and her husband, which made no sense, Gwen thought furiously. Why on earth would a married aunt—with her husband present, at that—need escorting home? It was a nonsense!

And now here she was, in the middle of London and unchaperoned…

Well. She was engaged, Gwen reminded herself, a spot mollified. And it wasn’t as though she did not know the way back home.

Still. It was infuriating! The man should have known better than that. Any man would have, let alone a marquess!

Taking a deep inhale and wishing to goodness that she’d had enough presence of mind to eat more than a cucumber sandwich—honestly, was her life with Lord Ravenshurst to be as bland as daily cucumber sandwiches?—Gwen buttoned up her pelisse and started the walk home.

After all, she was still engaged to marry the marquess, she told herself firmly. She was still going to be wealthy, have her own home, her own freedom. What on earth could be more important than that?

“Miss Chance?”

Gwen turned, the instinct to respond to one’s name overcoming her better judgment. Why, it could have been anyone calling her name on the street—and for her to be seen having a conversation with another now that she was engaged…

“Oh, it’s you,” she said lightly, as her brother’s friend Baron Frasemere walked toward her.