Page 20 of In With a Chance

Miss Gwendoline examined him closely. “You know, I don’t know you well enough to tell if you’re teasing me.”

“‘Teasing’ you?” Ernest blinked. “Why would I tease you?”

“It is just the sort of thing Michael would do,” she said succinctly.

Ah, well, he had to smile at that. “I suppose most brothers like to torment their sisters.”

“He was very good at it.”

“And I suppose you gave as good as you could in return?”

Miss Gwendoline snorted. “It was that or roll over and take it, like Teddy there.”

Ernest dragged his attention away from the sparkling Miss Gwendoline and glanced over at the slightly more retiring Miss Chance. She looked… Well. As if she had rolled over and taken it most of her life: quiet, with slumped shoulders and no conversation as her parents chattered away over her head.

He turned back to Miss Gwendoline, who smirked. “So you are in earnest. Sorry.”

“I suppose I deserved that,” Ernest said wearily.

Who on earth called their child by such a name? It was a cruelty, in his opinion.

Ernest. What a terrible name!

“I used to go by ‘Ern,’” he admitted.

Miss Gwendoline wrinkled her nose. “What, something you’d put flowers in?”

“I suppose it isn’t much of an improvement,” said Ernest with a wry smile. “What is Lord Ravenshurst’s name?”

There—it had spilled out before he could stop it. Thankfully, the rest of the Pernrith Chances appeared swept up in a conversation about a book the family was reading together, and so he was able to observe Miss Gwendoline’s reaction to his question without interruption.

And it was fascinating.

Yes, her cheeks pinked, and there was a small smile that crept across her lips. But it was not the smile of a woman in love, but instead one who was immensely pleased with herself.

Which made no sense.

“William,” she said quietly.

Of course it was. Some men had all the luck. “Once again, I apologize.”

Miss Gwendoline frowned. “William is not a bad name.”

Blast. “No, I meant—about how I spoke to you. One cannot explain love; it is inexplicable by its very nature.”

“I disagree with you there,” Miss Gwendoline said nonchalantly, finally picking up her spoon and digging it vociferously into her ice. “Love is one of the most explainable things in the world.”

Ernest was rendered speechless.

Oh, not by her words. At least, not utterly; he certainly did not agree with them, but there was little he could say to that effect as she lifted her spoon to her lips.

They parted. The spoon entered. The lips encircled it, lavishing the silverware with her attentions. A small moan slipped out from her throat and before Ernest could grasp the tablecloth with both hands, a small trickle of ice cream almost escaped.

Almost. Miss Gwendoline’s tongue darted out and caught it just as the spoon was released from her mouth, and Ernest almost groaned aloud to see it.

Dear God, perhaps the sexes should eat separately. This was too much!

“Love is one’s intentions,” Miss Gwendoline said lightly, as though she had not caused a small earthquake to occur within Ernest’s loins. “What one does. The Marquess of Ravenshurst wishes to marry me, and he proposed. That is love.”