Page 47 of In With a Chance

“You are an idiot,” Gwen snapped, her face burning as she even thought about what she had intended to do today.

It was bad enough that her mother had downright refused—refused!—to help her on this. Neither of her sisters…well, her married sisters were in London any longer, having disappeared off to some house party that she, Gwen, had not been invited to—and she could hardly ask Teddy, could she?!

That had left Phylis, and after sending a slightly awkward note to her new sister-in-law, Gwen had been gratified to receive a response that Captain Seaton would be delighted to help.

And now this.

“Gwen!”

Her brother’s hand shot out and grabbed her, simultaneously halting and twisting her around to face him.

Which Gwen did not want to do.

“Why on earth can Phylis help you and I cannot?” asked Michael seriously, a look of…was that hurt on his pinched face?

Oh, blast the man.

Gwen swallowed, glancing about them and hoping to goodness the world knew this was her brother, and not some sort of torrid lovers’ quarrel that was playing out on the pavement.

The very idea!

And the worst of it was, he was still looking at her in genuine hurt, as though she had done him some sort of serious injury, which was laughable in the extreme.

Oh, blast it all to hell. She was going to have to tell him.

“I had hoped that your wife would accompany me to…to the modiste,” Gwen hissed, her gaze darting around again.

If anyone were to overhear this… It was ridiculous!

Michael was staring in abject confusion. “Fine. I’ll come with you.”

“You can’t!” muttered Gwen, mortified. “Look, let’s just go home.”

“You are being ridiculous. You always are!”

“I am not ridiculous,” Gwen snapped, jerking her arm out of her brother’s grip and trying to steady her angered breathing. “I wanted to ask your wife’s opinion—”

“So what? I can give you my opinion!”

“—about something I have ordered from Paris—”

“I’ve been to Paris! I can tell you what all the ladies there are wearing!”

Saints preserve her. “I’ve ordered underthings!” Gwen hissed, heat boiling in her cheeks, but she unable to prevent herself from putting the man in his place. “Are you happy?! Underthings, marital underthings, clothing for under my clothes for when I am married and—”

“Yes, yes, I get the picture, thank you,” muttered a clearly mortified Michael. His eyes had snapped shut and he was now rubbing his temple with a forefinger. “Oh, dear God.”

“And that is why I wanted Phylis.”

“Yes, yes, right,” Michael managed, groaning as he furrowed his brow. “Oh, Lord…”

“Can I go home now?” muttered Gwen, hating that she’d wasted another day before her wedding.

There was still so much to do. Invitations would soon go out, and there was the bridal cake, and her trousseau—she had not even started on her trousseau.

“I wish Phylis could have come with you,” Michael was murmuring into his hands, from where his head had dropped, as though physically pained.

And despite her embarrassment, and the roiling heat within her, Gwen’s curiosity was piqued. “Why couldn’t Phylis come with me?”