Page 76 of In With a Chance

But save for that transitory moment in Lady Romeril’s hallway, Gwen had not properly looked at him since…well, since she had marched off suddenly yesterday evening from her parents’ drawing room. She had not come down for breakfast, had been absent somewhere all morning, had eaten luncheon in silence and had refused to be drawn out of herself, and had stayed only for a few brief minutes for the large afternoon tea Mrs. Kinley had put on to fortify them before Lady Romeril’s ball.

And in all that time, Gwen had refused to meet his eye.

Had he offended her?

He could not think how. Oh, the kiss, perhaps; but then that kiss had been so explosive, so delightful, so blissful, Ernest could not conceive of how anyone could have been offended by it.

Other than the Marquess of Ravenshurst, naturally.

Guilt seared his gut. He had never held any ill will toward his brother for running off with his own betrothed. He had seen the connection between them, and Ernest had never been able to pretend it had not been real.

But thousands of men—perhaps most men—would not have responded in such a way. Would this Lord Ravenshurst perhaps break off his engagement with Gwen, if he discovered what the two of them had shared in the churchyard?

Was that it? Was she worried he would betray their secret, that she would lose everything she had ever wanted because of a rash moment of weakness?

His weakness?

“Ah, there are the daughters of the Duke and Duchess of Axwick,” came Gwen’s mother’s voice from a long way away. “You met them at their picnic, did you not? Which of the three—”

“Miss Gwendoline,” Ernest found himself saying before he could stop himself, “would you honor me with this dance?”

The musicians struck up at that very moment, as though they had been waiting for him.

But Ernest was waiting for her.

Gwen. She had flushed a delicate pink at his words, only elevating her beauty even further. Gwen’s raven hair, those startling, brilliant-blue eyes, the way her cheeks and nose pinked whenever—

“Come on, then, Gwen,” her mother said brightly, nudging her with an encouraging elbow. “What do you say?”

Guilt twisted in Ernest’s gut. He knew full well that it was almost impossible for a young lady to decline to dance with a gentleman; after all, if one man was declined, it was presumed that she would not be dancing the whole evening and she would therefore be unable to accept any gentleman’s hand.

If there was a particular man with whom she wished to dance, she would have to accept every other offer to ensure it.

His stomach lurched—and of course there was a gentleman she would wish to dance with. Lord Ravenshurst, her betrothed.

But until he was here…

Gwen gave a forced smile and did not look at Ernest as she said, “Right. Thank you, my lord.”

It was as though they had never met.

Ernest tried not to think about it as he stepped out into the center of the ballroom with Miss Gwendoline Chance on his arm. The point was, he had her to himself for the next ten minutes or so, as a waltz began to play and he swept her into his embrace. Ten minutes to ascertain precisely what it was that he had done to so mortally wound the woman he cared about more than any other, and then—

Then he did not know. The future did not stretch out beyond the next ten minutes.

He would have to make them count.

“What a pleasant occasion this is,” Ernest said brightly as they began dancing, desperately trying to concentrate on leading their footsteps even as he tried to lead the conversation.

Gwen gave a brief smile that disappeared almost as soon as it came. “Indeed.”

And she still wasn’t meeting his eye. What on earth had he done to—

Oh, no. Am I that bad a kisser?

Panic rippled through Ernest’s lungs. He had never had any complaints before…but now that he came to think about it, he had never had any repeat encounters before.

Oh, dear God, had he utterly ruined everything?