Page 98 of In With a Chance

But it couldn’t, and Ernest knew that. The specter of Lord Ravenshurst’s bitter disappointment at losing Gwen’s hand would hang over them for their rest of their lives. How could they go on their merry way knowing that they had ruined the happiness of an honorable gentleman like the innocent and unsuspecting marquess?

“I know she loves me,” Ernest said aloud, his voice a croak.

Michael nodded sagely before adding, “She wants to marry you.”

It was all he could do to swallow. Marry Gwen. It had been a dream, a wonderful dream that could now never come true.

“I know she wants to marry me,” he said hoarsely.

“And I have a horrifying suspicion that if she could have bedded you, she would have done,” Gwen’s brother said with a laugh.

Ernest hesitated, his gaze meeting Michael’s in a silent awkward encounter.

Michael exhaled heavily, leaned forward, and punched Ernest on the nose.

“Ouch!”

“I’m sorry, but you deserved that,” Michael said brightly.

Ernest was too preoccupied with stemming the sudden gush of blood emanating from his nose and the overwhelming pain to say much else. “Ouch!”

“Yes, yes, it does look rather awful,” said his one-time friend, tutting as he peered at Ernest.

At least, that was what it looked like. Ernest could barely tell, thanks to his streaming eyes.

“Here, have a handkerchief.”

“I have one of my own,” Ernest said thickly, removing one of his hands, which was cradling his nose, and grabbing his handkerchief.

The fabric was actually quite convenient at stemming the bleeding, and the time it took to get the injury under control gave him a few moments to think.

Not that the thoughts were in any way coherent. But they happened.

Gwen loved him. He loved Gwen—but they had shared their love at the wrong time. Could they ever forgive each other? Could they ever forgive themselves? Was the Marquess of Ravenshurst truly angry—what if he had called out Michael, or the dowager viscount? Had Michael’s father died in a duel? Was that why his friend was here?

He shook his head. His thoughts were running wild. No way would Michael have been here smugly smirking if that were the case.

Now who lacked maturity?

“You know, I deserve this,” Ernest said in a muffled tone, gingerly poking at the end of his nose to see if it would continue to bleed.

It did not.

Michael snorted. “I don’t know why you’d think that.”

Of course, Ernest thought with dawning comprehension. For the bulk of his…well, his tryst with Miss Gwendoline Chance, her brother had been out at sea on the Dreamer. He had no idea how often they had walked in London’s parks, or laughed in his father’s library, or conversed over dinner, ignoring the rest of the family and getting completely lost in each other’s eyes…

“I doubt Gwen even wants to see me again, let alone marry me,” Ernest said with a sigh, finally leaning back in his seat as the pain in his nose subsided. “I… I said some unflattering things.”

And the pain of that realization returned, sharper and more potent than any punch on the nose.

She may not have been patient enough to end things in a mature fashion, but he had hardly been patient, either. He was supposed to be mature at his age, not judging a lady for accepting a sensible match when offered. Women her age got married all the time. Women—and men—of any age had the right to self-reflection and a change of heart.

They had the right to make mistakes.

He had ruined it all. And that realization hurt, a stab to his heart and a pain he could not conquer.

To be thrown over by his betrothed for his own brother; that had been one kind of pain.