Gwen, Gwen the Spotted Giraffe was arguing tonotmarry a very eligible gentleman. What would the girls she had attended school with have to say to that? It was incomprehensible.
To make matters worse, it was a certainty that out in the ballroom, the guests were freely discussing what had happened and waiting expectantly for an announcement to be made.
Gwen dropped her head into her hands, fiddling with her hair as she tried to catch a flicker of sanity anyplace she could find it. Her mind was unraveling with all the conflicting issues raging within.
At her side, Lord Abbott abruptly fell silent, and she suspected he had noticed her despair.
“Mr. Smythe, would you allow me to speak with yourdaughter alone? We … have much to settle between the two of us.”
Her father responded in a cheery tone, his chair scraping to indicate he had come to his feet, but Gwen was obsessed with the rug beneath her slippers, so she continued to stare at the colorful pattern in the hopes it would cause her swirling thoughts to subside into their familiar structure.
“I shall be on the terrace.”
Papa’s light footsteps proclaimed his departure from the room, the French doors closing with a slight click that was almost inaudible.
“Gwendolyn—”
“Gwen. Only Papa addresses me as Gwendolyn.”
There was a pause. “Gwen,” he finally breathed. “It is lovely. A lovely name for a lovely woman.”
Gwen scowled at the rug. “There is no need to flatter now that you have seen me in the light. I am well aware of my appearance.”
A large hand appeared and gently took hold of hers. She allowed him to pull it down onto the settee, but resolutely held her head with the other while attempting to burn a hole in the woven floor covering with her stare.
“I saw you in the entry hall from the receiving line. I knew who you were when I met you on the terrace.”
Gwen froze before dropping her hand to look at him. He gazed back at her, a mix of sympathy and admiration in his eyes. She fidgeted, unsure what to do with such attention.
“Truly?”
“You put me in mind of a Botticelli masterpiece.” Lord Abbott reached out a hand to tuck the errant tresses back into her coiffure, which made Gwen realize she must look a fright after mussing up her hair.
She wanted to believe him. What woman would not wantto believe such adoring words? If it were just the smallest bit true …
“You have seen Botticelli first hand?”
He nodded. “I could take you to Italy. A Grand Tour, if you desire it.”
Gwen sucked in a breath, her eyes widening at the possibility of viewing great art. “I do not wish to force you into a union. The kiss was just as much my fault as it was yours.”
Lord Abbott’s eyes raked over her face. “There is no force. I … find I … I find that I wish …” He halted, rubbing a hand over his face as he searched for the words he wished to say to her. Gwen was fascinated by this, acknowledging the gentleman was just as compromised by this disaster as she was. What would he say when he finally found those words … She found she waited with bated breath.
“Before this night I had no desire to marry, but now that we are here together, I wish to do the right thing and I find that there are no reservations creeping in the corners of my mind. This is what I wish to do. It would be an honor to make you my wife.”
Lord Abbott’s gaze found hers with the final statement, and Gwen saw nothing but sincerity in the depths of his rich brown eyes. Compelled to speak, she parted her lips to pronounce the lines that cleared all other thoughts from her mind, leaving only one bright hope for the future.
“If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces?—”
His gaze did not falter, even for a second. He responded, his deep voice confident.
“—The age to come would say ‘This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.’”
Gwen shook her head, fascinated by his voice. By him.
She imagined marrying this man, learning who he was, being bedded by him. She imagined babes with chocolatethatches of fine hair and bright brown eyes, and books, and poetry, and warming fires on Christmas Eve. She imagined moonlight and kisses, soft touches and sighs, strong hands and delighted shivers.
Gwen remembered the unwavering love between her father and mother, the joy of Gareth’s arrival in the world, her own hopes she had locked deep in the recesses of her heart, and she knew she wanted to say yes.
