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Bother. Right.

Gwen tried to look apologetic. “Sorry. I was distracted—what did you say?”

“I had said that you looked pleased, but I am not so sure that you do now,” said the Dowager Viscountess Pernrith a tad sourly. “An agreeable letter?”

Well, there is nothing within it that could possibly be considered intimate, Gwen thought ruefully. She supposed there was no harm in her mother seeing it.

Passing it across the table, Gwen grimaced as her sister piped up. “I thought might go to St. James’s Park today. Would you like to—”

“I’m busy,” snapped Gwen, swallowing down the rage that always seemed to rise whenever… Well. Anyone spoke to her.

It was galling, to live with such anger, such vehemence that never seemed to abate. It wasn’t that her family was particularly awful. From what she could tell, they were relatively tame. Other than the continuous scandals. And the fact that everyone was so much more exciting and intriguing than her. And the fact that no one seemed to notice her, other than to dismiss her as ‘the baby’ of the entire Chance family.

Other than that.

“I’ll go with you, Teddy, as it appears that I am not invited to anything else,” their mother said—more than a little sourly, now that Gwen came to think of it.

She accepted the marquess’s invitation back and tried to say, “I’m sorry that Lord Ravenshurst didn’t invite you, Mama. I would invite you if I could, but as I did not issue the initial invitation, I do not believe I can.”

Instead, Gwen found herself saying, “I suppose I shall just walk into town myself, then, as the two of you will monopolize the carriage.”

Which was not what she had intended at all.

It was galling, Gwen could not help but think as she sat furiously in the carriage with both her mother and her sister on the way to Mrs. Wainright’s Teashop and Emporium. No matter what her intentions, even if she vowed that she was going to be remarkably kind and good natured, her damned temper seemed to get the better of her.

“Well, we could hardly let you walk in on your own,” said her mother fondly, as though that were the reason for Gwen’s temper. “And I don’t think my lady’s maid would want to sit with you and Lord Ravenshurst and his aunt, and as she is almost his mother, she can act as chaperone for the pair of you, can’t she? So this way it all works out, doesn’t it? We’ll collect you in an hour.”

An hour, Gwen thought wistfully as she waved the Pernrith carriage off and she stepped into Mrs. Wainright’s Teashop and Emporium. The bells of London chimed the eleventh hour of the day. Just sixty minutes to impress this aunt, Lady Stuart, and confirm to Lord Ravenshurst that he had made the right decision in proposing to her.

Which obviously he had. Obviously.

“Yes?” said a server politely, standing by the door in the green livery of the tea shop.

Gwen smiled briskly. “I am meeting the Marquess of Ravenshurst here.”

“Ah, yes,” said the man, inclining his head. “Follow me, please.”

Mrs. Wainright’s Teashop and Emporium was one of the more expensive places to take tea in London, which of course meant that Gwen had never actually stepped foot in here. Her Cousin Zander had praised its sandwiches—though advised to avoid the cucumber ones specifically, which was interesting—and Gwen had always longed to step into its hallowed halls and drink…drink…well, drink a tea she had never heard of.

The trouble was it was a tad intimidating, attempting to step gracefully around the tables as beautiful people sipped tea and murmured in that superior way that true nobility always did. It was even more intimidating to attempt to do so in a gown with skirts slightly too long because she’d borrowed them from her sister Teddy, who was two inches taller.

Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip—

“Ah, Miss Chance,” said the marquess, rising from his seat right in the corner and bowing without a smile. “Aunt, may I introduce to you Miss Gwendoline Chance, daughter of the Viscount Pernrith? Er, the former Viscount Pernrith? Miss Chance, Lady Heather Stuart, the Baronetess Stuart.”

Gwen beamed at the woman who—

Oh, dear God. This is not the woman I expected.

When she had pictured Lady Heather, the aunt of the staid and very proper Marquess of Ravenshurst, Gwen had imagined a woman past her prime but still well dressed, perhaps with silvering hair or a wig, with a gentle yet considerate expression on her face as she was introduced to the future Marchioness of Ravenshurst.

What Gwen was faced with was the most beautiful and most decidedly young woman she had ever seen.

“Charmed,” said Lady Heather, not even bothering to incline her head. She had a fair complexion, framed by golden ringlets and underscored by vivaciously red, pouty lips. “Gwendoline, is it? What an old-fashioned name.”

Gwen gaped, unable to say a word. “I… I…”

“Please sit, Miss Chance,” said the marquess, clearly unaffected by his aunt’s rudeness.