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No one could do that.

Oh, true love was all very well, and Ernest dearly hoped he would come to love whichever woman it was who became the Baroness Frasemere by his side.

But he was no fool. He knew full well that marriage without love could continue almost indefinitely, but marriage without money?

That was quite another prospect entirely.

“You confuse me, you know, my lord,” said Gwen quietly, her fingers tightening around the book as though she were preparing to set it aside.

And Ernest’s mind was filled with delicious yet ridiculous images: images of Gwen launching herself suddenly into his arms and begging him to take her, images of Gwen pressing her delicate lips against hers and kissing him, kissing him furiously, images of Gwen declaring that she would not be marrying Lord Ravenshurst, after all, because it was Ernest whom she lov—

Steady on there.

Just in the nick of time, Ernest managed to prevent himself from even thinking the word that would make matters between himself and one of the unmarried daughters of the house very complicated, indeed.

Most unfortunately, Gwen did put aside her book. But she did not launch herself into his arms, nor kiss him, nor declare her affections for him.

Instead, she smiled ruefully. “Well. I suppose this puts us in a considerably complicated position, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all,” Ernest said stiffly, quite against his true feelings. “I am a gentleman, and I respect the agreement you have made with the marquess. Besides, I… I am in no position to offer you marriage, Miss Chance.”

“‘Gwen,’ please.” Her smile could have warmed the room fifty times over. “I think, given everything, first-name terms at least here at home should probably be permitted.”

Oh, it was tempting. To call Miss Gwendoline Chance by the name her own family called her…it was an intimacy Ernest craved.

And that was precisely why he should not do it.

“I think not,” he said, as gently as he could manage. “For my own good.”

There it was again: that startled expression, that genuine innocence. “Oh.”

“But I would like to be your friend,” Ernest continued, knowing full well this was a mistake of the highest degree but barreling forward, anyway. “If you would like a friend.”

This time, there was no hesitation. “I would like that,” said Gwen quietly, a brightness in her pallor accompanying her words. “I would like that very much.”

Chapter Nine

September 23, 1841

Gwen snorted. “You’re lying.”

“I am not!”

“The mere fact that you are protesting makes me believe that you are lying all the more,” she said sternly, glaring at the person who’d had the audacity to tell her a falsehood. “Now tell me the truth. Why hasn’t Phylis joined us?”

Her brother sighed, his shoulders dropping. “I can’t tell you.”

Now that was most interesting.

It had not been a particularly interesting day. Gwen had come downstairs early in the hope of speaking with Ernest—with Lord Frasemere, but Mrs. Kinley had said he’d gone out long before breakfast. The man hadn’t returned for luncheon, which was most disagreeable, though Gwen could not exactly articulate why.

It was just that she wanted to see him, that was all. That was all.

And to top it all, her outing with Phylis had been cancelled.

In a way.

“I just don’t see what the difference is between Phylis accompanying you to look at something or me!” Michael protested as Gwen marched along Oxford Street in high dudgeon. “I am your brother, after all.”