Page 13

Four

“The gods too are fond of a joke.”

Aristotle

Gwen had not yet peered around Lord Abbott to behold their witnesses, though it was clear enough from the murmur of voices and shifting feet that her audience was not limited to her father. It was a veritable throng of guests. Any faint hope of discretion, she supposed, had vanished like dew in the morning sun.

Worse still, her stolen kiss with a stranger, one born of moonlight and longing, had not been with some anonymous gentleman. No. According to the collective gasps behind them, she had been thoroughly compromised by none other than the heir to Viscount Moreland.

“I just offered for Miss Smythe’s hand in marriage … and she accepted.”

The words reached her in his deep, resonant voice, smooth and certain, as though declaring the most natural truth. It took several seconds for the meaning to reach her ears, let alone settle in her mind.

And then it did.

The stranger knew her name.

And he had just announced their betrothal to half of London.

Her mouth parted in astonishment. She had been kissed by a stranger. A beautiful, magnetic stranger. And now, she was publicly his intended? The very absurdity of it made her chest tighten.

She could not possibly allow this to stand. Surely, he did not mean it. He could not. And yet … and yet …

“You are to wed Miss Smythe?”

The voice was unmistakable. Lady Astley. Matriarch, merciless gossip, and relentless guardian of ton propriety. Gwen winced. She did not need to look to know the woman’s face was scrunched in polite disbelief, ready to dissect every detail for afternoon tea.

Crouching slightly behind Lord Abbott’s back, Gwen rolled her eyes and pulled a discreet face, stifling the childish urge to stick out her tongue. Spinster she might be, but there was no call for Lady Astley to sound so thoroughly incredulous.

“I am,” came Lord Abbott’s calm reply.

“Miss Gwendolyn Smythe?” Lady Astley’s voice rose a pitch, incredulity heavy in every syllable.

Gwen held her breath, but the response came unshaken.

“I was overcome by Miss Smythe’s beauty and wit,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Her acceptance of my offer is a great honor that I shall cherish all my future days.”

She blinked, stunned. There had been heat in his tone, yes, but also something protective. Proud, even. And it had not sounded rehearsed. Could it be true? Could he truly see her that way?

No. Of course not. He had been caught. His sense of honor compelled him to speak nobly. Once he saw her clearly in bright morning light, without moonbeams and sentiment, he would realize his mistake. She was tall, freckled, peculiar. He would wish to take it all back.

And she would let him.

He could not be held to account for a kiss she had not only welcomed, but wanted with all her lonely heart. No man of sense should be expected to tether himself to a stranger simply for a moment of poorly timed fancy.

Yet … he knew her name. Had he known her all along? It hardly signified. Her chances for courtship had been negligible before this evening. Her romantic future, such as it was, had long been relegated to fiction and dreams. A scandal could not ruin what never existed.

Still, she would do the honorable thing. She would not trap a gentleman in marriage to save her reputation.

“Lord Abbott misunderstood me.”

The words trembled at first, but she steadied them. She would not let him sacrifice himself on the altar of her foolish longing.

With as much grace as she could muster, Gwen stepped out from behind him, spine straight, chin high. She fixed her eyes not on the crowd, but on the tall French doors behind them, focusing on the reflection of the candlelit ballroom rather than the judgmental stares.

“He made his offer,” she continued, “but I turned him down.”

Gasps rippled through the gathering like wind across a pond.