The remark visibly confused her. She took a step back from him. A tremor moved her mouth. “Was this always a joke to you, then?” she whispered. “Did you never mean any of it?”
“No.” He stepped forward, heedless of the company, to slide his palm around the back of her neck. “I meant every word.” Distantly he heard Gerard’s protest, his sisters’ sharp rebuttal, Henry Beecham’s harrumph. None of it mattered. Into Gwen’s ear, he said, “You’ve just jilted me, darling. Wait at least five minutes before you goad me into proposing marriage again.”
She recoiled so fast that it was a wonder her head did not strike the wall behind her. “You’re mad,” she said, wide-eyed.
“In love,” he said.
“I highly doubt it.”
He took a sharp breath. “Yes, I see that you do.” Enough, now, with flippancy: he felt the last thing from flippant. “I will have to prove it to you, then.”
“No.” She shook her head once. “Do not bother. I am sure you love me as much as you love Heverley End. But I told you, Alex, I am done with these shams.”
Heverley End? What in God’s name did that pathetic little estate have to do with anything? “And well you should be done with them,” he said, the first strop of temper roughening his voice. “But if you count me in with the other two shams you have courted, then you’re lying to yourself. I am not another Pennington. I need nothing from you but you. And I am not going to walk away.”
Gwen’s lips parted. She stared at him, her expression arrested; almost, it seemed, she started to speak. Every fiber in him tightened in anticipation.
And then another voice—Gerard’s voice—thundered, “What the hell is going on here?”
She cast a glance over Alex’s shoulder at the blustering ass, then snatched up her skirts. Her brown eyes flashed toward Alex; her chin lifted. “You do not need to walk away,” she said. “I will.” And turning on her heel, she bolted for the door.
Dumb surprise dulled his reflexes. After such bravery, she would flee like a coward?
A second too late, he lunged for her elbow—he would be damned if she would leave like this. But Elma and Caroline rose up in front of him, Caro catching hold of his hand, Elma’s face flushed and furious. “What did you do!” Elma cried. “What did you—oh!” She whirled and ran after Gwen.
The door thumped shut as Caroline hung like a dead weight on his elbow. “Not now,” she was saying into his ear. “Alex, not now. Heaven knows what ails her but she’s in no state to hear you! Give her a minute—an hour, perhaps—”
An hour? He took a step backward. An hour to do what? What in God’s name ailed her?
The question echoed in his brain and finally pulled him to a halt. He did not fully understand what had happened here. He’d had no opportunity to find out. How the hell could he fix it, then?
He turned on his brother, who was standing with arms crossed and brow furrowed, so comfortably and self-righteously aggrieved. “Can you never keep your mouth shut? Christ—five minutes, Gerard! Would that be so much to ask?”
“I quite agree,” Belinda snapped.
Gerard went purple, choking on his own words as he waved wordlessly toward Alex for the benefit of the glaring company. “Can . . . can . . . can he not even manage to get married without driving off the goddamned bride? Do you know how hard I worked to get that license—not to mention this goddamned minister—”
“Sir,” the minister gasped. “Your language is blasphemous!”
“Blasphemy, is it? What of him? What do you call what he—”
“Could you both desist from fighting for once?” This from Caroline, who set hands to hips and looked sternly between them. Alex’s niece, Madeleine, clambered to her feet as well, mimicking her mother’s pose with a fiercely jutting five-year-old lip.
This miniature imitation caught Gerard’s attention and neatly deflated him. He muttered some expletive in tones too soft to corrupt young minds. Then, at normal volume, he added with disgust, “Thoroughly typical.”
Alex looked at him. What a pathetically poor judgment of the situation. Typical would be brilliant. Typical would be much easier. It would mean a cool head and calm confidence. I will fix this: that was his typical resolve, the tried-and-tested approach. But he had no idea who had created this particular mess.
He turned away to stare at nothing. His role in the Trent debacle could not fully explain this. His handling of that episode had done him no credit, but it certainly did not, in any way, give Gwen cause to doubt his love—or to think him in any way similar to the two shams that had greeted her at more formal altars.