“I beg your pardon?” Her chest felt tight of a sudden. “Of course my prospects are damaged!”
He dropped his hand and studied her. “I’ll be blunt, shall I?” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Indeed, the novelty might impress you. Half these nobs are broke, so your wealth makes you a very attractive candidate for marriage. Above and beyond that, you’ve the usual retinue of feminine charms.” He looked her over, as though suddenly doubtful, and then gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Yes, I think most men will overlook this scandal.”
Good heavens. He might be right. She was London’s bosom friend, after all, the nicest girl in town. Her reputation was brilliant. Combined with three million pounds, it might survive this, the tarnish of her first official jilting. Eligible suitors would continue to hound her.
She sank into a chair. She had the distinct sense of sinking, of growing more leaden. A sour feeling stirred in her gut—her exhilaration, finally curdling. What a fool she was! She should have known it could not last. But it hurt, in her stomach, to surrender all the possibilities that ruin had made visible. For a brief time, she had felt so . . . exhilarated.
Alex made an impatient noise. “Good God. Don’t sit there sulking. You’ve worked quite hard to achieve your popularity. Enjoy the fruits, at least.”
He was right. It had taken a great deal of work.
And now she would have to go through all of it again.
To be angelic to every eligible gentleman who paid notice.
To snag one, and reform her hopes to match what he offered.
Then, the preparations. The endless fittings for yet another gown, another trousseau. Everybody’s good wishes, despite their knowledge of what had happened the last time, and the time before that. Countless speculative whispers, sly looks, conversations that abruptly ended when she approached, the occasional dim-witted drunkard who would clap her on the back and inform her in jolly tones that the third time was always the charm—
And after all that? To church again, for the longest and most agonizing wait of her life!
“Gwen.” The proximity of his voice made her startle; she looked up and found him crouched before her. “Don’t look so glum,” he said evenly. “You’ve had a bad run of it. But it’s no fault of yours.” He paused. “Well, you could work on your taste in men, of course. But apart from that—bad luck.”
A violent wave of embarrassment swept through her. She must be worse off than she’d thought if Alex was being solicitous.
She averted her face, for tears suddenly pricked her eyes. She simply could not do this again. One was meant to learn from one’s history, no? And fate seemed determined to show her the futility of the course she’d set. She wanted a family? Nobody stuck. Not her parents, not her brother, not two fiancés. Forcing herself through another attempt would be . . . grotesque!
I will not do it, then.
The thought acted like a tonic. It felt like revelation. A profound calm settled over her. She straightened in her seat. She had no need to marry! Other women could not fund an independent living, but she had oodles of money. Indeed, what couldn’t she do?
She would consider her options, she decided, after she’d retrieved the ring.
“Fine,” Alex said curtly. “I’ll take an active hand in it. Retrieve the ring, find you a match. Will that cheer you up? We’ll have it done by autumn.”
What?
Oh, no.
She shot to her feet. “Goodness, Alex, that is . . . very kind of you, to be sure, and I’m certain my brother would have appreciated it, but—and while I do thank you on his behalf—no! Please don’t. That is—I discharge you of that promise you made! You’ll note he did not ask you to see me married, only to see me comfortably settled. And I am comfortable. I assure you. That tapestry on the wall is Boucher! And this carpet is an Aubusson. So you see, I’m very comfortable. You’ve done quite enough!”
“Good God.” He stared at her, evidently appalled. “This carpet is not an Aubusson.”
“What?” She looked down with a frown. “No, I’m quite certain of that. I had it last year from the Crombley auction. Only look how threadbare it is!”
“What a terrible businessman you’d make.” He sounded sympathetic now. “Someone’s taken a pumice stone to the nap, darling.”
She waved this off. “No matter. I can buy another. The point is—”
“That I’ve done almost nothing,” he said patiently. “Won’t be difficult to make amends. I’ll draw up a list. We’ll make it an economical process. You can give me a general idea, if you like: hair color, eye color—”