Gwen stares at her. Father, heartbroken? “But you said they didn’t court.”
“No, they didn’t,” Mrs. Stelm agrees. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t want to.”
“But why not?”
“Your father wasn’t the heir to this title,” Mrs. Gilpe says with another shrug. She reaches out and settles the vee of Gwen’s bodice across her shoulders.
“Who was she?” Gwen asks, trying to keep her tone casual despite the pickup of her pulse.
“Oh, who can remember all the names,” Mrs. Stelm says blithely.
“You know. Of course you know,” Gwen insists. “Was it—”
“We’re going to be late,” Father says, pushing into Gwen’s room without so much as a knock.
All three of them look over at him, caught out. Gwen frowns. He’s well dressed, but there’s still exhaustion on his face. He’s been out drinking every night this week, and God knows what else.
“Ready?” he prompts.
Gwen nods, glancing back at Mrs. Stelm and Mrs. Gilpe even as she lets Father lead her away. One minute longer and she’d have known. If Lady Demeroven broke his heart, no wonder they can barely speak to each other.
It would explain how a woman so beautiful and accomplished ended up married to such a lout. Gwen can’t imagine exchanging her father for Beth’s. She should hate Lady Demeroven for hurting her father, but even with a broken heart, Father surely got the better end of their exchange.
“You look lovely,” Father tells her, and Gwen forces herself to smile as he hands her into the carriage.
“Thanks. You look nice too,” she says. He settles on the opposite bench and they head off toward the Smith house. “Did you have fun last night?”
Father meets her eyes with a sardonic smile. “I did.”
“Too much fun.”
He laughs. “I’ll be well-behaved tonight. A man needs his freedoms.”
“Be nice if a lady could have the same,” Gwen grumbles.
“You will never, ever, have those freedoms,” Father says quickly.
Gwen blinks. “I—”
“I meant,” he starts, taking in what must be the outrage blooming on her face. “You are an honorable, civilized young woman. I would not want you to know the worlds I have passed through, and certainly would never want you to look for solace in them.”
Gwen stares at him, insulted and touched at the same time. “I can take care of myself.”
“I pray that you never have to,” he says firmly. “Which is why we’re here, isn’t it?” he adds, trying on a smile. “To find you a fabulous husband.”
Gwen laughs despite herself. “Couldn’t we find you one instead?”
Father snorts and Gwen relaxes, letting her discomfort go.
“You don’t think it would further tarnish my reputation?”
“If he was a nice husband, why should I care?” Gwen returns. “Lord Bletchle is quite handsome.”
“Oh, yes, he’s a beautiful man, but far too much of a snob for my liking,” Father says lightly. “And I’d like someone more strapping.”
Gwen can’t fight her giggle, imagining her tall broad-shouldered father as the little man, held in the arms of a goliath. “We’ll find you a kind giant, then.”
Father smiles and then looks out the window, their strange tension finally passed. It’s not that he’s been unkind to her since the croquet match, but it hasn’t been... this. It wasn’t her fault that Lady Demeroven can’t swing a croquet mallet to save her life, but it was also entirely her fault. Orchestrated by her own hand.
