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“They can’t marry,” said Mrs. Coleman, giving voice to Ina’s doubts.

“Why not?” asked Mrs. Sullivan, tilting her head to one side.

“It’s simply not possible,” said Ina’s aunt.

“He’s an unmarried gentleman. She’s an unmarried lady. There are no other legal or spiritual impediments as far as I can tell,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

Mrs. Coleman’s mouth gaped open like that of a fish floundering on a riverbank. Finally she managed to say, “Mr. Barrett is entirely unsuitable for my niece.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more explicit, Mrs. Coleman,” said the matchmaker.

“He lacks some of the qualities a young lady such as Ina would want in a husband,” said her aunt primly.

“She means that I don’t have any money.” Gavin’s voice cut through the room sharp and clear.

“Well . . .” Her aunt shifted uncomfortably. “I would never presume—”

“She’s right. I have an allowance of one hundred pounds a year from my father, with an additional fifty from an annuity left to me by my father’s mother,” said Gavin, his voice flat. “I can rely on a few pounds a year in royalties from my novel, as well as a few other articles I manage to pick up here and there. That might give me another fifty during any given year, but the amount is varied, as you might expect.”

“I’m given to understand that Miss Duncan is not without means,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

It was true, her marriage settlement would be enough to support a husband and herself comfortably in a house in Edinburgh. They’d never own a country estate, but Ina had no desire to leave the city she loved.

“Arthur will never agree to your marrying Ina,” said Mrs. Coleman.

“When I explain the situation to Mr. Duncan, I’m sure we’ll come to a mutual understanding,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

“As my niece’s chaperone—”

“I’d be careful how quickly you claim that title given what happened tonight,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

Ina’s aunt smacked her fan on the arm of her chair. “I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”

“I find that very hard to believe,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

“If you think for one moment . . .”

As her aunt worked herself up into a tizzy, Ina stole a surreptitious glance at Gavin. He was sitting there, staring but not seeing. Anyone else might have believed he was lost in peaceful thought, but the white lines across his knuckles where he gripped the arms of his chair told her otherwise.

“Gavin,” she said softly. Her voice was swallowed up by the sound of her aunt’s rant. She tried again. “Gavin.”

His panicked eyes darted over to meet hers.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

He blinked, and the panic was gone. In its place was . . . regret? Sorrow? She couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but it made her want to slither under the sofa and hide.

“You did nothing wrong,” he said.

“But I did. I left, just as you told me not to.”

He frowned. “I didn’t tell you not to go.”

“But you thought it. I know you know me well enough that you would have thought, ‘Don’t go look at the painting, Ina.’ ”

His jaw clamped shut and he breathed deep through his nose as though trying to calm himself.

“Gavin,” she said tentatively, “you can be angry with me.”