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To Gwen’s alarm, Lady Moreland now turned her discerning gaze upon her. Gwen fought the urge to shrink beneath it, willing herself to maintain composure. But her stomach was in knots, and the longing to disappear remained acute.

“Miss Gwendolyn Smythe, I presume?”

Gwen inclined her head in silent confirmation, her throat tight.

To her astonishment, Lady Moreland swept forward and took her gently by the arms in an embrace.

“Your lady’s maid is not wrong, Gwendolyn,” she said warmly. “We are most fortunate to welcome a young woman of such grace and accomplishment into our family.”

She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Gwen’s cheek.

Gwen’s eyes widened. She flicked a glance toward Aidan—Lord Abbott—seeking explanation. He merely smiled and offered a faint shrug, as though his mother’s unpredictability was nothing new.

“We shall welcome your babes as if they are our own,” Lady Moreland declared.

Gwen blinked, uncertain she had heard correctly. “Babes?”

“Our grandchildren, of course,” the viscountess said with the ease of a woman who made plans with serene efficiency. “Have you considered names yet? I would be pleased to suggest a number of estimable options from the Abbott line … very distinguished forebears.”

Her mouth parted in amazement. Surely, this could not be real. Gwen half expected to wake with a start and find it was still the evening before the dinner, her dreams having conjured this strange introduction.

This was not how one met the parents of one’s betrothed. Was it?

Lord Moreland stepped forward and took her hand with a warm, practiced bow as his wife moved aside. “A pleasure, Miss Gwendolyn. Lady Moreland is, as you can see, quite delighted by the notion of welcoming a new generation of Abbotts. But before we get ahead of ourselves, I believe we have a wedding to discuss, my dear.”

The last was addressed to his wife, who gave a light, dismissive wave as though such details were rather beneath her, mere ceremony, when grandchildren were the true prize.

Gwen discreetly pinched the fabric of her skirt against her leg. Just to be sure. Nothing changed. Perhaps she had dreamt the pinch?

Across the room, her father was positively glowing, his blue eyes bright with amusement and pride. Clearly, the mention of heirs had met with his enthusiastic approval. Gwen, on the other hand, was barely holding herself together.

Still, she managed a curtsy, awkward but passable. “Thank you, Lord Moreland.”

Then, at last, she turned to face her betrothed.

Lord Abbott.

Aidan.

He bowed with practiced ease, a glint of warmth in his expression. “Good evening, Gwen. You are ravishing tonight.”

His gaze swept over her, appreciative but gentle. And just like that, the tension in her chest lessened. For a moment, all her frantic thoughts were suspended, replaced by the quiet, haunting memory of moonlight and shared words.

“Lord Abbott,” she replied softly, the name catching on her breath.

It was odd to think this was only their second meeting. They had shared more in a single evening—conversation, vulnerability, a promise—than she had with any gentleman in her life. And now, here she was, standing before his parents, while the topic of future progeny had already been raised.

Just a week ago, she had resigned herself to spinsterhood. Now she was stumbling through a formal introduction and grappling with subjects that she had never raised outside the privacy of her own thoughts.

“I think it is acceptable,” he murmured, “to address me as Aidan?”

His brown eyes gleamed in the lamplight. Mischievous, daring, and a touch too handsome for her peace of mind.

Aidan.

She had whispered that name into the quiet of her bedchamber since finding it in Debrett’s. She had said it beneath her breath, mouthing it like a secret.

Lady Gwendolyn Abbott.