One Night of Temptation

by Burke, Darcy

  Penelope heard the sardonic, almost irritated edge to his tone, but doubted her father would pick up on it since he didn’t know Hugh as she did.

  “You know the neighborhood well, I expect,” her father said. “Still, we will try to find them lest they think to kidnap someone else.”

  “Is she back?” the marchioness glided into the study, her dark hair pulled into a severe knot at her nape. Her face was pale, and there were purple crescents beneath her eyes too. Her gaze lit when she saw Penelope. “You’re here!” She rushed forward and folded Penelope in a tight hug.

  Penelope’s gaze connected with Hugh’s over her mother’s shoulder. He seemed to be silently questioning whether she was all right. She widened her eyes at him, trying to communicate that this was strange.

  She lifted her arms and awkwardly patted her mother’s back, but thankfully, the hug was brief. Penelope didn’t remember the last time she’d been hugged—Hugh notwithstanding—nor did she remember the last time either of her parents had looked at her with anything but impatience, irritation, or simple ambivalence. Perhaps she should have arranged to disappear long before now.

  Except she hadn’t been looking for their affection. She’d been searching for freedom from their tyranny, and now it was finally—hopefully—within her grasp.

  Mother beamed at her. “I’m so glad you’re safe. How did you get here?” She glanced toward the marquess and then at Hugh, her expression becoming confused.

  “I was able to escape my captors this morning,” Penelope said. “I made my way to the church, where Mr. Tarleton provided assistance. You remember Mr. Tarleton.”

  “Yes, of course.” Mother turned to Hugh, her lips pressed together and her features drawn as if she might cry. “I can’t thank you enough for giving aid to my daughter. You brought her home, then?”

  Hugh nodded. “It was my honor to assist her, my lady.” He bowed.

  Mother touched his arm briefly and smiled up at him. “You are truly a servant of God delivered to us.” She said this as if his entire function was to provide service to their family.

  Penelope quashed the urge to roll her eyes.

  “He is indeed,” her father agreed. “And I’m sure we can count on him to provide any information that will help us catch these kidnapping brigands.”

  “As I said, I doubt you’ll find them—or hear from them again,” Hugh said smoothly. “I will keep an ear out. I should take my leave.” He turned toward Penelope. “It’s been my pleasure to assist you. My church is always open to you.” He gave her a deep bow, and when he straightened, something glimmered in his eyes. Something that made her insides do more than sway—they crumpled into a beautiful mess.

  He turned toward her parents and bowed again. “Good day.”

  And then he was gone. The air in the room seemed to stagnate with his absence, and Penelope began to wilt. It was as if his energy had been keeping her upright.

  “Oh dear, you look unwell,” Mother said, but her voice held more pity than concern, which made Penelope dig deep into herself. “Perhaps you should sit.”

  “Perhaps she should tell us how she was stupid enough to be kidnapped in the first place.” And just like that, Father obliterated the mirage of concern he’d concocted.

  She should have known it wasn’t real.

  Mother frowned at him, surprising Penelope. “It’s not as if she asked to be stolen away.” Pen winced inwardly at the inadvertent accuracy of her mother’s words. “Have a little care.”

  “I care insomuch as it affects her marriageability,” Father said. “If Findon had found out, he wouldn’t want her anymore.”

  If he’d found out?

  Panic surged in Penelope’s chest. Maisie, the fraud, hadn’t sent a note to the Times. Penelope barely managed to keep her voice steady as she asked, “No one knows what happened?”

  Father looked at her in horror. “Thank God, no. We canceled last night’s dinner party and said you had taken ill. Findon is, of course, quite concerned and I imagine will want to call as soon as possible.”

  “We must put him off until tomorrow,” Mother said, shocking Penelope.

  Father scowled. “The banns should be read tomorrow.” He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest. “Fine. We’ll have them read next week. The betrothal’s as good as formalized even if the contract isn’t ready.” Father speared Penelope with a razor-sharp glare. “Were you used?”

  Penelope reached farther into herself in search of the peace she’d learned to cling to when faced with her father’s wrath. But this was awful. Words clogged in her throat. She longed to say yes, she’d been used, and yes, she was ruined.

  Her father flung a hand in the air and snorted with disgust. “It doesn’t matter. You and Findon will be wed in short order.”

  Mother gave Penelope a weak smile. “Regardless of what happened, you’re the same as before.”

  She absolutely was not. And it had nothing to do with being ruined or used or any other horrid description they wanted to fling at her. She’d found courage and independence and kindness.

  She knew she’d regret not having experienced more with Hugh, and right now, she felt that loss most keenly.

  “We will have the postponed betrothal dinner next Wednesday,” Father declared.

  Mother nodded. “I’ll send notes after I see Penelope into the bath.”

  Penelope walked woodenly up the stairs. All that planning and expense, and for what? She was in precisely the same position as she’d been the day before. She’d be wed to Findon.

  “It’s a miracle you were able to escape,” her mother blathered as they went into Penelope’s chamber. “You could have been ruined! Instead, you’ll be the Countess of Findon. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Wonderful? That was not a word Penelope would use in the vicinity of Lord Findon. With wandering hands, a lascivious eye, and breath that would topple an army, the earl was as far from wonderful as one could get. When she and her parents had paid a bereavement call after his son had died, Findon had maneuvered Penelope onto the settee next to him, where he’d taken every opportunity to lean close and brush against her. He’d even grasped her hand in the name of “grief” and held it to his chest—just before he’d grazed it down over his lap. The marquess and marchioness had been seemingly oblivious, and Penelope had known from that moment that they wouldn’t care what the earl did.

  As a wave of helplessness crested over her, Penelope managed to keep herself upright. She couldn’t crumple in front of her mother. She wouldn’t understand, nor would she care. To her, Findon was an excellent catch—an earl with a sizeable income, even if his reputation was less than sterling. Others were aware of his depraved interests and, since the death of his son, desire for a young wife to provide him with a new heir. Most young women—and their families—stayed quite clear of him.

  But not Penelope’s parents.

  When it appeared that Penelope had failed to capture a husband, they’d put her directly into his path. He’d been panting after her all Season, so it hadn’t taken much.

  Despair threatened to swallow her. She couldn’t even find joy in the brief happiness Hugh had given her.

  Chapter 10

  By Monday evening, Hugh was ready to drink himself into oblivion. Everywhere he went, he saw and heard Pen. Smelled her. Tasted her. If only he could touch her.

  “Tarleton!”

  The jovial chorus of his name as he entered the Wicked Duke usually made him smile. Tonight, it only intensified the ache in his chest. Because while he was surrounded with friends and companions, he’d never felt more alone.

  “Sit with me,” Giles Langford called from a table in the corner of the main parlor.

  Hugh joined him there a moment before his tankard appeared on the table. He looked toward the serving maid. “What is it today?”

  “I brought you the porter. I know you like that best.”

  And today, he liked it even better than best. He scooped the mug up. “Bring ano
ther, if you please.”

  She nodded then left. Hugh took a long, satisfying drink before dropping into the chair beside Langford.

  “Thirsty?” Langford asked.

  Hugh grunted in response.

  “Bad day?” Langford prodded.

  Hugh glanced in his direction with a noncommittal shrug and tossed more porter down his throat.

  “I can’t stay long. I’ve left my bride alone in our workshop. Who knows what mischief she’s up to. But tell me about your excitement! I heard you rescued a woman in St. Giles.”

  Hugh froze in lifting the mug to his lips for a third drink. “How did you hear about that?”

  Langford lifted a shoulder. “One of my apprentices was eager to tell the tale this morning.”

  “Whatever you heard, I’m sure it’s been exaggerated.” Hugh had looked in the Times for any indication of the note Maisie was supposed to have sent, but there’d been nothing. He’d also run Joseph down and asked where Maisie had gone and whether she’d done anything she’d promised Pen. It seemed she hadn’t. She’d taken Pen’s money and disappeared.

  Joseph, on the other hand, had sent a ransom note to the marquess. Hugh had then interrogated him about what it had said and counseled the young man on how foolish that had been. Joseph admitted he’d forgotten to indicate to which inn the ransom money should be delivered—a fortunate error.

  “Colehaven! Eastleigh!”

  The maid deposited Hugh’s second tankard on the table as he glanced toward the door and watched the dukes enter. They greeted several people and accepted the tankards given to them by the serving maid before making their way to Hugh and Langford’s table.

  “I was just toasting Tarleton,” Langford said. “He’s a hero for saving a young lady from kidnapping in St. Giles the other day.”

  Both dukes swung their gazes toward Hugh as they sat, Cole opposite Hugh and Eastleigh to Hugh’s right. “We’re honored to have you in our presence,” Eastleigh said. “You elevate the Wicked Duke.”

  Cole lifted his mug. “To the hero of St. Giles!”

  He spoke loudly so that the entire main parlor raised their tankards and called out, “Hear! Hear!”

  Hugh wanted to melt into his chair. He might be a hero—and he’d debate that fact—but he had nothing to celebrate.

  Eastleigh set his mug down. “Tell us how you saved the young lady from certain disaster.”

  He’d done no such thing. Unless one considered her formerly impending marriage certain disaster. And she absolutely had. So maybe he was a hero—at least to her. Yes, she would agree with that description, and he’d be loath to resist it. He wanted to be her hero.

  Except, and this is what bothered him most, had she even accomplished what she’d set out to do? Her abduction didn’t appear to be public knowledge. It would seem she wasn’t ruined. Still, maybe she’d been able to avoid the betrothal. He wished he could find out for sure.

  Hugh didn’t want to give them too much information. “I’m no hero. I happened to be in the right place at the right time is all.”

  When he thought about what might have happened if he hadn’t seen her… What if Ned hadn’t hit him with the shuttlecock? Hugh wouldn’t have paused, and he might have missed Penelope entirely.

  “Well, I say you’re a hero, but then I know all the good works you do,” Langford said before finishing his ale. He set his empty mug on the table and stood. “Excuse me, friends, I’ve a workshop to get back to. I must prepare for my apprentices who will, thanks to Tarleton, arrive first thing tomorrow.”

  Hugh had arranged for several children from St. Giles to apprentice with Langford.

  “Give Felicity my best,” Cole said with a grin. “No doubt she’s turning your workshop upside down.”

  “In the best possible way.” Langford’s eyes twinkled as he turned and left.

  “It’s not easy seeing our sisters wed,” Eastleigh said to Cole.

  “Those are the truest words I’ve heard in some time.” Cole tapped his tankard to Eastleigh’s, and they drank.

  “I had no problem with it,” Hugh said, glad for the change of topic. “I was quite pleased to see them settled, though no more so than my eldest brother.”

  “What of you?” Eastleigh said, studying Hugh. “Aren’t you supposed to marry soon?”

  Cole nodded. “Yes, I thought the bishop was growing impatient.”

  He was, but Hugh had put him off for now. The time would come, however, when the bishop would demand he wed. Or he may determine that Hugh should remain unmarried—such recommendations were not unheard of. That time might even be tomorrow, since the bishop was coming for a visit.

  “He will undoubtedly be pleased with your heroism,” Eastleigh said before sipping his ale. “As is the young lady you saved and her family, I imagine. Who was she?”

  He shouldn’t say, and yet Hugh knew he could trust these two men, whom he’d known for over a decade. And Hugh was desperate for news of her. Perhaps they’d heard something given their places in Society.

  Hugh lowered his voice to barely a whisper and motioned for them to lean in. “You can’t repeat any of this. She’s the daughter of a marquess. I’d like to know how she’s faring.”

  Both Eastleigh’s and Cole’s eyes widened. “Which marquess?” Cole asked.

  “Bramber.” Hugh kept himself from scowling. Though he’d met the man only briefly, he hadn’t been impressed. But then, Hugh was also predisposed to intensely dislike him.

  Eastleigh blew out a breath. “How on earth did you get tangled up with Lady Penelope?”

  “It’s as I said—I was merely in the right place at the right time.” That didn’t at all correspond to what they’d told Pen’s father, but that story didn’t match the truth, which Langford had heard through neighborhood gossip. If the two tales somehow met… It didn’t bear consideration. Hopefully, rumors in St. Giles and rumors in Mayfair would not find their way into the same ears. Perhaps Hugh should tell Langford to keep quiet. Yes, he’d do that. In the meantime, He wanted news of Pen. “Is there any chance you’ve heard how she’s faring since she returned home?”

  Eastleigh sipped from his tankard. “She must be fine. There was to be a dinner celebrating her betrothal to the Earl of Findon last Friday, but it was postponed when she took ill.” Eastleigh riveted his gaze on Hugh. “She wasn’t ill, was she?”

  Postponed? That didn’t sound good. Hugh shook his head.

  “Ah.” Cole looked at Hugh intently. “This sounds like a more involved tale than you’d care to let on.”

  Hugh ignored Cole’s observation. “So she’s still marrying this earl?”

  “Seems to be,” Eastleigh said. “My grandmother was invited to the dinner, but I don’t know if she’s able to attend the new date—Wednesday, I believe. Her social calendar numbs the mind. And body. I don’t know how she does it.”

  “Some say she feeds on the souls of the weak,” Cole cracked, earning him a wry stare from his best friend.

  While Hugh appreciated the injection of humor, he was distraught over the news about Pen’s betrothal. He was certain she didn’t want to marry this earl. All her planning had been for naught.

  Cole stroked his jaw. “I do wonder if Lady Penelope would have preferred to remain missing. Diana said she doesn’t think Lady Penelope is enthusiastic about the match.”

  Eastleigh snorted. “Your wife has the right of it. No one wants to marry Findon.”

  Hugh wrapped his hand around his tankard. “Why is Findon such a terrible match?”

  “For one, he could be Lady Penelope’s grandfather.” Eastleigh’s shoulder twitched with a shudder.

  “For another, he’s as lecherous as they come. Makes no secret of his desire for a young, nubile wife on whom he can sire sons like a mare.” Cole winced. “My apologies for the crude language, but that is precisely how he speaks.”

  Eastleigh shook his head. “He’s awful. I don’t understand why her parents would allow the match, to be honest with
you.”

  “Because Bramber wants to control Findon’s boroughs and make them as rotten as his own.” Jack Barrett, an MP and Eastleigh’s brother-in-law, sat down in the chair Langford had vacated. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

  Hugh silently cursed himself for allowing the volume of their conversation to rise as he turned toward Barrett. “Bramber is trading his daughter to a blackguard for political reasons?”

  Barrett lifted a shoulder. “Makes the most sense to me. Bramber is wealthy enough, and I can’t think of anything else Findon might have to offer.” Barrett’s eyes darkened, and his dislike for the marquess was evident. “Bramber makes alliances to benefit himself and only himself.”

  That was precisely what Penelope had said. Hugh tightened his grip on the tankard as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. Or seated. Because right now, he wanted to hunt Findon down and ensure the man couldn’t marry anyone, least of all Pen. He also wanted to pummel her father into the ground.

  Agony tore through him—Hugh knew she didn’t belong to him, and yet the idea of her belonging to someone like Findon filled him with anguish. No wonder she’d been so desperate to avoid the marriage. Now Hugh regretted returning her at all.

  But what would the alternative have been? She’d expected to be on her way to Lancashire.

  You could have married her.

  The voice at the back of his mind had been begging to be heard for two days now. He’d pushed it away, reasoning that it was a moot consideration. The daughter of a marquess would never marry him.

  “Hugh, you seem awfully interested in Lady Penelope’s marital situation,” Eastleigh observed quietly, his voice tinged with concern and care.

  “Just curious.” Hugh finished his ale and slammed his empty mug on the table. His eyes fell on the second, untouched tankard, but he didn’t pick it up. “I have to go.”

  He didn’t want to sit here and talk about Pen anymore. He couldn’t. She was out of his hands. Out of his life.

  Still, he would worry about her. Care about her. Pine for her.

  Hugh left the tavern and told himself to focus on the bishop’s visit tomorrow. He had no room in his mind for Pen. He couldn’t allow it. Losing her was already too painful, just as losing his mother had been. But knowing that he’d somehow contributed to Pen’s unwanted future—even just by returning her home, which he’d had to do—tore him up inside.