Penelope stood, crumbs and specks of dirt falling down the front of her gown. She fumbled with her package, still looking bewildered. As she moved forward, her knee hit the teetering saucer, sending both pieces of china to the floor in a crash. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She bent to retrieve the items and scattered more dirt.
“Stop!”
All the women in the room ceased their movements and turned to stare at Drake.
“Please, Miss Clayton. One of the maids will clean it.” He was afraid his tone was a bit strong, but he couldn’t take much more of this. “I’m sorry if I shouted.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “But with all the conversation, I was afraid Miss Clayton wouldn’t hear me.”
“He is right. Just leave it.” His mother linked her arm with Miss Clayton’s and led her from the room. Grateful to have someone else watch the girl, he headed to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy.
It would be a long Season.
…
The next morning, Penelope daydreamed as the maid who’d been assigned to her brushed her hair. She missed the chatty Daisy who had done for her at home. Maguire, who attended the other girls as well, was pleasant, but provided very little in the way of conversation. And that distraction was exactly what Penelope needed. The thought of shopping with all those women had her heart doing a rapid staccato. With absolutely no sense of style, she was terrified they would scorn her before she ever had the opportunity to step one foot into a ballroom. If this warm, friendly family didn’t accept her, she had absolutely no chance with the ton.
Her thoughts wandered to the Duke of Manchester. She’d almost died when he’d made that noise after she dropped her spectacles. She’d been so flustered, she’d forgotten for the moment how to deal with aristocracy. Shaking hands was definitely not done. Although she’d remembered to address both him and the duchess as Your Grace, the words had seemed to stick in her throat and she’d made a complete cake of herself.
But nothing before in her life had affected her in quite the same way as the look His Grace had given her when they’d stood alone in the darkness and she’d uttered that she just wanted to go home. Suddenly she’d had the strangest desire to move toward him and have him wrap his arms snugly around her. She wanted to lay her head on his chest and pour out her fears. She’d grown warm at the thought of how hard his body would feel against hers.
Where in heaven’s name had those thoughts come from?
She’d never been interested in a man before. There was absolutely nothing that called to anything feminine in her. Her father had always treated her like a son, took her under his wing to teach her all he knew about botany. Not for her was the life of most young ladies. In any event, Drake−as Her Grace said she should address him−would never have an interest in a mousy country girl such as her, with no charm or polish.
“I’m finished, miss. If you stand, I’ll help you into your gown.” The maid’s comments drew her back to the present. The last thing she needed was to develop a tendre for someone so far out of her reach it was almost laughable. And she’d already outlined her life to embrace science, not a husband.
“Thank you, Maguire.”
The maid had just finished buttoning up the back of her dress when a sharp rap on the door announced Mary’s arrival. She swept into the room in a whirl of excitement. “You must hurry, Penelope, so we can have a quick breakfast. I’m so excited. Isn’t it wonderful to be on the verge of being introduced to the ton? Just think, we’ll have our own coming out ball, as well as all the other balls and parties, dinners and the theatre, musicales and picnics. Oh, and the men who will pay us court.” Mary spun around the room, doing a waltz with an imaginary partner.
Penelope was forced to swallow the bile that rose to the back of her throat. “Yes, wonderful.”
“Come, it is time for breakfast. The others are waiting.” Mary pulled her along. “We have so much to decide on—colors, styles. We must be off.”
Penelope allowed herself to be pulled to what felt like her doom.
…
An hour later, they’d taken over the modiste shop. Abigail had confided that with six women—all at one time—needing wardrobes for the Season, Mme. Babineau had been more than happy to re-arrange her schedule so Her Grace, four daughters, and house guest could be accommodated. She sent all of her seamstresses, both front and back girls, to the parlor to measure, and haul various fabrics out for the women’s perusal.
Penelope stood apart from the others, never having experienced anything like this in her life. Up to this point, she’d always relied on the truthfulness of dressmakers for advice on what suited her. Father had never seemed to notice what she wore, and since she had spent most of her time rummaging through forests, her clothing had never mattered much. Now it was expected she would delve into this new world and come out looking like everyone else. Gowned, groomed, and holding a delicate flowered fan in gloved fingers that she extended to some enamored young gentlemen for his kiss. She broke into a cold sweat.
“Come here, dear, and look at these illustrations.” Her Grace twisted around in the high back chair to comment to her, waving her over. “Some of these would look wonderful on you.”
Penelope dragged her feet to join the duchess, amazed her shaky knees even held her.
“Mme. Babineau, please bring some fabrics that would suit Miss Clayton’s lovely complexion.” The duchess beamed at Penelope. “You have the most wonderful color hair. Those streaks of copper in the warm brown are so beautiful.” She reached up to grasp her chin, and moved her head from side to side. “And those green eyes. I am so envious.”
“I know, Mother, isn’t she beautiful?” Abigail had joined them, and wrapped her arm around Penelope’s waist as if they’d been best friends forever. Unused to such female acceptance, she flushed, but part of the knot in her stomach eased.
“Mother, look at this silk. Wouldn’t this make Penelope a wonderful gown?” Mary held up a piece of rich emerald material. They all stood back and admired how the depth of the fabric brought out her coloring. Penelope turned toward the mirror, amazed at her reflection. Behind the spectacles her eyes shone, and a slight flush to her cheeks made her appear pretty, even to herself.
“Yes, I believe that is definitely the one for you, Penelope. Since you’re older than the other girls making their debut, you are not restricted to pastels.” The duchess turned to Mme. Babineau. “I think this suits Miss Clayton quite well. We’ll need to find a becoming pattern. Even though she is not bound by light colors, the gown still needs to be modest.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” The woman hurried over to a stack of fashion plates and shuffled through them as the girls returned to perusing fabrics.
“Voila! The perfect gown for the young lady.” Mme. Babineau held up an illustration of a blue silk gown with an overlay of patterned lace, cut straight across the bodice for modesty, small cap sleeves, and a white satin ribbon under the bosom. The dressmaker’s face glowed. “With mademoiselle’s lovely figure and color, the green silk with this pattern will be magnifique.”
Penelope moved toward the dressmaker and stared in wonder. She’d never owned anything like that before. Would such a wonderful gown give her the confidence she needed? Perhaps. A small kernel of hope grew in her chest.
Mme. Babineau immediately drew her over to the small pedestal in the corner of the room, and helped her off with her gown. Snapping her fingers at one of her employees, she spoke in rapid French to the young girl. The seamstress hurried over and began taking measurements, marking her findings on a piece of vellum.
She regarded herself in the mirror, trying to imagine the plain girl who stood in front of her in chemise and stays, transformed into a lovely miss in the beautiful green and white gown. Although she tried to dismiss the excitement, a tiny movement of her lips turned into a full smile as she held her arms up so the seamstress could take her measure.
It seemed as if hours had passed with all the girls and Her Grace
choosing material and patterns, and then each taking their turn on the pedestal. They decided on so many swatches of fabric that she lost count of the amount of gowns Her Grace had commissioned. She chewed her lip, wondering exactly how much her trustee had allowed for her wardrobe. When Her Grace announced once they were finished here, they would proceed to the shoemaker, glove maker, and milliner to complete their outfits, she decided to stop trying to keep a tally. Although, the fact that she would never again use such lovely things pinched her conscience, like a pebble in her shoe.
“Lady Mary, it is ever so nice to see you!” A young woman entered the salon as the girls were gathering up their belongings.
Mary smiled at the girl, and returned her hug. “And you as well, Lady Daphne.”
Penelope tried hard not to stare, but Lady Daphne took her breath away. Adjusting her spectacles, she regarded the young woman with fascination. Tall, willowy, and regal, the girl stood apart from the rest. Her ice blue eyes assessed them all in turn, her pale blonde curls stiff as if she’d wet them with sugar water. Although of an even height with the rest, it appeared as if she viewed them from Mme. Babineau’s pedestal.
“And who have we here?” Lady Daphne purred.
“Lady Daphne, may I present Miss Penelope Clayton, who is joining us for her Season this year.” Abigail’s smile was a bit thin.
“Indeed?”
She waited for Lady Daphne to whip out a quizzing glass and examine her. Instead, the girl viewed her from what seemed like a great height. “It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Clayton.”
It amazed her that words could be uttered in such a way that the opposite meaning was conveyed. She bobbed a slight curtsy, not sure what was appropriate. The girl made her feel as if she should fall to her knees in adoration.
“Ladies, we must be off.” Her Grace herded them all together and nodded in Lady Daphne’s direction. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you, my dear. Please extend my regards to your mother.”
“Oh, she will be joining me. I believe she’s giving instruction to our driver on when to return.” Lady Daphne linked her arm with Mary’s. “I’m so happy for you to be coming out this year. Father is very insistent that this Season I must choose a husband. He was annoyed with me last year, but Mother felt none of the men who asked for my hand were suitable. You see, she believes I should look higher.” Lady Daphne cast a tight smile in Her Grace’s direction, but the girl’s eyes clouded with an emotion Penelope couldn’t identify. “And she’s sure that will happen this year.”
The duchess returned the smile, lacking in warmth. “Time to go, girls. Penelope, will you please fetch my reticule from the chair?”
Still under the spell of Lady Daphne, she scooped up the reticule, and turned to follow Her Grace. Before she’d gone a few steps, she stumbled over a small table near the door. Sarah grabbed her arm to keep her from landing on her face.
The tinkle of Lady Daphne’s giggle followed them out the door.
Chapter Four
“But I’m much too gawky to dance.” Penelope pulled back from Abigail as she attempted to drag her toward a very bored looking Drake.
She and the four girls were brushing up on dance steps. Her Grace had hired a dance master, but with so many young ladies to tend to, she’d coerced Drake away from his duties to assist. But if the look on his face was any indication, he’d rather be mucking out stables than dancing with her.
“Nonsense. Anyone can learn to dance. I’m appalled you don’t know how.”
Penelope took her spectacles off and tucked them into her morning gown pocket. “I do know how, but it’s been a long time, and I wasn’t very good at it then.” She cringed as they moved closer to Drake and he whipped out his timepiece, frowning.
“See, His Grace doesn’t have time for this.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Penelope. Mother told you to call him Drake. His head is big enough.”
He scowled at his sister, shoving his watch back into his waistcoat pocket. He bowed to Penelope. “Not at all, Miss Clayton, I would enjoy spending this time dancing with you.”
Ha! Another person who can say one thing and make it sound exactly the opposite.
According to Mary, Drake intended to marry this year. Perhaps he should consider Lady Daphne. They certainly seemed to suit.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She winced when Abigail elbowed her. “Er, Drake.”
“Yes, please, you may address me as Drake.”
Unable to speak with him being so close, Penelope merely nodded. She peered up and licked her lips. He was so big. Tall, broad shouldered, and muscular. He seemed to seize all the surrounding air. Despite the slight blur in her vision, she drank in his hazel eyes with specks of gold. Strands of his light brown hair, interspersed with golden wisps, fell over his broad forehead.
As her gaze lowered, she took in his aristocratic nose above wide, sensual lips. The scent of horses and something musky that she remembered from the evening of her arrival defined him as male. She squashed the desire to fill her lungs with it.
“Penelope?” He tilted his head and regarded her, a slight smile gracing his lips.
Reminded of their purpose, she fought to bring herself under control. A tingling swept up the back of her neck and across her face, soon followed by heat. She attempted a smile, curtsied, then placed her fingertips on his outstretched palm. As if in a dream, he settled his hand on her lower back, drawing her closer.
“No, Drake.” Sarah chastened from where she practiced with the dance master. “Penelope will not be permitted to waltz until she receives permission from the patronesses at Almacks.”
“Which no doubt will happen soon, so she’ll need to learn.” He dismissed his sister, and turned to face Penelope. “Just count the beats with me.”
Trying hard to control her shaking, she took one step forward, her foot landing on his instep. Drake closed his eyes briefly, but still flashed an encouraging smile. “Try to follow my lead.”
By now her palms were damp with sweat, and she was grateful for the gloves she’d worn for practice. At least he wouldn’t feel the need to wipe his hand down the front of his breeches when the lesson ended. Concentrating hard, Penelope followed a few steps with no mishaps.
“See. You can do this.”
She took a deep breath, and turned one direction as he attempted to turn her the other way. Her nose hit his upper arm with enough force that her eyes watered.
He regarded her with a frown. “Are you all right?”
“Sorry,” she muttered at the same time. “I’m fine.”
After another few steps, her nose began to itch, but she didn’t feel it was ladylike to rub it, so she did her best to ignore the sensation. They continued on. The itch did not go away. She faltered slightly when he again moved her in a direction she hadn’t anticipated.
Afternoon sunlight drifted through the windows, illuminating the room where the sound of the dance master counting beats matched her galloping heart. She scrunched her nose in vain, the itch firmly rooted. Drake smiled encouragingly, but after a few minutes had passed, the tickle grew in proportion to her desire for it to stop. She found it hard to concentrate, and her instep ended up right below Drake’s booted foot.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?”
She bit her lower lip and shook her head, wishing with all her heart the dance was over. She stumbled through a few more steps, her mind focused on the itch and how to relieve herself without calling attention to her dilemma. She scrunched her nose up again. Nothing. Her hand ached to pull it from Drake’s grasp and rub her nose to stop the annoyance.
Several minutes passed and to her growing horror the itch now encompassed the area below her nose as well. She ran her tongue over her gums and scraped her teeth over her lip.
“I say, can I help you with anything?” Drake rotated his shoulders, then moved them into a turn that Penelope missed and she stepped once more onto his foot.
“No, not at all. Everything is fine. Thank y
ou for asking.” The itch had traveled up to her left eyebrow. She moved her brows up and down, the frustration at not being able to rub her palms over her face resulting in another trip over Drake’s feet.
“Perhaps you have grown tired.” He stopped his movement, which caused Penelope to crash into his chest.
She quickly rubbed her nose against the rough material of his jacket, relief filling her. “Yes. I believe I am a bit weary.”
Drake glanced down at his chest and back to her face, his eyebrows almost meeting his hairline. “Well, I guess that is enough for today, then.” He released her, bowed, then turned on his heel to leave the room.
Penelope watched his retreating back as she wiped the sweat from her upper lip. She panted as though she’d run a race.
“That was fun. We’ll have to practice more tomorrow.” Sybil linked her arm with hers. “It’s time for luncheon, so I think we’d better hurry or Mother will come searching for us.”
…
Drake continued on toward the library, moving as quickly as possible from Penelope. The girl had him tied in knots. When he took her in his arms, he became very aware of her warmth and softness. Her deep green eyes peered at him, searching his face with such trepidation he had the overwhelming need to pull her closer and assure her everything would be all right. No doubt that was the reason he’d snapped at Sarah when she’d suggested they didn’t need to practice the waltz.
“Socially inept” didn’t even begin to describe the girl. She’d stomped all over his feet, kept turning in the wrong direction, and seemed to have some sort of an issue with her face that she tried, unsuccessfully, to hide from him. He settled in the chair behind his desk and stared blankly at the papers that covered the blotter.
He shook off any further thoughts of their guest and picked up a report. Penelope was his mother’s problem, not his. He had his own matter of selecting a bride this year, and nothing would deter him from that. He didn’t have the time or desire to take on a fledgling and guide her through her Season. Not that such a thing would be expected, of course. His mother was her sponsor and his sisters would champion her. As requested, he’d honor his mother’s wishes and introduce some acceptable gentlemen to the chit and then leave her to her own devices.
The Duke's Quandary (Entangled Scandalous) Page 3
