The Duke's Quandary (Entangled Scandalous)

by Hutton, Callie

  But Drake, and his opinion of her, did matter a great deal. She slid her gaze to him. He was watching her with a slight twitch of his lips and a twinkle of respect in his eyes. Thank goodness she had finally done something he approved of. Besides wearing her spectacles.

  “Ladies,” Drake tipped his hat, “I’m afraid Miss Clayton and I must be on our way. We are late for an appointment with Miss Clayton’s aunt, Lady Bellinghan.”

  “Lady Bellinghan is your aunt, Miss Clayton?” Lady Beauchamp’s eyebrows rose.

  “Yes, my lady. She was my late mother’s sister.”

  “Indeed? Your aunt and I had our coming out the same year. I haven’t seen her in quite some time. Is she well?”

  “Somewhat. Due to health issues, she doesn’t move about in Society any longer.”

  “Be sure to give her my regards. Does she still have calling hours?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Her words were lost as Drake moved his vehicle forward at the insistence of the driver behind them.

  He grinned at her as they once again continued their way around the park. “What is it on the floor there?” He nodded at her plant.

  “It’s a specimen I’ve seen only a few times before. I want to study it further, and it just seemed like a good opportunity.”

  Drake reached over and ran his thumb over her chin. Startled at first, she realized he was wiping something from her face. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and again rubbed her skin. “Soil,” he mumbled.

  Drat, she hated her reaction to his touch. Although they seemed to have come to some type of understanding—a friendship of sorts—it would do her well to remember his stated desire to marry the perfect woman. Certainly not anyone like her. And she would’ve had to be blind not to see the speculation in Lady Sirey’s regard a few moments ago.

  The viscountess wanted him for her daughter, and Penelope had to concede Lady Daphne was exactly who Drake seemed to want. Perfect. Graceful. Charming. All the things she was not—and would never be. She pulled her bonnet back onto her head, and attempted to dust the dirt off her gloves.

  About fifteen minutes after leaving the ladies, Drake brought the phaeton to a stop, tossed the ribbons to the stable man, and jumped from the vehicle. A footman hurried from the front door of Lady Bellinghan’s townhouse to assist her from the phaeton.

  “Do you wish to bring your plant with you?” Drake asked as he extended his arm to her.

  “Would you mind terribly? I hate to leave it out here in the elements.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Yes, indeed. What would have happened to it in the park if you hadn’t performed your rescue?”

  Realizing what a silly thing she’d just said, Penelope glanced sideways at him, and within seconds they were both laughing.

  “Good afternoon Miss Clayton. Her ladyship awaits you in the drawing room.” Mason greeted them as they passed through the brightly painted blue door, surrounded by carved cherubs. It always amused her that Aunt Phoebe, with her strict adherence to proper decorum, would have such an untraditional entryway.

  Drake handed his card to the butler, who glanced down, then bowed. “Your Grace.” He took their things, and then addressed the young footman. “Please announce His Grace, Duke of Manchester, and Miss Clayton.”

  The footman led the way upstairs. Penelope preceded Drake, who steadied her with a sure grip on her elbow. Now that she faced the ordeal of requesting to be sent home, Penelope found her palms sweaty and her stomach doing a waltz. Another problem was how to find time to speak with her aunt while Drake looked on.

  Something inside her rebelled at the idea of him bearing witness to her begging like a scared child. But after last night’s debacle, and especially after the two kisses that still had her confused, the quiet and solitude of the country were very appealing. And she doubted she would be able to stand by and watch him court, become betrothed to, and then marry someone so very different from herself. Not when her heart was slowly becoming engaged. The time had come to stop the nonsense.

  “My dear, so pleasant to have you visit. And Manchester, I am honored.” Aunt Phoebe rose from her place on the settee, looking much better than she had when Penelope had visited her after her arrival in London. Today she wore a flowing, dark purple gown over her ample figure. A lavender ribbon encircled her mobcap.

  Her aunt directed them to a grouping of blue and white striped chairs, arranged around a low table holding cups, saucers, a teapot, and a tray of small sandwiches and pastries. “Please have a seat. Penelope, will you pour, my dear?”

  With less than nimble fingers, Penelope reached for the teapot and poured three cups, thankfully without blundering. Once she fixed everyone’s tea with cream and sugar, and passed the sweets tray, she placed a strawberry filled biscuit on a plate for herself. Aunt Phoebe and Drake had conversed the entire time on the weather, earning Penelope’s thankfulness. Things seemed to go much smoother for her if no one scrutinized her every move.

  “Penelope, I see you’re wearing your spectacles in company.” Lady Bellinghan pursed her lips.

  “Yes, Aunt, I see much clearer with them on.” Oh dear, she didn’t want to visit this subject again. But the look on the woman’s face didn’t bode well for letting the matter slip by.

  Aunt Phoebe tittered and turned to Drake. “Penelope doesn’t seem to understand that the nasty things are not a fashion accessory.”

  Drake placed his cup on the saucer, his eyebrows furrowed. “Perhaps you are correct, my lady. But one wonders if crashing into furniture is fashionable.” He flashed a smile that had no doubt charmed females since he’d been in leading strings.

  Penelope’s insides warmed, even though the smile was not directed at her. The sunshine from the French door caught his golden strands of hair, mixed with light brown, falling over his broad forehead. Her gaze slid to his slightly parted lips, which had covered her mouth so softly, bringing flutters to her stomach. Even now, sitting here in this room with Aunt Phoebe, he tied her into knots.

  “I’m not sure her eyesight is that lacking, rather that she chooses to hide behind them.” Possibly attempting to close the gap in rank, Aunt Phoebe drew herself up, her impressive bosom heaving.

  “Since Miss Clayton is sitting right here before us, my lady, let us ask her.” His eyes met Penelope’s in mirth. “Tell me, Miss Clayton. Are you hiding?”

  Goodness, how could she answer this when it was her full intention to ask her aunt’s permission to hide in the country? Oh, what a conundrum. If she answered what Drake expected, she would not be able to plead her case today. She looked between her aunt’s scowl and Drake’s amusing expression, and sighed. “No, I do not wish to hide.”

  “Excellent. In that case, I see no reason why Miss Clayton can’t enjoy the benefits of her spectacles, do you, Lady Bellinghan?”

  Backed into a corner, the woman retreated. “No, of course not. But on the other hand, she cannot be expected to receive offers from gentlemen.”

  “Ah, not so.” Drake reached into his pocket and pulled out a shaft of papers. “The reason I wished to see you today, my lady, was to give you the opportunity to view what Lord Monroe has forwarded to me.”

  At the reference to her trustee, Penelope sat forward, puzzled.

  “Indeed. And what is this all about?” Lady Bellinghan asked.

  Tapping the papers against his chin, Drake leaned against the back of his chair, crossing one shiny Hessian boot over his other knee. “It seems Lord Monroe has received an offer for Miss Clayton’s hand, and wishes me to deal with it.”

  “What?” Penelope jumped up, barely missing the cup and saucer on the low table in front of her.

  “Calm yourself.” Drake touched her hand, tugging so she sat back down. “You need not be concerned.”

  “Not concerned?” Her heart was beating so fast, it would most likely jump from her chest and race for the door. Much like she wanted to do herself.

  Drake unfolded the papers and directed his comments to La
dy Bellinghan. “When Lord Monroe received this offer, he was preparing to travel on the continent. He sent the documents to me, along with a note that he wished me to handle this, since Miss Clayton is residing with my family, and he has no desire to deal with this nonsense, as he so politely put it. He also indicated that he wished you to be made aware of this offer, as well.”

  Lady Bellinghan lost her previous stiff stance, her aged face aglow. “How wonderful. I’m amazed it happened so quickly. Have you signed the marriage contracts? When is the wedding?” She turned to Penelope. “I’m delighted for you, my dear. We must visit the modiste in the morning and have your wedding gown commissioned. Perhaps my health would allow me to arrange for a small reception. . .”

  She stopped her prattle when Drake held his hand up. “My lady, Miss Clayton has not been advised of this offer, and has not accepted.” He turned toward Penelope, who fought the black dots dancing in her eyes, heralding her collapse. “Have no fear,” he whispered.

  No fear? No fear? He was sitting here as relaxed as if he discussed an upcoming house party, or a stroll in the park. She glanced at the papers in his hand that would change her entire life and felt a new wave of panic wash over her.

  “What do you mean she hasn’t accepted? Did Lord Monroe sign the marriage contracts? Surely you’re not going to leave it up to the gel?” Aunt Phoebe’s eyes moved back and forth between Drake and Penelope.

  “Lady Bellinghan, this offer is from a man who attempted to compromise Miss Clayton just last night. I told him to stay far away from her, but apparently he had already made his intentions known last week by contacting Miss Clayton’s trustee, her only male relative.”

  “Compromise her? Well, Manchester, was she or wasn’t she compromised? I won’t have scandal at my doorstep.”

  Penelope moaned, and Drake cupped her neck with a warm, strong hand. “Lower your head so you don’t swoon.” He eased her head down until her face touched her thighs and the blood slowly returned to her head.

  “She was not compromised. And Mr. David Smythe, third son of Viscount Digby, is well known in the ton to be seeking a wealthy bride to bring his debts under control so he may continue on with his life of. . .leisure.”

  Aunt Phoebe dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Nonsense, many young ladies marry gentlemen who are in need of funds. From what Lord Monroe has confided, my niece can well afford it.”

  “I don’t want to marry Mr. Smythe,” Penelope mumbled to her lap.

  “Lady Bellinghan, I’m afraid I must decline Mr. Smythe’s offer if Miss Clayton does not desire to marry the man.”

  “It should not be her decision. And if she turns down this offer, she’ll never catch a husband!”

  “I don’t want a husband.” More muffled words. If Drake didn’t release her head soon, she would smother right here in her skirts, and then no one need be concerned about her marital status. “Your Grace, I cannot breathe.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Drake moved his hand. “Are you all right?”

  Penelope adjusted her spectacles and inhaled deeply, for which her lungs were grateful. “I’m fine. As long as I don’t have to marry that dunderhead.”

  “Young lady, I advise you to consider this offer before you so easily cast it aside.” Aunt Phoebe turned to Drake. “You must speak with her, Manchester, and make her understand she is not the type of girl who will garner a great deal of interest. This might very well be her only offer.”

  “Madam, I hardly think the situation is that dire. I’ve spent some time with Miss Clayton and know she presents herself well, is attractive, and intelligent. She is kind and compassionate, and lights up whatever room she enters. Any gentlemen would be honored to be her husband.” His voice grew louder as the words burst forth.

  Both Lady Bellinghan and Penelope stared at him in wonder.

  Drake ran his finger around the inside of his cravat and cleared his throat. He held out his cup. “May I have more tea, please?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dressed only in her chemise, Penelope stared out the bedroom window and shivered in fear. The presentation to the Queen three days before had been quite frightening, but tonight’s come out ball for her and Mary would definitely do her in.

  How she’d managed to curtsy so low, and then walk backward out of the Queen’s presence while wearing the cumbersome old fashioned gown required for each debutante, still amazed her. And the ridiculous ostrich feathers that had kept bobbing in front of her eyes had made the entire procedure almost comical.

  But now she faced not just a terrifying monarch, but hundreds of ton members. They would watch her. No hiding behind potted plants tonight. She would be front and center with Mary. Why, oh why, hadn’t she followed through on her plans to ask Aunt to send her home?

  Stunned by the offer for her hand Drake had so blithely mentioned, and her aunt’s reaction, all thoughts of the reason for her initial request to see Aunt had fled her mind. So here she was, only a couple of hours away from the most terrifying ordeal of her life.

  “Miss!” Maguire entered the room. “Are you ill? You’re so pale. Shall I have the duchess summon a doctor?”

  “No, no.” Penelope turned. “Just nerves. I will be fine.”

  “My Lady Mary is also beside herself with excitement. She is fighting blotches on her arms, but I’m sure her gloves will cover them. Thank goodness the nasty things stayed away from her face.”

  Penelope would not correct the woman, since her nerves weren’t excitement, but pure terror. She placed her hand on her stomach to stop the fluttering.

  “Come, miss, I’ll help you dress, then work on your hair. You want to look your very, very best tonight. The gentlemen will be enthralled with you.”

  If that remark was meant to calm her, it had the opposite effect. Penelope closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could do this.

  An hour later, she stood in front of her full length mirror and studied the strange young woman before her. The copper highlights in her brown hair caught the light from the lamp on the dresser. Maguire had pulled it back to the crown of her head, leaving curls spilling down to her shoulders. Behind her gold-rimmed spectacles, her green eyes appeared huge and terrified.

  She perused her coming-out gown of white lace overlay, split in the middle to reveal the blue silk underneath. The bodice was modest, but lower than anything she had ever dared to wear. A darker blue grosgrain ribbon circled snug beneath her breasts, calling attention to her slim frame. Her mother’s necklace of sapphires and small diamonds, with matching earbobs, sparkled as she moved her head back and forth.

  Placing her gloved hands against her stomach, she chided herself for the useless attempt to quell the roiling. She dared not eat a bite of food tonight, or she would truly disgrace herself.

  “Penelope, you look absolutely beautiful!” Sybil entered the room practically at a dance. Looking wonderful in a peach gown, she rushed forward and hugged her. “I know this will be a truly remarkable night for you.”

  “Do you think so?” Her teeth actually chattered.

  “Marion is asking for you,” Abigail said as she seemed to float into the room in a rush of gossamer rose. Then she stopped and took in Penelope’s appearance. “That is a lovely gown. You look exquisite.”

  “Thank you.” Penelope barely got the words out, her mouth dry as a bone. How would she ever get through this evening? Tugging once again on her gloves, she took another look at the strange girl in the mirror, and left.

  She slowly pushed open Marion’s door. The young widow starred pensively out the window of her bedroom, nothing but shrouded darkness in her view.

  “I understand you wished to see me.”

  Marion turned, and then gasped as she placed her hands to her mouth. “You look stunning, Penelope. So lovely.” She moved to the settee and took a seat, patting the spot alongside her. “Can you sit for a minute to visit?”

  “Of course. I believe we have time before the guests begin to arrive for dinner.”r />
  “Seeing you in your finery reminds me of my own come out ball. That was the night Tristan and I knew we were meant for each other. We went from being good friends to falling in love.” She squeezed Penelope’s hand. “Maybe the same thing will happen for you. Wouldn’t that be incredible?”

  “I will be deliriously happy if I’m merely able to refrain from disgracing myself and your family.”

  “Nonsense. You will do fine. You’ve had some practice at balls now, so just relax and enjoy your evening. And Mary’s, too, of course.”

  “Mother wants us downstairs. The dinner guests have begun to arrive.” Mary stepped into the room. Her gown was spectacular. The ivory silk, overlaid with white lace, provided her with an angelic presence. Dark blond curls cascaded down the back of her head, bouncing as she walked. Her deep amber eyes sparkled with excitement.

  At least one of us is thrilled with tonight’s ball.

  Marion leapt up and hugged the girls. “Have a wonderful time tonight.”

  Penelope clung to Marion’s hand. “I wish you would reconsider and join us. Even for a little while.”

  Marion gave a wistful smile. “Thank you. I’m not quite ready for that, yet. A walk in the garden is one thing, but presenting myself to society again. . .” She shook her head. “Maybe. Someday.”

  …

  Penelope felt as if hours had passed since the receiving line had begun. She rubbed one foot against her leg to ease the pain from standing so long. At least she was free from mishap while she stood with Drake, Her Grace, and Mary, curtsying and bowing. Soon the trickle of expected guests would cease and she would be required to dance. What Mary had mentioned more than once—their first dance—as a wonderful moment in the evening, she viewed with growing dread.

  Drake’s best friend, the Earl of Coventry, would partner her in a waltz, while Drake would lead his sister in her first dance. The earl had winked at her as he passed through the line a while ago, assuring her she would be in good hands. His beautiful wife had greeted her warmly and echoed her husband’s sentiment. She liked the earl and his countess, and found them both pleasant and unassuming.