“Confused. Scared. Ready to cry off.”
“Smart girl if she fears marriage to you.”
Drake scowled. “Although Miss Clayton would not have been my first choice, I am sure we will get on quite well. She is far more interesting than many young ladies and she is at least able to hold an intelligent conversation, and prefers country life to Town.”
“And I imagine since you were discovered doing more than merely conversing, you have some feelings for the girl?”
“Of course. She is kind and compassionate, and has managed, somehow, to draw Marion out of her room.”
“Indeed? But kind, compassionate, and intelligent aside, do you have feelings for your betrothed?”
“Don’t start that nonsense, Coventry. I’ve maintained from the start that I will not allow love to interfere with my marriage.”
Coventry’s grin widened. “I guess only time will tell. If you’re finding it difficult to keep your hands off the girl, I predict stronger feelings somewhere.” He pulled up on the reins of his horse and stopped. “But now I must return to my lovely wife who will, no doubt, be ready to partake of breakfast.”
“Yes. I’m to meet Miss Clayton for breakfast as well. I’ll return with you.” He turned Abaccus, and they headed out of the park.
…
Penelope adjusted the cuffs on her dress and patted her hair. She would try again at breakfast to convince Drake that this betrothal must come to an end. Especially after he had so blithely told her she must give up her science. That would never do. Botany was her life, and if she assumed the role of duchess, and was able to acquit herself—doubtful, that—she still needed her work. Her resistance to being saddled with a husband had apparently not been misplaced.
“Penelope, please come visit.” Marion stood at the door to her bedchamber, her eyes glowing. She held out her hand, and when Penelope grasped it, Marion pulled her into a hug. “I am so excited to hear that you are to be my sister!”
“Goodness. Has word spread so quickly?”
“Come. Sit for a minute. You must tell me how this all came about.”
Before Penelope could form an answer that wouldn’t put Drake and her in a bad light, Marion continued. “I can tell you now that I always hoped my brother would turn his attentions toward you. I know in my heart that the two of you will make a wonderful marriage. You are just what he needs.”
“I’m not so sure about that. He had planned to marry someone a little bit higher in the instep.”
“Nonsense. He always knew deep down that you were the right woman. That’s why you two are betrothed!”
Apparently, Marion had not heard the full story of their disgrace. Heavens, how was she to get herself out of this muddle? Everyone was jumping for joy except the betrothed couple. Despite Drake’s protests, she knew he was not happy with the outcome of their “walk” in the garden. And although one could say she had a tendre for him, having a husband who assumed she would blithely cease what was most important to her stung her pride. How could she give up the life she’d trained for, gained so much pleasure from?
“Perhaps you haven’t heard, but His Grace and I were alone in the garden at the Brentwood ball last evening, and. . .” Her deep blush told the rest of the story.
“Oh, my.” Marion laughed. “My stiff-necked brother? That must have taken him down a few steps.”
Despite her misgivings about the affair, Penelope had to smile. That was one part of the debacle that she hadn’t thought of, although, he’d certainly been quick to recover. His announcement had apparently appeased the ton, but for the rest of the dreadful evening she hadn’t been able to put two words together, and had only nodded her thanks at the well-wishers. If Drake hadn’t held her securely at his side the entire time, she would have collapsed.
She squeezed Marion’s hand. “Now I must be off. I am to meet Drake for breakfast.”
“If you don’t mind the company, I would like to join you.”
Her mind off her own problems for the moment, she beamed at Marion. “Of course. We would love to have you join us.”
Chapter Eighteen
Penelope attempted to hide behind Her Grace as they entered the salon. The duchess dragged her along, tugging off her gloves, her face aglow as she addressed Mme. Babineau. “The future duchess needs a spectacular gown. It is for her wedding.”
The modiste hurried forward, snapping her fingers at one of her girls.
“But it must be made quickly. My son wants a wedding in only three weeks.” Her Grace took a deep breath, the excitement of the last couple of days evident in her flushed face. “I need you to create a memorable gown in that short period of time.”
“Of course.” She turned to Penelope. “Merveilleux, Miss Clayton. When did this betrothal occur?”
“Two days ago,” the duchess said. “However, I am determined to have the finest gown London has ever seen, and a splendid wedding breakfast.”
“May I offer my best wishes to you,” Mme. Babineau murmured.
“Thank you.” Penelope took the seat alongside the duchess and wiped her sweaty palms on her skirts.
“With your future daughter-in-law’s coloring and lovely form, it will be pleasure to create such a gown. Now, let us refresh ourselves with tea, and I will produce the newest fashion plates arrived by post only this morning. You will find these magnifique!” The modiste shouted instructions in French to another shop girl, who scurried behind the curtain to the back area.
Things had been in a whirlwind since the Brentwood ball. No amount of arguing would change Drake’s mind. They were to be married, and they would make the best of it. Penelope had gone around since then with a sick stomach.
As she lay in bed at night, she dreamed of the peace and quiet of her home in Devonshire. How she missed the walks she used to take in the early morning, foraging for new specimens. She thought fondly of sneaking biscuits and meat pies from the kitchen, right under Mrs. Potter’s nose. She missed the smell of fresh earth, the feel of leaves under her fingers, and the excitement of classifying the plants she found.
Since the “incident” in the garden, her life had become nothing close to quiet. She was betrothed to a man who had intended to marry a very different sort of woman. Her fiancé had casually informed her that her scientific work would come to an end, and with guidance from the duchess, she would soon assume the duties and obligations of a role for which she had no training, or desire, to step into.
The only positive in this entire debacle was the man himself. Her heart pounded when she thought of his kisses, of his warm hand on her breast. Heat crawled up from her middle to her face at the memory of his hard body as it pressed into hers. She’d never given much thought to the marriage bed, since it was a place she had never expected to find herself, but now that had changed. Soon she would be Drake’s wife, and he would take her to his bed. There they would continue what they had started in the dark recesses of the Brentwood garden. She shivered.
“Are you cold, my dear?” The duchess eyed her with concern.
“No. I’m fine, thank you.”
“We have arrived for our appointment.” Lady Sirey and Lady Daphne breezed into the salon. The older woman glanced in their direction, and her lip curled. She raised her chin and addressed Mme. Babineau. “I believe we arranged to have this time with you, Madame.”
“Yes, yes, indeed, my lady. If you will step this way, I will have Mlle. Auclair assist you.”
Lady Sirey’s lips tightened and her bosom heaved. “I will not be sloughed off to your assistant like some nobody, Mme. Babineau. My appointment was for ten o’clock, and I expect to have your full attention.”
Lady Daphne left her mother’s side and approached Penelope. “I wish you a joyful marriage, Miss Clayton. I am sure you and your betrothed will be very happy.”
Before Penelope could recover from Lady Daphne’s kind words, the girl’s mother all but shrieked at her. “Gel, you come back here. We are here to secure a new gown for
you, and I expect Mme. Babineau’s entire consideration. Immediately.”
The modiste wrung her hands, looking back and forth between the two formidable members of the ton.
Her Grace drew herself up, offering Mme. Babineau a warm smile. “Please have your assistant bring us the tea and the newly arrived fashion plates. Miss Clayton and I will enjoy a lovely cup and peruse the illustrations while you settle matters with her ladyship.”
Lady Sirey cast her a sharp look and Mme. Babineau’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank you. As always, you are most gracious.” She snapped her fingers again, and a young girl hurried out from behind the curtain with a tray of scones, a pot of tea, and cups and saucers. She set them down on a small table in front of a grouping of comfortable chairs.
“Thank you, my dear.” The duchess settled herself on the edge of the chair, her back ramrod straight. “If you would be so kind as to bring the fashion plates to Miss Clayton, we can begin our search for the perfect gown for her wedding to my son, the Duke of Manchester.” Her voice and pronouncement resounded throughout the room.
Hiding a smile, the young girl bobbed a curtsy and went to fetch the plates. Her Grace poured the tea and nibbled on a scone as if she was in the presence of the queen. Penelope was dumbstruck. This was how a duchess conducted herself. Lady Sirey had Mme. Babineau’s full attention, but nevertheless, Her Grace had won.
It appears I have a lot to learn.
…
Penelope smiled as Drake executed an elegant bow. “I will see you at the supper waltz.” He nodded in the direction of his mother and sisters before heading to the card room. “Ladies. Have a pleasant evening.”
She studied him as he wove his way through the throng at the Simmons’ ballroom. With his light brown hair mixed with gold highlights gleaming in the hundreds of candles, and broad shoulders, it was quite some time before he disappeared completely from her view. Several men stopped him to offer greetings, and more than a few women cast glances over fluttering fans—much to her irritation.
The Simmons’ middle daughter, Ophelia, stood next to her parents, aglow with the freshness and exuberance of a young girl at her come out. Her white gown, with peach underlay, brought out the creaminess of her complexion.
She was so very young.
Or perhaps it was that Penelope felt old. And certainly out of place. She and the duchess had spent hours earlier assembling her wedding attire. After the incident with Lady Sirey in the modiste salon, they’d perused numerous plates of gowns until the duchess had found what she had considered the perfect one. Measurements followed, along with fabric selection, and then it was off to the glover, and Wood’s for a new pair of slippers to match her gown.
Lastly, they had visited Harding, Howell, & Company for other items the duchess didn’t think Penelope could survive her wedding day without—including a lovely white nightgown that Penelope thought was much too sheer. When she’d blushingly mentioned that to her future mother-in-law, the woman had merely patted her on the cheek and said, “It is my wedding present to my son.” That only made Penelope’s face grow so heated she thought she would self-combust.
She was pulled back to the present when another gentleman, who she assumed she should know, bowed before her. “Miss Clayton, I would be honored if you would consent to add my name to your dance card.” His mustache covered a good deal of his face, but the crinkling at the edges of his eyes from his bright smile brought a small grin to her mouth.
“Oh. Yes, of course.” She fumbled with the small card and allowed him to write his name in the tiny space. “Sir Regis Moreland,” she read upside down.
“I will return in a short while to claim my dance.” He nodded and was soon swept away in the crowd.
“It’s disheartening to not remember these gentlemen who apparently know me.”
“Do not concern yourself,” the duchess answered. “You are well-known now because of your association with Manchester.”
“But won’t it be my duty to know who these people are?”
“No, dear. You will be the duchess, and they will know who you are.” Her Grace waved her blue and white flowered fan slowly in front of her. “That will be all that matters.”
A few hours later, with the time for the supper waltz growing near, Penelope made her way to the ladies’ withdrawing room before Drake returned to claim her for their dance. One of the Simmons’s footmen directed her to the room set aside on the second floor. Flushed, and feeling heated from the crush of people, she sat on a stool and patted her face with a dampened linen cloth provided by a maid.
“She may have avoided ruination by Manchester coming to the rescue, but mark my words, he will be very sorry to be stuck with the chit. She is well below his station, and will embarrass him and the entire family.” Lady Sirey’s voice carried the length of the space as she entered the withdrawing room, speaking over her shoulder to Lady Nelson.
Penelope felt the blood leave her face, and her breath catch. Several women on couches and daybeds around the room turned to Lady Sirey, and then glanced toward Penelope. Fans immediately fluttered as whispers were shared.
If wishes could make one disappear, she’d be long gone. But, instead, she was firmly rooted to the spot, surrounded by those who apparently agreed with Lady Sirey. Some looked at her with pity, some with smugness. But no one rose to her defense.
From somewhere deep inside, she gathered her wits and drew strength from an unknown, and previously unused, source. Smoothing her palms over her skirts, she stood, handing the linen cloth back to the maid. “Thank you very much.”
With chin raised, and her backbone stiff, she glided to the door—memories of how Her Grace had conducted herself in the modiste salon bolstering her. She smiled at the few women on a settee alongside the door and reached for the latch. Making a gracious exit, she left the room, and then closed the door—on her skirt.
Blast!
With as much dignity as she could muster, she opened the door once again, pulled her skirt free, and snapped it shut. The sound of smothered laughter followed her down the corridor to the stairs.
…
After a few minutes of searching for Penelope without success, Drake headed toward his mother. “Have you seen Penelope? Our dance is in a few minutes.”
“She went to the ladies’ withdrawing room. I’m sure she’ll be along any minute.”
Instead of waiting, he headed for the sweeping staircase in the entrance hall that led to the upstairs rooms. Penelope was coming down the stairs, her face pale, her lips tightened.
Drake reached for her hand. “What is the matter?”
She gave her head a quick shake and took his hand. “Nothing.” She attempted a smile. “Is it time?”
He grasped both of her hands in his, and escorted her away from watchful eyes into a quiet corner. “Something is wrong. I can tell by looking at you. Unfortunately, you are unable to hide your feelings.”
“Merely another way I am not suited for the role of duchess.” She attempted to pull her hands free, but he held on, startled by the tears shimmering on her eyelids.
“Come. We shall forego the dance and take a stroll in the garden.”
Penelope didn’t protest as he tucked her arm through his and maneuvered their way through the ballroom toward the French doors leading to the patio. Coming from the ladies’ withdrawing room, it was obvious some harpy’s comment had unsettled her. It was, indeed, too bad that every emotion she experienced was right there on her face for the world to see. No doubt this vulnerability made her easy prey for those of the ton who had spent years learning how to hide their feelings. He sighed at this additional evidence of her unsuitability to assume the role of duchess.
No point in pursuing that line of thought. Penelope was his bride-to-be, and each day he attempted to grow more content with the idea. And now his protective side reared its head at her distress. Anyone who dared disparage his duchess would soon find themselves on the receiving end of his wrath.
<
br /> With most of the garden visitors returning to the ballroom for the supper waltz, they found themselves quite alone. In the scant moonlight, Drake directed her to a stone bench where they settled. When Penelope shivered, he placed his arm around her shoulders and brought her close to his warmth. “Now please tell me what has you so troubled.”
She turned toward him, forcing him to release her. “I must ask you, once again, to cry off, Your Grace. I am firm in my conviction that the resulting disgrace will be mine, not yours.”
“I thought we were beyond Your Grace? We are betrothed. There is no reason why you should address me so.”
“You are purposely avoiding my request.”
“No. I am not. Neither avoiding your request, nor willing to grant it. We’ve had this conversation before, sweetheart. The wedding will go forward.”
“I am so unprepared for this. Surely I will make a fool of myself, and in turn embarrass you and your family.” She stood and wrung her hands. “You will grow to hate me. Your mother and sisters will resent the gossip, the snide remarks.”
A slight smile tugged at his lips at her sincerity. The devil take it, but she was appealing. Her earnest expression, the tears she swiped at, the two curls that had tumbled from her topknot, all had him hardening and wanting to pull her close, lessen her fears, make her his.
It startled him to realize that for the first time in his life he wanted a woman, not merely for sexual pleasure, but for herself. Penelope’s personality, sincerity, and lack of pretension were refreshing, and foreign among the ton young ladies. Indeed, he doubted his title and money held any appeal for her. Strange, that.
“Come here.” He tugged her hand, throwing her off balance so that she landed on his lap.
She gasped and pushed against his chest. “Please let me go. Someone will see us.”
Nuzzling the silky creamy skin at her neck, he tightened his arms around her waist and brought her closer. “Everyone has returned for the supper waltz. We are quite alone, and you are quite delectable, sweetheart.”
The hands pushing against him eased, and she slid them up over his shoulders to encircle his neck. The movement brought her soft breasts against his chest. He felt the tightening of her nipples and moaned as he cupped the plush mounds, kneading them until her nipples beaded like pearls.
The Duke's Quandary (Entangled Scandalous) Page 16
