A Lady's Dilemma Or The Dandy and Lady Penelope

by Margaret Bennett

  “How so, my lord?” She earnestly studied his warm, sherry eyes framed by long dark lashes.

  For a moment, he appeared stumped by her question. “Ah, it’s a way of expressing myself.”

  She heard the hesitancy in his voice and wondered about his sincerity. “How would you express yourself today? Do you feel flashy?”

  “Actually,” Aldwyn said after giving it some thought, “I feel happy.” He gave her a big grin. “I’m riding in my new curricle with my new grays, and sitting beside me is a new friend, a beautiful young lady.”

  She took a deep breath to calm her racing pulse before returning his smile. “I feel happy too, my lord,” she said, and she did for the very same reasons he felt happy. Except she was with a very handsome lord.

  A landau approached with Lady Heaton and her daughter Lydia, who waved to Penelope and Aldwyn. As they stopped, the Heaton ladies remarked on the pair’s likeness, then brought up Penelope’s coming out ball. All the time, Penelope noted Aldwyn was having a difficult time keeping the high-strung cattle standing still. Finally, as the Heatons made their goodbyes, he let out the reins for the pair to trot.

  “Devilishly tricky, keeping this pair standing for so long,” he said, gracing her with another smile.

  “They are a very pretty pair,” she said, looking up to meet his eyes. But they were directed ahead, where something seemed to have caught his attention. Following his gaze, she saw Pierre Arnaud with another man, who appeared nervous as he looked about before both men turned their mounts down a less traveled pathway.

  “Ah, there’s Monsieur Pierre Arnaud,” Aldwyn said, sounding particularly pleased by this discovery.

  Then he pulled on the reins, turning the team to make a sharp right, catching Penelope off guard, and she lost her balance. To keep from losing her seat, she grabbed his arm and hung on tightly. It crossed her mind that his arm felt like an iron band when his hand clamped hers like a vice, drawing her closer to his side. As the curricle straightened on the path, he gave her a concerned look and did not release her until she’d scooted back on the seat.

  ~~~~~

  In his hurry to follow Arnaud, Max had forgotten the young woman beside him and had nearly unseated her. Immediately he felt contrite and, with one hand, slowed the grays while guiding them down the path. Once she was seated again, he was sorry to release her, for he’d found her feminine curves most enticing, bewitching even.

  To cover for his own confusion, he lifted his quizzing glass, hanging about his neck on a black ribbon, and squinted through it, trying to identify the other man with Arnaud. “Do you know the other gentleman?”

  Penelope gave him an odd look. “I have not seen him before.”

  With an eye on the two men, Max kept up with them but never got close enough to see the other man’s face. Minutes later, both men left the park by a back gate. Though Max was tempted to follow, he couldn’t very well involve Lady Penelope. Besides, Arnaud would easily spot his flashy rig and cattle. Next time Max escorted the fair damsel, he’d insist they’d ride their mounts.

  Lady Penelope remained quiet until Max returned to Rotten Row, then surprised him by asking, “Do you know Monsieur Arnaud well?”

  “Not particularly.” He noted her thoughtful expression but was relieved that she made no further mention of the Frenchman. They soon headed back to Grosvenor Square, and he tossed the reins to the footman as he leapt down. When Penelope offered her hand so he could help her down, he ignored it and, reaching up, put his hands around her incredibly small waist. Penelope let out a small gasp and placed her hands on his shoulders as he lifted her down. Max marveled how light she was and was reluctant to let her go. He wanted to hold her closer, feel her womanly charms, but instead made a great show of taking her hand and helping her up the steps and into the foyer.

  He continued to hold her hand as he gazed into her remarkably, bright blue eyes. Suddenly, he remembered the ode he’d promised her and cleared his throat. “I do beg your pardon, my lady, as I forgot to pen a verse I promised you.”

  “If I remember correctly, Lord Aldwyn, you do not profess to be a poet,” she answered with her rosebud lips curving into a smile once again.

  “Very true,” he admitted ruefully, “but I would like to try. I’ll bring it around tomorrow.”

  She appeared confused. “If you wish.”

  Bowing, he kissed her gloved hand, allowing his lips to linger before he said adieu. Jumping onto the curricle’s high seat, he accepted the reins from a footman and gave the grays the office to head for home. Inexplicably, he was inspired to jot down a few lines that had suddenly popped into his head.

  ~~~~~

  Shaking her head, Penelope stood in the middle of the white marble tiled floor of the front hall. What an enigma. Lord Aldwyn was certainly an accomplished whip as he demonstrated today with a highly spirited and nervous team. Yet, his flamboyant attire and his interest to write an ode--to her eyes, no less--bespoke the frivolous dandy.

  Stripping off her straw poke bonnet and tan leather gloves, Penelope mounted the stairs and headed for her room, deep in thought. What interest could Aldwyn have in Monsieur Arnaud? She’d been introduced to the French couple at the beginning of the Season but knew little about them, other than her mother considered Arnaud’s wife a grabby social climber. And Aldwyn’s complete absorption with the Frenchman after sighting him struck her as odd.

  Then when the curricle made the sharp turn onto the path and she’d nearly slid off the seat, she’d been amazed by the corded muscles she’d felt in his arm. And later, she’d been shocked again when he put his hands on her waist and lifted her off the high curricle. She’d grabbed his shoulders to keep from falling. But she needn’t have. Lord Aldwyn’s broad shoulders were rock hard, his grasp on her waist firm and supportive, and oh, to be so close to him . . . . Penelope stopped at the top of the stairs and fanned her heated face with her bonnet.

  As her face cooled, she started for the bedroom again. This time with a smile on her lips. Lord Aldwyn might be an enigma with his flamboyant clothes that hid the hard planes of his body and his silly compliments about her eyes, but he was interesting. She was actually enjoying his attention. And having fun!

  ~~~~~

  Later that evening, when Max ambled into White’s, he was gratified to see heads turned his way. The Pomona green tailcoat with its squared cutaway front did offer a bold contrast to his pink satin embroidered waistcoat. He had questioned Fenton’s choice of jonquil flared pantaloons but found them most comfortable with yellow calfskin half boots.

  “Demme, if you don’t look a swell,” Edric Kingston said under his breath after greeting Max with a goblet of cognac.

  “Thank you.” He gestured with the goblet toward a table in a far corner where Pierre Arnaud sat with Victor Bynes in deep conversation. “Didn’t know those two were so friendly.”

  Kingston shrugged. “Heard Bynes likes deep play. Frequents the gaming hells with Arnaud.”

  Max managed to catch Bynes’s eye and, with Kingston following, sauntered over. Then, by way of greeting Bynes, Max said, “Rode out with Lady Pen today.”

  “Lady Penelope,” Bynes haughtily corrected.

  “That’s right,” Max said, deliberately misunderstanding Bynes. “Lovely gel. Very sensible. Dedicating a poem to her eyes. Actually, thinking more of an ode. Something about orbs or eye spheres.” Watching Bynes’s own eyes glaze over with disinterest, he kept up this nonsensical discussion while lending half an ear to Kingston’s conversation with Arnaud, who said, “But he’s the second son of a duke.”

  “That don’t matter,” Kingston replied, sotto voce. “Oldest gets it all, if it’s entailed, which it is.”

  “If he has no money, how does he live so lavishly?” Arnaud asked, also keeping his voice low.

  “As everyone else who’s hanging out for a rich wife,” Kingston replied, “he floats on the River Tick.”

  Catching Arnaud’s speculative look, Max smiled to himself. K
ingston had done well baiting the hook.

  Chapter 3

  It was noon before Fenton brought up a tray with coffee, eggs, sliced pork, and biscuits. Max was tempted to roll over, then remembered he planned to call on Lady Pen, as he’d decided to call her after irritating Bynes last night. His head still ached from the noise and smoke of the gaming hell he visited along with Arnaud and Bynes and had stayed until the wee morning hours. While Bynes’s play had been cautious, Max had managed to drop enough to raise a few eyebrows.

  Taking a sip of coffee, he watched Fenton bring out a short red coat with rows of gold buttons, froging and epaulets. “Am I playing soldier today?” he asked jocularly. “What color are my boots--red?”

  Fenton very carefully put down the jacket and clothes brush he’d been using on it before he turned to Max. “I don’t believe his lordship is aware of, nor appreciates, the enormous amount of time I’ve devoted to assembling your clothes, which said lord specifically requested.”

  Never before could Max remember Fenton showing or voicing displeasure with him. But as Max observed the red splotches that mottled the valet’s face, it was clear the man had made a Herculean effort to rein in his temper.

  “I believe, my lord,” Fenton continued, “it might be best for you to engage another valet.”

  Taking another sip of coffee, Max watched Fenton resume brushing the scarlet jacket and let the silence grow while he contemplated the situation. He did, indeed, appreciate his valet’s efforts. His recent attire had produced the desired effect among the beau monde and had allowed him to befriend Pierre Arnaud without raising the Frenchman’s suspicions. Surprisingly, Max realized, he actually liked sporting the togs of a dandy.

  Once Fenton’s coloring improved, Max said, “You’re right. I owe you an apology, Fenton. With a moment’s notice, literally overnight, you created a wardrobe that transformed my image from sportsman to dandy. Your efforts have been most impressive, and I want you to continue decking me out in style. In fact, I shall become a student of your superior taste, which I believe merits a raise. That is,” Max said with the lifting of one eyebrow, “if you’ll reconsider leaving my employ.”

  “Very good, my lord,” Fenton said with a small bow. “Then I may assume the military styled jacket will do for this afternoon?”

  “Yes,” Max said, hopping out of bed. “With red boots?”

  The short, dapper Fenton managed to look down his nose at Max and said with disdain, “That, my lord, would be extravagant.”

  ~~~~~

  Riding Hugo over to Grosvenor Square, Max accepted the gawking stares as his due. His lean muscular legs were encased in Saffron inexpressibles stuffed into shiny black Hessians with gold tassels that matched the one on his black shako hat. Once admitted to the Earl of Lenwood’s townhouse, Max was reluctant to give up his hat to the butler, for without it his outfit felt incomplete.

  Nor was he pleased when he entered the drawing room to see Victor Bynes sitting on the settee next to Penelope. Max greeted Lady Lenwood, then Penelope who looked divine with sprigs of primroses embroidered on the short puffy sleeves, the modest bodice, and down the front of a rose-colored muslin gown. Her chestnut curls were pulled up and back from her face, with a short cascade running down her slender neck. She smiled, and her eyes sparkled as he pressed a light kiss on her dainty hand before greeting Bynes.

  “Playing soldier today?” Bynes’s humor came across churlish.

  Attempting to cover for Bynes’s boorish tone, Lady Lenwood said to Max, “You do look dashing.”

  “Quite so,” Penelope agreed with a twinkle in her eyes as she poured tea.

  Taking his cup up, Max stopped from sipping it when Bynes said, “Don’t fops extend their pinkies when drinking, Aldwyn?”

  “Some gentlemen do,” drawled Max, coming to understand the Earl of Lenwood’s dislike for Victor Bynes. Addressing Lady Lenwood and Penelope, he said, “As I only maintain bachelor quarters, I’m planning an evening at Vauxhall Gardens come this Friday and hope you will join me.” As if it were an afterthought, Max said to Bynes, “You’re invited, too.”

  “How delightful,” Penelope said cheerfully while looking at Bynes’s sour expression.

  “I’ll send invitations around later today,” Max said. Ignoring the scowling Bynes, Max spent several minutes discussing the events Vauxhall Gardens offered, all the while observing the tiny frown Penelope directed toward her fiancé.

  Since it was obvious Bynes intended to outstay him, Max shortly thereafter took his leave. Mounting Hugo, he decided a ride was in order. Though the sky was overcast, he decided to take a roundabout way home via Piccadilly where he spotted Pierre Arnaud following another gentleman into a hackney cab. Max’s first inclination was to follow the Frenchman, but he hadn’t gone far when he realized he was hardly dressed for clandestine work. His red coat made him too easy to spot, so he regretfully abandoned the chase and headed for home.

  ~~~~~

  Knowing the patronesses of Almack’s refused anyone entrance after the stroke of eleven o’clock, including the Prince Regent himself, Max arrived that night at the prestigious assembly rooms a good twenty minutes in advance. Since he wasn’t hanging out for a wife, Max had intended to forgo the Wednesday night di rigueur for any young debutante aspiring to make an advantageous match at the ton’s Marriage Mart. However, since he was expected to dissuade Penelope from marrying the boorish Bynes, he decided he’d have to put in an appearance at least.

  Making his way toward the supper room, Max encountered Edric Kingston balancing four glasses of weak lemonade. “Need some help?” he asked.

  Kingston eyed Max up and down before nodding. “Wondered what you’d appear in tonight. I see you got the requisite white cravat and knee breeches. But damn me if you don’t shine in that coat.”

  Max smiled. Once again, Fenton had outdone himself acquiring a black velvet tailcoat with white satin lapels and cuffs and black satin waistcoat embroidered with silver thread. The highly starched cravat did make it difficult to turn his head or look down on his cream breeches, three fobs, white stockings, and black dancing pumps. “Who are those for?” Max asked, taking two of the glasses.

  “Lady Penelope, her mother, Miss Heaton and her mother.”

  “Did you make Lady Pen saved two dances for me?” Max asked.

  Kingston nodded. “Matter of fact, your dance is coming up. But it will cost you two with the Heaton gel. Pushy thing, ain’t she?”

  “Got you, too?” When Kingston nodded, Max shook his head. “The things one does to keep a parent happy.”

  Entering the Great Room, Max easily located Penelope, standing next to two young bucks along with Victor Bynes, looking bored to distraction. He greeted Lady Lenwood, handing her the two glasses of lemonade, and then led Penelope out for the start of a quadrille.

  “I am surprised you are here,” Penelope said, as they began to dance. At Max’s quirked eyebrow, she added, “Surely, you have no interest in the Marriage Mart?”

  “No, but the best of the ton may be found here.”

  A small frown marred her perfect brow. “I did not take you to be snobbish, my lord.”

  “Nor am I, for I despise such idiocy. Call me Max.” He added with a wicked smile. “I’ve decided to call you Lady Pen.”

  Her light laugh made Max’s heart skip a beat. “Why so?”

  “My muse finds Penelope deuce hard to rhyme.”

  “Now you are teasing me,” she said, laughing as the movement of the dance separated them.

  The dance ended too quickly to suit Max, especially when he discovered his next dance partner was Lydia Heaton. An adequate dancer, Miss Heaton was not as light on her feet as Penelope, but he quickly dispatched his two dances with the young woman. Afterwards, as he wasn’t interested in dancing with anyone else, he decided to visit one of the card rooms until the waltz was played.

  Taking a newly vacated seat, Max found himself seated next to his Grandmère and two of her cronies. Lady Martson
, a reserved matron, sat across from him. Lady Smith-Willis, a rather large, squat woman, was the Dowager Duchess of Blackmoor’s partner. Both women eyed Max with misgivings.

  “You’ve changed your colors since you were last in Town,” Lady Smith-Willis said, accusingly. “Also heard your luck was out with cards.”

  The Dowager Duchess patted his arm. “Pay Matilda no mind, Maxwell.”

  Max smiled and said, “Depends upon the game.”

  “It’s whist,” Lady Smith-Willis almost snorted. “Are you as good at it as putting together those fancy togs?”

  “Better,” Max said with a laugh.

  “Lovely velvet jacket, Lord Aldwyn,” Lady Martson said as she dealt the cards. “French?”

  “Of course, as only the French know fashion.”

  “But we’re at war with them.” Lady Smith-Willis sounded horrified as she tossed down a card.

  Max trumped it and laid down another card. “Hmmm, yes, most inconvenient, but the blasted thing can’t last forever.”

  When her turn came, Lady Martson took the trick and smiled at Max. “What would you suggest I wear to the Haversham’s ball next week, Lord Aldwyn?”

  By the time Max left the ladies in the card room, he had an appointment the next day to meet Lady Martson at her modiste. His Grandmère also extracted a promise from him to show for tea, and redoubtable Lady Smith-Willis was unhappily several pounds lighter.

  Entering the ballroom, he scanned the dancers but didn’t see Penelope. So he ambled around the ballroom, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. When he espied Lydia Heaton headed in his direction, Max ducked behind a pillar with several palms behind it and bumped into Penelope. “Sorry,” he said, reaching out to steady her. She quickly averted his face, but not before he caught her woeful expression. “Why aren’t you dancing?” he asked gently.

  Keeping her eyes glued to the dancers, she shrugged. Max followed the direction of her gaze and saw Victor Bynes dancing with a beautiful blonde. Even from where he stood, Max could tell Bynes was flirting outrageously with the young woman. He looked down at Penelope as a single tear ran down her cheek. When her hand came up, he grasped it in his and with his other hand, gently brushed the tear with his thumb, then brought it to his lips, tasting the salt. His eyes never left hers.