“Miss Rose, about what happened,” began Marchford, staring down at her feet instead of at her. “I fear I owe you an apology.”
“No!” Penelope swung her feet down. “You have nothing for which to apologize.” She did not want the best kiss, albeit her only true kiss, to be so soon brushed into the waste bin of past mistakes.
“And yet I cannot rest easy with my behavior. I fear I have taken advantage.” Marchford remained on his knees before her.
“You were not the one sitting in my lap. If anyone took the advantage, it was me.”
“Do not be absurd. The fault was clearly mine.”
“Fault? So I am a mistake you made?” Penelope rose to her feet, keeping the weight on her good leg.
“No, that is…you are no mistake, but I cannot look upon my own behavior without censure. Since I find myself at your feet, I shall beg for forgiveness. I warn you that if you deny me this boon, I shall be forced to either badger you until forgiveness is given or I shall attempt to even the score by doing something to place you in my debt. I wonder, what situation could I contrive?” The corners of his mouth twitched up.
“Fine, you win, but only because I concede you have more devious tendencies than I.”
“I am pleased to see how well you know me.”
“I shall content myself with providing you pleasure.”
A collective gasp made them both jump. Someone had opened the door and had begun to enter the room. No, not just anyone, the Comtesse de Marseille, the most notorious gossip in all of London was standing in the doorway, her mouth open in horror. Behind her, several of her busybody cronies were with her. Other guests, seeing the crowd around the door stopped to look too, jostling from outside to see what was happening.
Penelope froze. She was standing before Marchford who was on his knees before her. What could be the plausible explanation for this?
No one said anything for an eternity, though in reality it could have only been a few seconds. She started down at Marchford, hoping he had a plan.
He gave her a wink. He had a solution. She smiled. He smiled.
“Miss Rose,” he began, his voice booming, “will you marry me?”
Twenty-two
Simultaneous emotions slashed through Penelope. Her heart soared at being proposed to by the one man, the only man, she could ever love. Yet her joy was instantly tempered by the realization that this proposal was forced by their audience. The growing crowd gasped again, and heat surged through her as embarrassment struck true.
The shock of such emotions proved too momentous for her single leg to hold, and she teetered off kilter. Marchford sprung up and caught her before she fell, sweeping her up in his arms.
“They need an answer,” he whispered, and she knew beyond all hope that his interest in her was purely based on societal show.
“No,” she whispered—or tried to. Marchford cut off the word with a kiss, winning them both another gasp from the crowd.
He broke the kiss and addressed the crowd, for whom the charade was intended. “I hope you all will wish us many happy returns.”
The growing crowd tittered and congratulated, even as the gossip spread like fire through the ballroom. The Comtesse de Marseille raised an aristocratic eyebrow and gave Penelope a piercing gaze.
Marchford gently set her back down. Penelope pasted on a smile and held on to his steady arm. She was soon mobbed by ladies wanting to speak to her, some noticing her for the first time, all asking some variation of the question of how she had landed one of the best matrimonial catches in all of London. Several were none too pleased and addressed her with open scorn.
“Step aside. Excuse me.” The dowager pushed through and took Penelope’s other arm. “Very tired, must retire, thank you, dear, for seeing me home.”
Penelope proceeded in a dreamlike state to the ballroom, being escorted out with the duke on one side and the dowager on the other. The world seemed to be coming at her from a distance. Somehow, they made it through the gauntlet of the well-wishers, the curious, and the openly hostile and retreated back to the town coach.
“Why?” gasped Penelope as soon as they were alone in the coach. “Why did you ask me to marry you?”
“Needed to say something. Seemed the thing to do,” said Marchford vaguely.
“James!” tsked Antonia. “What a thing to say.”
Penelope’s heart sank. She wasn’t sure if the dowager was chastising his comment or his proposal to her.
“But why marriage?” pressed Penelope. “Why kiss me before the crowd?”
“I kissed you because you were giving the wrong answer.” Marchford spoke as if the answer were obvious.
“But I do not wish for a proposal only because we were found in a room together. I do not want you to feel obligated to me.”
“But of course he is obligated to you,” chimed in the dowager. “At least he is now. Oh, we will have a time trying to win your acceptance in society. I warrant, James, you did not think this through.”
“Indeed, I did not,” said Marchford in a careless manner. He was staring out the window at the falling snow with a smile on his face as if quite pleased with himself. “Good thing you changed the venue to Lord Felton’s. We could never have climbed the hill to the Wynbrook town home.”
“Yes, I do believe it was a stunning victory,” Antonia purred, easily distracted onto a topic in which she was central.
Penelope was shocked at how quickly the topic was turned. The dowager happily related the tale of all the people who had complimented her on the extraordinary feat of having Felton open his house to the affianced couple.
Despite the foot warmer, Penelope felt cold. Marchford’s proposal had nothing to do with any interest in her, but rather a way to escape an awkward situation. It was all a charade. Apparently, she was good enough to kiss in the closet, but not good enough for an intentional proposal. Penelope had to admit she had powerful feelings for the duke, but to be married to a man who did not share her regard? That she would never do.
***
He had done it. He had asked Penelope to marry him and he could not help but smile at the prospect. But why? James focused his attention on the snow falling outside the coach. Clean and white, it floated down from the heavens. Inside the coach was nothing but danger. He had steered the conversation away from his proposal, and his grandmother was happily prattling on about her societal success. She would not be put off for long, however. He was certain she would have much to say regarding his proposal to Penelope.
Penelope, on the other hand, said nothing but was glaring at him from the gloom of the coach. The small lantern swung with the movement of the conveyance, casting angry shadows across her face. She was silent for now, in the midst of his grandmother’s conversation, but she would not remain so for long. He hoped for the possibility of safe passage through these waters, but he knew the course was treacherous.
His actions in the wardrobe floated back to him, and he ruthlessly pushed them aside. He had been tempted, yes, but it had been an extraordinary situation. Surely a man could not be blamed for reacting to a beautiful woman sitting atop him. His proposal had nothing to do with lust. It was simply a coincidence that the woman he wished to have in his bed was the one to whom he had proposed. A happy coincidence, but nothing more.
He would marry for logic and good sense. Penelope would serve admirably as a duchess. She was a sober, sensible girl, so unlike his own mother. In truth, he could not see any resemblance. It was true that Penelope was no aristocrat, but her father had been a gentleman, and her sisters all married well, so her connections, while not grand, were certainly respectable. It was not a brilliant alliance, but then he needed none. He was a duke; if that didn’t give him license to wed where he wished, nothing did.
He ignored the nagging thought that this must have been some of his father’s own logic. His father m
arried for love. The present Duke of Marchford would never do such a thing. No. Never. He would marry Penelope and that would be the end of it.
At their return home, Marchford bid his grandmother and Penelope a very pleasant night and retreated, as quickly as he could manage and still appear ducal, into his study.
It was only a matter of minutes before the study door opened and Penelope boldly entered, closing the door behind her. She had removed her cloak and her form was remarkable in her pale blue gown. Some of her hair had escaped her hairpins in all the excitement and fell loose down her shoulder, enflaming the very passions he wished to keep at bay.
His eyes gravitated toward her cleavage, to the place his hands had explored only an hour ago. He longed to go back for more, but the stern look in Penelope’s eye told him that event would be unlikely.
“Why would you like to marry me?” Penelope’s voice wavered only slightly.
He ignored it. Emotions had no bearing to the matter at hand. “I have proposed in a public setting. You have accepted in much the same manner. I do not see the purpose of further discussion. We shall be married, and that is the end of it.”
“Forgive me, but your reasons for proposing are very much of concern to me. Therefore, I must ask you to state them plainly.” Penelope raised her chin.
Dangerous ground. Still, he could navigate this safely. “First, I proposed because we were caught in a delicate situation, and it seemed the best way to throw off suspicion from our activities.”
“So you felt obligated.”
Marchford continued. “Second, you are a sensible girl, whom I believe will perform the office of duchess admirably once you adjust to the position. You have a level head, you are intelligent, and I am certain you would meet the challenge of running this household.”
“So you are looking for a housekeeper?”
He ignored that comment as well. “Third, you have proven to be valuable in the search for the spymaster and unraveling the plot that hangs above us. The safety and security of England herself is at stake. Unmarried, you must leave this house once grandmother quits it. As my fiancée, you could have leave to stay. Though I suppose we should dig up a female relation to stay for a while for propriety’s sake.”
Penelope shifted from one foot to the other, and he felt a pang for having kept her on her feet. Surely her ankle must hurt her. “Please, do sit, Miss Rose.”
She shook her head in defiance and remained standing. “And are these the only reasons why you have proposed marriage?” Penelope pressed her full lips together to form a thin line.
“I believe three to be sufficient.” More than sufficient. He had proposed. What more could she want? An inexplicable hurt was in Penelope’s eyes, but he was certain she would overcome it. He did not consider himself at risk of losing her agreement to the union. He was a duke after all. Of course she would marry him, and the less spoken of any emotional attachments the better.
“I am sorry, Your Grace, but these reasons are not sufficient to me.” She held her head high and blinked back tears. “I regret to inform you that I must decline your offer of marriage.”
Marchford paused and leaned against his mahogany desk. Surely he had not heard her correctly. “I beg your pardon, Miss Rose.”
“I said I will not marry you. However, since you have made it clear to me that my duty to king and country requires me to remain here to provide my services, such as they are, to the cause, I shall not publicly announce the dissolution of the engagement; however, I need you to understand I shall in no way actually marry you.”
Marchford could not quite believe what he was hearing. Any woman of sound mind would have been well pleased to wed him in any circumstances. Which either meant she was not of sound mind or…well, he could not think of any other reason. “And why, I must ask, have you refused my offer? Do you harbor the hopes of making a better match?” The last was spoken in jest, so he was surprised to see her nod. What could she be holding out for? A prince?
“Yes, indeed, I do hope someday to be made a better offer than the one you have provided me.”
“In what way? Forgive me, Miss Rose, but in what way do you find me lacking? I flatter myself that my understanding and temper are acceptable. My place in society and, I need not mention, my ability to allow you to live in whatever extravagance of luxury you should desire can only be seen as advantageous. I shall stoop to gross vanity and claim that I am not a hideous creature to behold.
“In addition, and I beg your forgiveness for mentioning it, but our time together this evening revealed a mutual attraction. In short, I would like to know in what manner you find my suit lacking?” Marchford prided himself in keeping a level head in all situations, but his voice rose slightly despite his best attempts to keep himself in check.
“You have declared that your proposal was based on three reasons. The first, because you felt obliged. The second, because you wish for a competent housekeeper. And the third, because of your duty to king and country. Should I ever marry, it will not be for the reasons of obligation, practicality, or duty. No, if I should ever wed, which at the present moment appears most unlikely, it will be for love.”
Marchford gaped at her. “Love? What has that got to do with marriage?”
Penelope put her hands on her hips, unwittingly revealing her shapely form. “It has everything to do with it. If I wed, it will be because I am hopelessly in love with a man who is wildly in love with me!”
Silence. He had no retort. Falling in love was what she wanted? Practical, sensible Penelope wished to fall in love? How distressing.
“Do you not wish to fall in love?” she asked almost in a whisper, as if fearful of the answer she would hear.
“No!” He could only answer truthfully. “Indeed, I should like to avoid love at all costs.”
“And why avoid the one thing that could bring joy to your life?” She turned away and was now addressing the bookcase instead of him.
“My father married my mother for love. It brought nothing but pain. No, I shall not marry for love. Save me from Cupid’s poisoned dart.”
She nodded in understanding, still not looking at him. “I believe there is nothing left to say.”
“I disagree.” He would not allow Penelope to simply walk away from him. He had asked; she had accepted. It was done. She was his. He just needed to appeal to her rational self. “I understand your romantic notions of true love. What girl is not brought up with such fantasies? But when you consider the proposal from a sensible light, I do not think you would be so quick to refuse the offer before you. I consider it very unlikely that another offer of marriage will ever come your way. If you could but think rationally, you would see that a life as a duchess must be infinitely better than a life as an old maid.”
Her head snapped back at him, her brown eyes blazing. At once he realized he had made a foolish mistake. “So you consider my refusal to be that of a weak-minded female without sense or rationality?”
He took a step back and she took one toward him.
She continued, her voice rising. “You think that a woman in my low position should cling to any offer of marriage that comes her way? You think I should be grateful for whatever scraps fall from the master’s table?”
“You consider me a scrap discarded from the table?” And now his pride was trod upon.
“I consider your proposal fit only for the dustbin.” Her tone rose higher.
He swallowed down a lump in his throat. “I do believe you were correct earlier, Miss Rose. We do have nothing more to say. I wish you a very pleasant evening.” He meant to say it politely, but he feared it must not have come across that way in a shout.
“Yes, indeed. Have a lovely evening, Your Grace.” Penelope curtsied to him, which only made him want to wring her neck or kiss her senseless. She left before he got the chance.
He flung himself down at his
desk and returned to sensible matters and rational concerns, but that night he dreamed of wardrobes, spies, and Penelope.
Twenty-three
Marchford awoke the next morning to the orderly presence of his valet. A mental review of yesterday’s momentous events was enough to bring a request for breakfast in bed. He was not afraid of Penelope, surely not. But he had heard that absence made the heart grow fonder, and he hoped that by removing himself from her view, she might begin to look more kindly on their present entanglement.
Happy that he had justified his cowardice as an act of kindness, he settled down to enjoy his coffee and toast in peace. He opened the freshly ironed paper and flipped past the commentary on the war (it was going poorly) and civil unrest (also poor goings-on) to the gossip columns.
“Damn!” Marchford slapped the paper shut.
“Is something the matter, Your Grace?” asked his valet.
Yes, indeed. The papers were not reporting his spontaneous proposal to Penelope with benevolence. They were gossip columns after all and made money on selling salacious bits of rumor and half-truth. Everyone knew not to trust the gossip column. And yet…
“Make sure my grandmother sees this.” He handed the paper to his valet. Antonia would know how to best handle the situation. “And also ensure that Miss Rose does not.” No need to upset her further.
He decided to leave for the club. Early. And stay late. Yes, that was a marvelous plan.
***
Marchford did not come to breakfast, and the dowager never came to breakfast, so Penelope ate alone, glaring into her oatmeal and stabbing at her eggs with malicious intent. She had things to say to Marchford. Things she had been practicing all night to say.
After she finished her meal, she casually inquired of the butler the whereabouts of a certain errant duke. The bastard had gone to his club. Coward!
Instead of being able to confront him, she was left with giving the butler a fake smile and retreating to the morning room. Penelope sat with her needlepoint, though her mood made her more inclined to fling it to the wall. She considered what she would say to Antonia, which did not improve her disposition.
A Winter Wedding Page 17
