Penelope unconsciously backed away from the two dowager duchesses. This was the scene the comtesse had dreamed of seeing.
“My dear Antonia.” Bella rose majestically, her gown floating about her. “How lovely to see you.”
“Good morning, Bella,” said Antonia. “You are alive. How utterly disappointing.” She took a seat, her eyes a sharp blue. “I see you have wasted no time in turning my sitting room into a bordello.”
“Why thank you,” replied Bella, regaining her seat with a wicked smile. “It does make me feel at home.”
Penelope sat down on the edge of her chair, watching the combatants, wondering if she should leave or remain as a witness to the impending murder, though which lady would emerge victorious from this death match was at present uncertain.
“So you waited for me to vacate the house for an hour and then pounced back into our lives, ready to usurp the title of Duchess of Marchford,” began Antonia. “Why, the ink on my marriage license was not even dry before you snuck back to Marchford House. I should not be surprised, since cunning and underhanded dealings were always your specialty.”
“And making people feel welcome was always yours,” said Bella with a smooth voice. “As for the title, you may keep it if you choose. It is not one I cherish, though it is certainly my due to use it as I see fit.”
“You demand a place here? As if you have any right to set foot inside these halls.” Antonia’s voice was brittle.
“Oh, I agree I do not belong in this household, at least as long as you decided to rule over it with poison in your heart to anyone you deemed unworthy.” Her words were spoken with such sugar, Penelope worried she might actually gag on the cloyingly sweet tone—and then be sliced to ribbons with Bella’s stinging barbs.
Antonia rapped her cane on the floor. “Who are you to make judgments upon me, you licentious little tart!”
“Ladies, please!” cried Penelope, feeling much like an unwanted referee. The combatants were more than willing, but this behavior between them had hardened Marchford’s heart such that now he doubted his own ability to love. He had just begun to emerge from his frozen existence, and Penelope would not allow him to be pushed back into the abyss without a fight.
“You both certainly live up to your reputation as being vicious to each other no matter whom you may hurt in the process,” declared Penelope. “I can see now why James had a most miserable childhood.”
“Nonsense.” The dowager frowned. “James was raised by me.”
Bella cast Antonia a murderous glance at this comment.
“I adore you, Antonia, but I should not like very much to be raised by you. Nor you either.” Penelope gazed first at Antonia then Bella. “Forgive me for speaking freely before my betters, but both of you are so completely wrapped up in yourselves you cannot see what your fights did to James, and indeed are still doing to him.”
“You have turned him against me,” Bella accused Antonia, clearly choosing to hear only parts of what Pen said.
“If I have had any influence on his ability to discern good character and people of quality, then I consider my efforts to raise this child his mother abandoned a success,” declared Antonia in an insufferably superior tone.
“I never abandoned him, as you well knew,” cried Bella. “You threatened to have him sent away from the house and raised as a virtual pauper had I not left.”
“I did what I knew was best. You must have agreed, since you made no effort, even after all these years, to return. Do not try to play the innocent with me, Bella.”
“I had my reasons,” said Bella stiffly.
“Enough!” Penelope attempted to once again intervene. “You both continue to fight and bicker and have chased Marchford away from you. Whatever this feud is between you, can you not find resolution? I understand, Antonia, that you did not approve of your son’s choice of wife in his second marriage, but since he has long been in his grave, could you not forgive?”
“I have forgiven him. It is this jade before me I cannot abide,” said Antonia.
“Bella, you were so very young when you came here. Mistakes were made on both sides, but you have returned now, and I can tell you that your son has never stopped searching for you or thinking of you with fondness. Can you not attempt civility with your son’s grandmother for his sake?” asked Pen.
“There is nothing I would not do for my son,” declared Bella.
Antonia opened her mouth for a retort, but Penelope stopped her. “You confided in me only yesterday that you had not raised James to be a friend to love. Now that you have found your happy ending, can you not allow James to find one as well?”
Antonia shifted in her seat, glowering at Penelope. After some internal struggle, her face relaxed and she sighed. “I have only ever wanted what was best for James.”
“The one thing you both can agree upon is that James has grown to be a fine man,” continued Penelope, thrilled with even a modicum of success in the reconciliation front.
Both dowager duchesses nodded.
“Good.” Pen clutched her skirts beside her, trying to keep her voice calm as she said the boldest thing she had ever spoke. “I must declare that I intend to wed the Duke of Marchford, though thanks to you both, he now has no intention to marry me or anyone. I feel obliged to inform you both that I intend to marry him by any means necessary. If this should cause ongoing animosity between us, I should like to know now.”
“If we were to object, what then?” asked Antonia with a frown.
Penelope took a deep breath. “I will still proceed as planned. But I would suggest to James that we live on the Continent until you pass away.”
Bella’s smile grew. “I give this plan my hardiest support.”
“You would,” muttered Antonia, but to Penelope she said, “I would like to see my grandson conduct himself with a modicum of decorum, but somewhere between the geese, the swans, and the milkmaids, I am convinced this house will not be set to rights until the two of you are wed. So by all means, do whatever is necessary.”
“Don’t forget the nine drummers this morning,” added Penelope, her heart pounding from her own boldness and Antonia’s support.
“Swans? Drummers?” asked Bella, but Antonia waved off the question.
“Love matches are rare. You must not let him get away,” said Antonia in a soft voice.
Relief washed over her. She had expected to join the ranks of the combatants, but now, somehow in the sitting room overrun with Christmastide, she had found acceptance. “Thank you, Antonia. Thank you, Bella. I shall do my best. But first, I must find him.” Penelope stood and curtsied to the former duchesses. “Good day.”
Silence fell upon the sitting room in Penelope’s absence.
“She will make a fine duchess,” said Bella finally.
“Yes,” agreed Antonia. “All the Duchesses of Marchford are of a strong, determined nature.”
“Indeed. They most certainly are.”
Thirty-five
Marchford did not know where he was going when he left the house, only that he needed to escape. He had never felt more betrayed. Without thought, he ended up at the door of William Grant, who greeted him with exuberance.
“Come in, come in,” said Grant in a hushed tone, catching him before the butler announced him to the party in the sitting room. “No, you do not wish to go there. Come with me.” Grant looked over his shoulder like a marked man and led him into the study.
“What is all this about?” asked Marchford as Grant cautiously shut the door behind them.
“Motherhood, babies, can’t escape it. Everywhere.”
“I’m sure fatherhood will agree with you. Congratulations,” said Marchford.
“No, no, you don’t understand. It is not so much that I am going to be a father as Genie is going to be a mother. It has brought here every female relation from bo
th our families. I am overrun by women.”
Marchford raised an eyebrow. “And this disturbs you?”
“They take no notice of me! Their conversations are unguarded and have taken to speaking of…unmentionable things.”
Marchford tried to think of what Grant’s genteel female relations could discuss that would have him so disturbed and came up blank. “What things?” he asked in a hushed tone.
“Womanly things,” whispered Grant ominously. “Birthing positions, breast feeding, what to do with umbilical cords—oh no, it is too much.”
Marchford was taken aback. “That is too awful. Why don’t you go to the club?”
“Can’t. Baby may pop out any second. Must be here for it.”
“But what have you to do with it?”
“That is exactly what I told them!” Grant poured himself a drink, which appeared suspiciously like lemonade. Ever since marrying Genie, Grant’s drinking habits had taken a decided turn toward sobriety. “They laughed. Thought it was in fun. Said I was more sensitive than other husbands who abandon their wives. Now I am good and stuck!”
“And I thought I had problems.” Marchford shook his head.
“What problems can you have? Grandma just got married. Going to marry Penelope yourself. All is right with you.”
“My mother returned.”
Grant dropped his lemonade. “What?”
“My mother is alive. She had been coerced by my grandmother to leave when I was young, then entered into service with the Foreign Office, whose agents kept her existence from me, and worked as a foreign spy. Now she is in my house with Penelope and most likely my grandmother.”
Grant stared at him and then shrugged. “All right, you win. Your day is worse. Do you think it wise to leave the house? What if your relations kill each other in your absence?”
“Then one of my problems would be solved,” muttered Marchford.
“And you could live happily ever after with Penelope.”
“Cannot do that either. I broke off the engagement,” sighed Marchford.
Grant stared at him again. “Now why do a fool thing like that?”
“Because my family is ready for Bedlam! She will be much happier in the future without me.”
“Is that so? How did she take the news?”
“Poorly,” Marchford admitted.
“For a smart man, you can be a true idiot.” Grant waved off Marchford’s defense. “You love her. She loves you. Anyone who has spent more than two minutes with the two of you together knows it.”
“My character is that obvious?”
“Your affection for her is. Quick now, go back and tell her.” Grant smiled at him with bright eyes.
Marchford shook his head. “On this I am resigned. I shall never marry. Penelope wants to be loved, but I am not capable of the emotion. She deserves better.”
Grant shook his head. “And they say I am the slow one. You already are in love with her.”
Marchford shook his head, but even he no longer believed the denial. He took up a deck of cards, and Grant was content to play and let the dangerous topic of love drop. They spent much of the day hiding from the womenfolk. Some might call it cowardice, but they each accepted their discretion with equanimity. The women were talking marriage and babies. The only recourse for real men was hiding. So they did.
Around midnight came the word that Genie was going into labor. Any callousness Grant may have expressed disappeared, and he took up camp outside her door. Marchford wished them both well, suspecting that Genie was in much better condition than Grant, and left for home.
His brush with marital bliss, along with Grant’s firm contention that he was already in love with Penelope, had set his head to spinning. What he needed was a good night’s sleep.
He called for his valet when he returned home, and the efficient man had him quickly dressed for bed and retreated back to his own quarters. With a sigh, James put the candle on the side table and pulled back the curtains to the bed. It was a cold night, and the heavy curtains would be appreciated. He sat down wearily only to hear a sharp feminine squeak.
He bounded up and grabbed the light. “Penelope?”
Penelope gave him a sheepish wave as she peeked up at him from under the blankets.
“What on earth are you doing in my bed?”
“Trying to stay warm.”
“Why not be warm in your own bed?” He must stay distant. He must not give in.
“Because I have news I must tell you. It cannot wait for morning. Oh, and if you continue to be stubborn and say you will not marry me, I will be forced to compromise you. Although, quite frankly, I have some mixed feelings about that, and so I am hoping to find you amenable.”
James stared at her. In the dim light, she hardly resembled the Penelope he knew, with her thick, brown hair tousled around her. From what he could see at the edge of the blankets, she was wearing some sort of lace night rail that revealed more than it hid. He was suddenly very interested in what lay beneath the blankets. All thoughts of remaining distant died just as parts of him he had attempted to deny jumped back to life.
“Wait, what did you say?” James now was utterly muddled. He could not think straight with her lying in his bed in a state of dishabille. Had she said something about compromising him? Sounded like a worthy plan.
Penelope gave a short sigh, as if he were a schoolboy not quite keeping up with his lessons. “I have important information to share with you about our investigations. I came here tonight dressed in this most revealing night rail to get your attention, so I could tell you and possibly compromise you and force you to marry me. I sat waiting for as long as I could, but it was not seductive; it was freezing. So I crawled into bed and must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember is you sitting on me.”
There was much in her statement to respond to, so he needed to prioritize and comment on the most critical first. “Exactly what are you wearing, Miss Rose?”
Penelope’s eyes danced in the candlelight and she sat up, letting the covers fall down. She was beautiful. The lace and gauzy material did not seem appropriate for winter at first blush, but the provocative nature of the night rail ensured the one wearing it would not be going to bed alone, so perhaps it was good for warming after all.
“May I?” He pointed to the bed, and she allowed him enough room to lie next to her. He shouldn’t be doing any of it, but he was so tired of fighting against his desire for Penelope he could not resist her. She curled up beside him, with her head on his shoulder and his arm around her waist. She fit him, just the way he always knew she would.
“This cannot change anything,” he murmured, a poor attempt at pushing her away as he was holding her close. Her shapely body woke parts of him, even as it tempted his brain to go into permanent hibernation.
Penelope snuggled into him. “This changes everything.”
“But you declared you wanted to be loved,” he protested.
“By marrying you, I shall have years to work on that project. I am content to continue to find ways to entice you. I brought tools.” She reached behind her and revealed a riding crop. “I couldn’t find the ostrich feather.” She sounded apologetic.
“Why on earth do you need a crop?” But now his imagination was running wild, and he was very much awake.
“I should begin by telling you that I went to visit the comtesse today.”
“I told you not to.”
“I know. When we are married you can hope for better control of me, though I doubt you will have much luck in that regard.”
“And the comtesse gave you a crop?”
“Yes!”
James was lost. “Why would she do that?”
“To smack you on the bottom, presumably.”
Now she had his complete attention. “I think you should begin at the begi
nning and tell me all.”
So Penelope told him the whole story of going to the comtesse’s house and being asked to become a courtesan and provide information from her lovers. When she told him about her first “lesson,” he had to bite his tongue to avoid crying out, though whether he was horrified or intrigued he did not wish to own.
“So I was correct at how she has become one of the richest ladies in London,” commented Marchford, holding her closer. “You put yourself at risk and saw things you should not have seen. I am only glad you escaped without further incident.”
“Yes. True. I really should be married now. I hope you can help remedy that.” She ran her fingers up and down his chest.
Her hair spilled over him, seductive and silky. There was nothing left to do but give up and roll her over onto her back to kiss her thoroughly. She wanted it; he was going to give it to her. Far from resisting, she ran her hands up and down his back, pulling him closer and threading her fingers through his hair.
He paused for a moment, breaking the kiss, considering his actions with whatever brainpower he had left. He knew if he continued, he would be forced to marry her.
Her fingers did not stop. She ran her hand under his nightshirt and gave his naked bottom a squeeze. “Don’t make me get the crop,” she whispered.
James groaned. She was going to kill him. Oh well. “I am certain you should not have been at any lessons, but I cannot bring myself to entirely regret it.” He moved down, kissing the soft, delicate skin of her throat, working down until he found the abundance of her bosom. He focused attentions on one and was gratified to hear her gasp.
“Oh, before I lose my mind, I need to tell you,” Penelope panted.
He moved his attentions to the other breast, unable to speak due to his all-encompassing work.
“Miles ran into the cellar when I was leaving.”
“Hmmmm.” He could not care less about the cat.
A Winter Wedding Page 27
