Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

T he sun was shining brightly from the moment Penelope rose and looked out of her bedroom window across the gardens at the rear of Huntingdon Manor. The weather would provide no excuse for her not to walk with the Duke of Walden today, the thought of him instantly making her heart beat faster.

“What dress shall I lay out, Your Ladyship?” asked the Huntingdon Manor maid she shared with Annabelle during the house party. “A day dress or a riding habit, perhaps, if you prefer to ride before breakfast.”

“No,” replied Penelope quickly, recalling Maxwell’s intention to ride before breakfast and feeling unprepared for the chance of an impromptu meeting. “But I shall be walking later. Please put out my blue muslin walking dress and the light brown jacket.”

“Very well, Your Ladyship,” agreed the maid, who bustled away to the wardrobe while Penelope went to the washstand and splashed cold water on her face and neck.

She briefly considered pleading a headache or twisted ankle, but she was not dishonest by nature and found the idea distasteful. Any pretended affliction would also draw attention from Annabelle and Frederick, something she was still keen to avoid while the threat of the incident on the stairs still hung over her.

There was also a third and highly unnerving reason that Penelope shrank from calling off the walk she had agreed to take with the Duke of Walden. She didn’t want to.

“The upper gardens at Walden House have a very similar layout to Huntingdon Manor,” commented Maxwell Walden as they descended the stairs to the middle lawns, Frederick and Annabelle a few paces behind and already bickering over whether or not Frederick had trodden on Annabelle’s skirt. “The house is the same period too. I half wonder if they were laid out by the same gardener.”

“You don’t know?” Penelope asked with a frown.

“I’ve only been there twice yet,” the duke laughed, his steadfast blue eyes so full of good humor today that she could almost forget Henry lying half-conscious in the house or the disconcerting fact that she had already been so close to Maxwell Crawford’s half-naked body.

Or maybe not quite forget that latter fact. She had not been able to forget that experience for a single hour, and her cheeks glowed again now with the unbidden memory. However, this man presented himself, and however he made her body feel, he was still a virtual stranger, and their marriage was not one of choice.

“You have been the Duke of Walden only a matter of months,” she recalled, trying to return her thoughts to mundane and unthreatening matters rather than the way the muscles in his arms rippled as he moved, the pulse throbbing in his neck as his hands held her so indecently close to him, or the fact that he would soon possess the rights to her body itself.

“Yes, and most of that time I have been in London dealing with legal and administrative matters around the estate. We will be exploring Walden House together.”

As he spoke further of Walden House, his voice was warm and his words unthreatening. Penelope found herself relaxing in Duke Maxwell’s company, enjoying the strength of the arm on which her gloved hand lay. If he had not also triggered such improper turmoil in her body and mind, he might have made her feel safe in a way that she had not felt since childhood.

“Look! That mark is certainly the toe of a shoe on my white muslin,” complained Annabelle’s voice behind them, catching both of their attention.

“Well, then, you should learn to hold up your skirts like a young lady instead of trailing them in the dust like a little girl playing with her mother’s dress,” Frederick retorted.

“I do not trail my skirt in the dust! You’re the one who doesn’t look where you put your great, galumphing feet.”

“What do you want me to do, Annabelle? Walk ten paces behind you? Or throw you over my shoulder and carry you like a sack of potatoes to keep your dress clean? Don’t tempt me.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Annabelle squeaked.

Maxwell was laughing now, a deep throaty laugh with amusement that went all the way up to those fascinating blue eyes.

“Are they always like this?” he asked Penelope in a low voice.

“Always,” Penelope confirmed with a sigh. “Frederick has always been a terrible tease with Annabelle. He doesn’t seem to realize that she has grown up now and isn’t the little girl she used to be. He would never speak so to Lady Gordney…”

Penelope stopped and bit her lip. Discussing her brother’s current lover was neither a proper subject of conversation for a young lady nor one she wished to broach with Maxwell Crawford.

“I expect not,” said the duke. “But then, I expect his conversation with Lady Gordney is largely non-verbal and likely one of many similar… conversations. It is better that Lady Annabelle sees this side of him, is it not?”

Blood rising in her cheeks, Penelope nodded and kept her eyes on the path, allowing Maxwell Crawford to lead the way. It took some minutes before she realized that Annabelle and Frederick’s voices were some distance away and receding while she stood alone with the Duke of Walden beside a sundial in the rose gardens.

“Your Grace,” she murmured, looking around them with her hands on her hips and finding no one in sight in any direction. “We should not lose the others. I must rescue Annabelle from Frederick before she really turns on him.”

“If your friend wished to be rescued from your brother, she would have indicated that long ago,” the duke smiled. “And now that we are alone, you must call me Maxwell. I insist.”

“Maxwell, we cannot be alone like this. What if someone were to find us here together like this?”

“I suppose I would have to marry you,” he reflected philosophically, making Penelope laugh in spite of herself.

It was true. Their course was already set, and any discovery now would only speed the public acknowledgment of their fate, not their final destination.

The sun was so warm, the sky so clear, and Maxwell Crawford so very tall, strong, and handsome in front of her as he took her hands in his without resistance.

“You really should not touch me,” Penelope breathed, the entwining of their fingers making her throb deep inside. “You know that.”

He shook his head in smiling disagreement.

“I really think I should, if only to see this expression on your face again or to make you look forward to our wedding rather than worrying over damned Silverbrook.”

“Maxwell,” she sighed, feeling as though she were falling under some kind of spell woven by the springtime, the heady scent of early roses, and the proximity of an undeniably attractive man. “I don’t know what you mean by all this, but I’m afraid of where it might lead.”

“It leads here,” said the duke, and then she was fully in his arms, his face only inches from hers, and the sun around him like a halo.

When Maxwell’s lips touched hers, the surge of energy between them was magnetic, and Penelope found her arms had moved to embrace him of their own accord. Kisses that began as light explorations soon became deeper and more intoxicating, Penelope feeling more lost in the effects of the Duke of Walden’s touch than she had ever been in wine.

His lips became more insistent, trailing all the way down her throat and even across the slight portion of her bosom revealed by the neckline of her jacket. His hands were on her face, her arms, her back, or lightly on her hips, drawing her towards him. Maxwell seemed to know exactly where to caress, stroke, or kiss in order to elicit a bewildering craving for more.

The pleasure of this encounter was incredible, but Penelope also sensed the danger in their embrace ever more strongly. He must stop. Surely he must stop — the duke could not be thinking to go further here and now? Whatever he did next, she was powerless now to prevent it.

What if this whole marriage-of-convenience idea had only been a ruse to lower her guard and Maxwell Crawford was no better than Henry Atwood? A tremor of real fear passed through her at this catastrophic thought.

“No!” Penelope cried out, pulling herself back and almost sobbing with relief when she found that he had instantly released her.

“Were my kisses too rough? Forgive me, Lady Penelope,” he panted, straightening up and raising his somewhat tousled head.

No, Maxwell Crawford was not a rake, thank God! Their planned marriage was a reality, not a ruse. But he was still dangerous. The duke had stopped at her request, which was reassuring, but there was still something like fire in his eyes. What if he kissed her again so she forgot her fears and allowed him to continue? Or even pleaded for it?

“You weren’t rough, only… I was afraid,” Penelope tried to explain.

Maxwell nodded, his face serious, although he did not seem upset with her objections at all.

“This was foolish of me,” he conceded, smoothing his jacket and waistcoat, which Penelope was vaguely aware had been disordered by her own hands. “Come, let us put temptation out of reach.”

Frederick and Annabelle were still arguing when Penelope and Maxwell found them again. They seemed to have scarcely noticed the other couple's absence for the past few minutes.

“Nonsense, Annabelle. I am perfectly fit and healthy. I do not go out any more often than any other young man of my acquaintance, and my habits are more moderate than you might think.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard, Frederick. I’ve heard that in London you’re out every night, sometimes with actresses and chorus girls, and that every barman knows your name and face.”

“Your damned brother should learn to keep his mouth shut! Anyway, if all the barmen know me, that’s because I’m a valued customer who is always polite and pays my bill on time. You insult me with my virtues, Annabelle, and it won’t work.”

“There you are, Brother,” interrupted Penelope with a forced impression of a carefree smile. “For a moment, we thought you and Annabelle had deliberately run off and left us.”

“Hardly,” Frederick snorted. “It is simply hard to remember the paths in this place while being harangued about my supposedly dissolute lifestyle by your gossiping friends. Compared to Henry, I’m an angel in human form.”

“I do not doubt that,” Penelope said. “Now, Annabelle and I shall take a turn together while you walk with Duke Maxwell. That way you will both get some relief, won’t you?”

Annabelle gave an irritated harrumph, which left Penelope in two minds about whether she welcomed the change of walking partner. Still, she linked her friend’s arm firmly as though the familiarity of Lady Annabelle Elkins could tether her back to the earth again instead of soaring off into daydreams of being in Duke Maxwell’s arms among the roses.

What if they had not stopped? How far could such kisses and caresses have gone? Penelope had always understood the sexual act between men and women to be something quick and almost mechanical, accomplished in darkness and secrecy without great fuss. She sensed that she had been wrong but could not understand yet how.

The Duke of Walden wanted something more from her than that and seemed able to call up previously unknown feelings from her depths. She had told the truth when she said that these feelings frightened her and had been relieved at how quickly he stopped in response.

Still, Penelope knew that once they were married, there would be no going back, and she must then reap the whirlwind however it manifested.

“I hope you’re not mooning over Duke Maxwell,” said Annabelle unexpectedly once the two men were sufficiently ahead on the path with their longer legs.

“What?!” exclaimed Penelope, hiding her self-conscious blushes in pretended amazement. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Penelope,” her friend sighed, “do you think I really wanted to put up with Frederick’s impudence for quite so long this morning? I had to distract him so that he wouldn’t notice that the two of you had wandered off. Do you know how worried and angry he would be if he thought anyone was taking advantage of you?”

Penelope looked down soberly and considered her words with care. Annabelle was a true friend, but she still seemed very young at times and could not be expected to understand things like Duchess Madeline or some other slightly older woman. She certainly wouldn’t understand that Frederick didn’t really care for his sister, although he did care about scandal and the family name.

“I promise you that Duke Maxwell has not taken advantage of me in any way. Quite the contrary. Frankly, I am likely safer with him than with any man, apart from Frederick.”

“That might just be what he wants you to think,” Annabelle said with what she likely intended as a knowing expression. “He might be luring you into a false sense of security.”

“Annabelle, stop it,” Penelope scolded a little. “Whatever Stephen has said about Maxwell Crawford, the duke really is an honorable man. He is guilty of nothing worse than being a tradesman’s grandson.”

“Stephen says that blood will always tell…”

“Really?!” snapped Penelope. “Then how do you explain Henry? The Viscounts of Silverbrook go back at least five centuries without a drop of common blood, and yet the present Lord Silverbrook is a drunk, a fool, and a blackguard!”

Annabelle’s mouth fell open at this volley of ire against Lord Silverbrook, although she did not argue with it. She knew enough from her brother to at least suspect that Penelope spoke the truth.

“If Henry is that bad, then why is Frederick his friend?” she asked tentatively. “However much I rail at your brother, and he is a dreadful tease, I know him to be a gentleman at heart.”

“I don’t know why,” Penelope admitted. “But I wish he weren’t. I’d rather Frederick made friends with Duke Maxwell or Duke Charles, but I think they are too serious for him yet.”

They walked in thoughtful silence for a short while before Annabelle spoke again.

“If Duke Maxwell isn’t flirting or seeking to take advantage of you, then why is he paying you such attention, Penelope? You don’t think he’s thinking of… marriage, do you? Would your mother and Frederick let you marry him?”

“Let me? I’m three-and-twenty, and Maxwell Crawford is a duke, Annabelle,” replied Penelope as patiently as she could, looking ahead at the tall figure walking beside her brother, sunlight in his golden-brown hair. “Do you know, the first thing he ever told me was that he always gets what he wants…”

She stopped herself and tried to clear her head of that memory, seeking instead a way to close her conversation with Annabelle on a note that was both truthful and unsuspicious.

“Maxwell Crawford can look after his own interests,” Penelope stated at last, “and I’m tired of talking of my own. Let’s look to you instead today. Now, is there anyone at the house party of interest to you? Or any guests coming to the ball?”

“Not a soul,” sighed Annabelle. “I know I’ll end up a wallflower as usual except for a few sympathy dances with Frederick. That’s how it always is. You’ll be married to some great man before you know it, and I’ll end up a spinster…”

Penelope smiled and shook her head, not able to acknowledge that at least the first half of Annabelle’s prediction was about to come true.