Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

P enelope found it a relief when the house party reached its close two days after the ball. Interest in her sudden engagement to the Duke of Walden had been incessant, from Annabelle’s innocent but insatiable curiosity to Lady Kebleford’s didactic lectures on married life and duty, which Duchess Madeline told Penelope to ignore.

“My brother says that the Duke of Walden is lucky to be marrying you,” Annabelle declared artlessly on their last afternoon in the Huntingdon Manor gardens. “Even with fortune and title, he says the duke could not have done better.”

The two of them kept Duchess Madeline company on the grass near the conservatory terrace while other young guests busied themselves with archery on the middle lawn. Tiring easily and feeling heavy on her feet, Madeline had excused herself from any further physical exertion to Duke Charles’s evident relief.

“Does he indeed?” Madeline laughed, lounging lazily in a well-cushioned chair and rubbing her belly. “Your brother Stephen certainly is a man with a lot of opinions.”

Sitting on a picnic blanket at Madeline’s feet, Penelope closed her book of poetry and sighed slightly. Annabelle and her brother Stephen, Lord Emberly, clearly still disapproved of Maxwell Crawford on some level. They simply couldn’t understand the situation, she supposed. But how could anyone really understand what she could barely grasp herself?

“He says that Duke Frederick must have been very impressed by Duke Maxwell this week to allow it,” Annabelle further declared. “My brother also said he would not have allowed me to marry a stranger, and a newcomer to the ton at that, so very easily.”

“Then isn’t it lucky that we only had one such man here this week and that he set his cap at Penelope rather than you? Stephen must be most relieved. I shall tell him of this lucky escape next time I see him.”

The duchess’ twinkling brown eyes sought Penelope’s and drew a smile from her in their shared affection for Annabelle despite her ingenuous, and some might say thoughtless, manner. It struck Penelope sadly that Frederick had likely not been that impressed with Maxwell at all. He simply did not care whom Penelope married as long as it brought honor rather than disgrace to the family.

“We must find a husband for you next, Annabelle,” Penelope proposed, attempting to switch the spotlight to her friend rather than dwell on Frederick’s lack of affection. “Who were your dancing partners at the ball?”

“Yes, you were in demand as I recall,” Madeline agreed, picking up Penelope’s lead.

“I danced only with men who hoped I could tell them more about your surprise engagement, Penelope,” Annabelle answered with some chagrin. “I doubt a single one asked me to dance for my own sake. Except for Frederick, who made me dance that reel at double speed just to tease me. I almost twisted my ankle!”

“He meant no ill,” Madeline said generously, recalling the humorous scene with a smile. “Anyway, he swept you up before you actually fell over.”

“Like I was still a little girl,” snorted Annabelle crossly. “It was most undignified. As usual, I danced with no one you could consider a serious prospect.”

“When Penelope is married, I am sure she will meet many eligible bachelors among Maxwell’s friends and can introduce you,” Madeline suggested. “I dare say the new Duchess of Walden will be giving a house party or two of her own in the near future.”

Penelope nodded, still too dazzled by the events of the recent week to think at all about the practical details of a future when she would be the Duchess of Walden.

“My brother probably wouldn’t like any of them,” replied Annabelle mournfully. “Sometimes it seems he doesn’t approve of anyone.”

“At least your brother is interested in you, Annabelle,” Penelope offered, patting her friend’s shoulder. “Take comfort in that.”

“I suppose so. But tell me, Penelope, when will you meet Victoria, the duke’s sister? What if she doesn’t like you?”

“I’ve been considering names for this baby,” Duchess Madeline broke in, cutting firmly across Annabelle now as she became too tactless for anyone’s comfort. “It does feel to me like they might be arriving sooner rather than later. Today I like Theodore for a boy and Regina for a girl. What do you think, Annabelle?”

“Oh, I do like Theodore,” declared Annabelle, tossing her strawberry-blonde hair in her enthusiasm. “How sweet it would be to have a baby boy named Theodore. Little Theo! Regina, I am less sure of…”

Successfully distracted, Annabelle rattled on about baby names with little further prompting, leaving Penelope to settle her thoughts once more. Or at least begin the attempt…

“May I join you, ladies?” asked Maxwell Crawford’s deep voice, dropping easily to the ground on the blanket beside Penelope after Madeline nodded her assent.

Any peace Penelope had begun to gather immediately dissipated with the consciousness of the Duke of Walden’s physical presence so close beside her. While he had not attempted to kiss her again since the night of the ball, he seemed to have been constantly on hand, preventing her from banishing the memory of his touch or forgetting its very physical effects.

Still, his presence also soothed her nervousness at the idea of Henry still upstairs and recovering from his fall. For whatever reason, his mother and sister had not sent a Silverbrook carriage as quickly as Duke Charles would have preferred. Despite Maxwell’s reassurance, Penelope half-worried that Henry might be delaying in order to travel back as he had arrived — in Frederick’s coach with Penelope and Annabelle.

“Bored with the archery already, Maxwell?” inquired the duchess. “I admit that our present party group is assembled more for good company and amusement than sporting expertise this time. I promise that next summer we will have a thoroughly sporting party with you and Charles in mind. I should be back up on horseback by then too.”

“Charles and I had our fill of shooting arrows in the woods around here when we were boys,” Maxwell laughed. “Today, he must play the good host down there on the lawn, but I am allowed to desert and seek the company of our estimable hostess, my fair betrothed, and her amiable friend.”

It was a short speech that drew an approving smile from Duchess Madeline, a more diffident smile from Penelope, and an expression of irritation from Annabelle, who did not welcome this male addition to their company.

“Well said, Maxwell, as always,” Madeline commended, then rose to her feet while waving to Maxwell and Penelope to remain seated. “Annabelle, might you accompany me to the retiring room? There are only a few stairs on the way, but Charles does not like me to take them alone right now.”

“Of course,” Annabelle said swiftly and solicitously, jumping up and offering Duchess Madeline her arm. “I would be glad to assist.”

“Do you need me to…” Penelope began to offer, the memory of Maxwell’s recent kisses, and the danger they implied, still all too fresh in her mind.

Butterflies erupted in her stomach at the very thought of being left alone with him again, even with other guests so close at hand. But her attempt at escape was quickly cut off by their hostess.

“No, no, not at all, Penelope. You should stay here with Maxwell. I’m sure you must have much to discuss before he leaves tonight.”

Duchess Madeline’s smile was good-natured but knowing. Penelope understood from it that she and Maxwell were deliberately being left alone in a way any other betrothed couple might welcome. Duchess Madeline was intending to be kind and give them time to get to know one another.

Only they weren’t like any other betrothed couple, were they? They had been propelled into this peculiar situation by circumstance, and Penelope’s head was still spinning.

“You’re going tonight?” Penelope asked Maxwell as conversationally as she could once the others were gone. “I thought everyone was leaving tomorrow.”

“As you might be aware, I have urgent business with my lawyers, my agents, and the Bishop of London,” Maxwell answered with a smile. “There is only so much I can accomplish by correspondence. The sooner I am back in the capital, the sooner our wedding can take place.”

Their wedding… The very words again filled Penelope’s stomach with butterflies and her mind with disbelief. If someone had told her a week ago that this would be her fate, she would have been incredulous. But it was all moving forward with the inevitability of a tide coming in.

Maxwell was going to obtain a license, the contract would be signed, and the ceremony would take place. Then there would be a wedding night, and — marriage of convenience or not — Maxwell’s passionate embraces implied his expectation that she would fulfill her conjugal duties. None of it could be stopped, and even if it could, the alternative of being further menaced and disgraced by Lord Silverbrook was worse.

Penelope swallowed, determined to make the best of the situation.

“Will I see you again before the wedding?” she asked the duke. “It all seems to be happening so very… quickly.”

The polite words died in her throat as she perceived the way Maxwell was regarding her, his eyes intent with longing and determination. She was his prize, and he had — almost — won her.

“It must be quick, Penelope. I am sorry for that, for your sake if not my own. But believe me that I will make this headlong rush up to you after we marry. There will be no haste then, and you will have no cause to regret being my wife. I hope you will learn to rejoice in it.”

Penelope’s face suffused with blood. She gathered that he was referring in some way to the marital act, but again, her rather functional knowledge in this area made it hard to follow him or respond intelligently.

“Then, I can only trust you,” she told him. “You have not failed me in fulfilling your end of this bargain, and I shall keep mine.”

“There will be no bargain in our bedroom, Penelope,” Maxwell answered in low tones, briefly bringing her hand to his lips. “You will give yourself to me freely or not at all. Remember that.”

“Oh!” Penelope exclaimed, her face positively flaming before dropping her voice again. “But, what if I… do not know how?”

“Then, I shall teach you,” her husband-to-be answered, “and we shall both enjoy every moment.”

He drew back slightly from her as he perceived Duke Charles marching up from the middle lawn, a footman trying to keep pace with him.

“That damned man!” Duke Charles blurted out as he saw Maxwell. “Do excuse my language, Lady Penelope. Would you believe that Silverbrook is continuing to tarry upstairs at Huntingdon manor? Mr. Jones cleared him to travel yesterday, and yet he is still here, whining and complaining of faintness. All his own damned fault! I’ll send him home in a wood cart if he’s not careful…”

“He won’t be traveling back with Frederick and I, will he?” Penelope asked anxiously. “I know he arrived with us, but…”

“Lady Penelope knows something of what was found in Lord Silverbrook’s rooms, and she naturally finds the idea of sharing a carriage with a drug fiend alarming,” Maxwell explained smoothly. “It wouldn’t do at all. I agree.”

“I’m sure your brother would not allow it, Lady Penelope,” said Charles. “Never mind that Stephen Elkins would likely explode if Lady Annabelle were exposed to such behavior. Madeline promised him faithfully that we would take good care of her in his absence. No, it would be quite impossible. I shall make that clear to him, among other things. Right now…”

Cracking his knuckles rather menacingly, Duke Charles stalked away, presumably towards the bedroom still occupied by his unwanted guest.

“Did he mean what he said about the cart?” Penelope asked Maxwell, wide-eyed. “I have never seen a duke throw a man into a wood cart.”

“Possibly,” laughed the Duke of Walden. “Charles certainly has a formidable temper and has physically ejected ill-behaved guests from this house before, so I think Silverbrook would be unwise to push him too far. However, I suspect Madeline will find a more diplomatic means to remove his unwanted presence with minimal fuss.”

“Yes, Duchess Madeline is very sensible,” Penelope commented, then looked curiously at Maxwell. “But what did you mean about Henry being a drug fiend?”

“Ah, Frederick did not tell you? I thought he might, but then, he is a good man and wrongly supposes that his friend Silverbrook deserves his confidence. In short, Henry Atwood is a habitual user of various recreational substances that most respectable people would not touch. He brought his drugs into Charles and Madeline’s house where they were discovered and disposed of.”

“So, that’s why Duke Charles is quite so angry,” Penelope thought aloud. “It makes perfect sense now. I doubt that Henry is ever a good man even when sober, but his moods and tempers are sometimes so uneven and unnatural. Your news explains a great deal. I will certainly be happier when he is far away from me.”

Penelope shuddered, prompting Maxwell to reach out an arm and stroke her cheek. She gave a faint, involuntarily cry at the almost fiery contact of his fingers on her skin.

“Do I make you nervous, Penelope?” the duke asked. “Would you rather I did not touch you now?”

Penelope did not know whether to nod or shake her head and settled for straightforward honesty.

“Not exactly nervous,” she said. “But I cannot think straight when you touch me like that. It is overwhelming, and I do not know what to think at all.”

“When we are married, I shall spend hours simply touching you like that until you do know what to think.”

Raising Penelope’s hand to his lips a second time, Maxwell Crawford rose to his feet, leaving her sitting on the blanket with one hand to her now breathless bosom.

“I will be gone before dinner, Lady Penelope, so I suppose we will meet again for our wedding.”

“Maxwell,” she said, causing him to pause in turning to walk away, “write to me.”

It was not a request she had intended to make or even considered, but somehow, the thought of weeks or even months without any contact from him was distressing. It would be worse not to hear anything.

“I will write to you,” he answered with a small bow of his head. “ Au revoir , Lady Penelope.”