Chapter Twenty-Three

H e heard the banns read for the first time in church that Sunday, and he presumed Penelope had done the same in her own church. He felt the eyes of all gathered settling upon him, at the news that he was to wed, and he heard the gossip as he left:

"I wonder what’s provoked that sudden change of heart."

"Seemed like he’d be a bachelor forever!"

"That castle needs a woman’s touch."

"Who is this Lady Penelope? Where is she now?"

As always, he did not engage. He listened to the sermon, and the banns, and was the first to leave, top hat in hand, at the end of the service.

He could have sped things up, of course – money could easily circumvent the rules. But he wasn’t ready to jump into an immediate marriage, even if it would only be in name. And besides, to do so would surely court scandal, which was exactly what they were trying to avoid by marrying.

He wondered if he ought to write to his sisters and inform them of his betrothal, or whether he could just wait until the marriage had taken place to inform them of the news. It wouldn’t particularly impact them, other than that he supposed Lady Penelope, as the duchess, could present Francesca at court, rather than needing to find a lady of the ton willing to sponsor them, as he had done with Cecily and Antonia.

It wasn’t going to change his life, either, he told himself as he rode back up the hill to Dunloch Castle. Yes, while she had stayed with him, she had disrupted his daily routine – but she wouldn’t be staying with him. She would be far away in England, perhaps in his home in Southampton or even his London townhouse, his wife in name but without any impact on his life.

Heirs would certainly be a consideration, but that did not need to be for a few years. After all, he hadn’t even planned to marry yet, so he was ahead of schedule. And then perhaps he would visit his children, or send for them to come to Scotland.

Nothing would change, other than that there would once again be a Duchess of Dunloch.

◆◆◆

Penelope sat in the front row of Amblewood Church, listening as her name and the Duke’s were read out in the banns.

Hearing his Christian name, James, sent a shiver down her spine. He had asked her to call him that, in the brief moment between proposing marriage and hating her. And yet she had never got a proper chance to use it. She’d not given him leave to drop the ‘lady’ from her name, even though she would happily have done so. There hadn’t been time – and of course, for most of their time together, she had pretended not to know her own name.

She winced even thinking of the ruse.

On either side of her, her parents sat, beaming proudly. They were thrilled that their only daughter, whose marriage prospects had been dwindling, was to become a duchess.

But all Penelope could think of was how wrong it all felt. How she would be marrying a man she cared for, perhaps even loved – if one could fall in love in just five days – yet he despised her.

She didn’t want to live apart from him. If she was going to marry him, and she truly did want to marry him, she wanted to do it properly.

She needed to find a way to earn his forgiveness.

Although she knew it was sinful, she spent the entire sermon devising a plan to win him back. Later, when one of her mother’s friends invited them to tea to celebrate the joyous news, she sat quietly and refined her ideas further. Ironically, it was her knack for coming up with plans that had landed her in this predicament.

"You’re very quiet, dear," Lady Malrose remarked in her overly blue parlour. "Are you thinking of your betrothed?" she asked with a sickly-sweet smile. "Young love – what a thing to remember." She sighed wistfully.

Penelope forced a smile. She was indeed thinking of the Duke – or James, as she supposed she ought to start thinking of him. But not in the way Lady Malrose imagined. Theirs was not the tale of young love she so clearly envisioned.

By the time they arrived home, Penelope had a plan. She didn’t know if it was a good one, but it was the best she could manage – and, at the very least, it shouldn’t make things worse. After all, things between her and the Duke could hardly get any worse.

"Are you still planning to go to London for the Season?" she asked her mother as they sat embroidering in the parlour that evening.

Her mother looked rather taken aback. "Well, there’s not really any need, with you having secured a betrothed, and with your wedding so soon…"

"Could we go, just for a week?" Penelope asked.

"I must say, I’m surprised to hear you ask. You’ve made no secret of your opinions of London in the past," her mother replied with a delicate frown.

"I have no love for the city," Penelope agreed. "But I should like to purchase new garments for my trousseau…and I don’t think Madam Caine in Amblewood is quite up to the task."

She hated telling more lies, but they were for the greater good. She was perfectly satisfied with Madam Caine’s work and hadn’t even thought about her trousseau until her mother had mentioned it earlier. But now, it provided the perfect excuse to go to London. She was to be a duchess, after all – she could not have second-rate garments.

And, thankfully, her mother agreed.

"An excellent thought, my dear. If we leave at once, stay for two weeks at the most, and have the items sent back to us if they are not ready… Yes, I think it’s doable. You should write to your betrothed, though, to let him know where you are – just in case he wishes to visit before the wedding."

Penelope had already told her parents that she, and they, would return to Dunloch for the wedding in two months’ time, as the Duke decreed. But she knew they found it odd that he didn’t wish to meet her family before the day itself, nor had he contacted them to discuss the terms of her dowry. Her mother was most disappointed by the small wedding with no great celebration, but all of it had been left to the Duke to arrange.

Had Penelope been entering into a love match, confident her feelings were returned, she wouldn’t have minded what sort of ceremony they had. But knowing how he felt about her, and that the whole arrangement was, in essence, another lie, made her bitter. She was losing the wedding day she’d imagined, the one her parents had dreamed of since she was a little girl.

And yet, once again, she knew she had no one to blame but herself. She had taken away her own choices with her reckless decision to deceive him, playing fast and loose with her reputation – a reputation she’d been warned to guard for as long as she could remember.

Still, she was determined to make it right. And to do that, she needed to be in London. For in London lived the Duke’s sisters – and she could think of no one better to help her find a way back into his good graces.

◆◆◆

The Duke, meanwhile, had no plans for their wedding beyond inviting Penelope’s parents. He couldn’t stop the residents of Dunloch from gathering at the church, if they wished – and, given his title and the unexpected marriage, he wouldn’t be surprised if they did. But there would be no celebration afterwards, no wedding breakfast, no dancing.

He was doing what was right. Her parents, of course, would want to be there as witnesses. But once they left, so would she – to whichever estate he chose for her.

He hadn’t yet decided. For some reason, it was hard to picture her in any of them.

Her free spirit seemed ill-suited to the confines of his London townhouse, and the manor in Southampton, though beautiful, felt desolate compared to her bright, sunny nature.

When his thoughts turned to making her happy, he scolded himself. That was not the aim. She had put them in this situation, and she would reap the rewards of her actions. She would be a Duchess, with a title and wealth beyond imagination. She could hold balls, attend events, and socialise to her heart’s content.

She would have her freedom, and he would have his.

So why, he wondered, was he agonising so much over where to place her?

Having read once again the parchment entitled ‘Timothy Simmons,’ James leant back in his chair and sighed. He was distracted – there was no doubting it. Distracted by learning of the existence of this Timothy, distracted by questions of whether his own title meant as much to him with the knowledge that it could have so easily been someone else’s, and distracted by thoughts of Lady Penelope.

He did not want to think of her. But somehow, she kept worming her way into his thoughts. What was she doing at Amblewood? Was she getting herself into trouble? How would her parents take the news of her engagement? Was she regretting the decision to agree to his proposal of marriage – especially with the caveats he had imposed?

And then the ever-present, niggling question that he refused to think about, but which would not leave him alone: did he truly wish to live separately from her?

He was still angry at her for lying to him, and he thought her foolish, and yet still when he envisioned them wed, he pictured her at Dunloch Castle, her laughter tinkling through the halls, her auburn hair loose down her back as she roamed the corridors, exploring, trying to get him to join her on one of her excursions.

With an irritated sigh at the direction his thoughts had once again travelled, James turned his attention back to the parchment before him.

He knew Timothy’s name and where he lived…but for now, he did not think there was anything he wished to do with that information. So many lives would be affected, and for what? For him to meet with a man who shared his blood, yes, but who had been a stranger to him for his entire life.

Perhaps one day, he thought, locking the parchment away in his desk, he would want to know more, want to meet him. But for now, it seemed fairer to leave things be.

Because, as he told himself regularly, it didn’t really change anything. He was the Duke of Dunloch, and he would be for the rest of his life.