Lady at last

by Annabelle Anders

  LADY AT LAST

  Annabelle Anders

  Lady at Last

  Annabelle Anders

  Copyright © 2019 Annabelle Anders

  EPUB Edition

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Hell Hath No Fury

  Read More by Annabelle Anders

  CHAPTER ONE

  A miracle.

  It had taken a miracle to change Penelope Cross’s mind about spinsterhood, but her mind had changed, nonetheless.

  Penelope wrinkled her nose. Had it been a miracle? It was simply a baby. A birth. The creation of life.

  Perhaps it was a miracle, after all. Penelope placed her gloved hands atop the sturdy fence post, leaned her head forward, and pressed it against the wood. The air was crisp; the sun bright. A bit of snow remained in the shaded areas of the meadow.

  It ought to be a perfectly normal February evening.

  But it was not.

  After thirty-six hours of labor pains, her dear friend, Lilly, the Duchess of Cortland, had finally given birth to a tiny, red-faced, wiggling, and wrinkled human. He was all of two hours old.

  Penelope had witnessed the entire event. And oh, what a spectacle it had been. One would think at the ripe age of eight-and-twenty that nothing could change her mind about what she wanted in life. But this…

  Seeing a child enter the world…

  Well, it had.

  And the craziest thought had developed as she’d assisted the midwife in cleaning the squirming, slimy little creature before handing him over to his exhausted mother.

  I want one.

  Which, of course, changed everything.

  Because Penelope had long ago given up any hope of capturing the attention of her one true love. And if she could not have him, she didn’t want anybody else. She would never marry; she had decided so just this past fall.

  And now this!

  This bodily need—this hunger—had hit her so very unexpectedly. An emptiness had opened up inside of her, an emptiness that could only be filled by making her own little screaming human.

  She smiled and covered her mouth with one hand, tears flowing down her cheeks. The look on Lilly’s face, in her eyes, when Penelope had handed her the blanketed bundle. Total fulfillment.

  Penelope swiped at her tears and sniffled.

  Lilly’s husband, the Duke of Cortland, had been in awe—of both his wife and his son. For theirs was a marriage of love. Not only did the duke have his heir now, but he and Lilly and that miniature human were a family now.

  Penelope did not begrudge them. In fact, most of the girls who’d befriended her when she’d first entered society were now married. Not only married but happily so. Even Abigail! The least likely of them all to wed!

  Again, the image of tiny little hands, tiny little feet and toes, tiny little everything, clouded her vision. And again, she experienced the hunger.

  I want one!

  But how? Well, the answer was obvious. Penelope sighed. I’ll have to find myself a man! A husband to be exact.

  As Penelope marched back toward Summer’s Park, the duke’s large country estate near Exeter, she mentally calculated which gentlemen of her acquaintance she’d be willing to tolerate. Since he was most definitely not interested, she was going to have to find somebody else. Somebody she could bear for the remainder of her life—or his, whichever the case may be.

  She could always set her sights upon one of his brothers. But Penelope quickly dismissed the notion.

  If she could not have him, then she most definitely did not wish to become a part of his family.

  No, she would have to find some other lucky gent.

  Hugh Chesterton, the Viscount of Danbury, was the most obvious choice. Except Danbury had eluded marriage for as long as she’d known him. Nearly ten years, in fact!

  Ouch. This fact reminded her that the next London season would be her tenth. Most would consider her firmly upon the shelf. At eight and twenty, she could never hope to take the ton by storm. She’d become something more along the lines of a drizzle. She personified London itself—in the form of a woman. Had she really participated in a decade of seasons?

  Not to be distracted by these negative thoughts, Penelope enumerated to herself the reasons Danbury would be a good choice.

  Proximity, first and foremost.

  He was, at this very moment, lounging in Cortland’s study consuming copious amounts of celebratory scotch. For this was where the gentlemen had spent the past twenty or so hours awaiting the news of a safe delivery for the duchess and their little marquess.

  Tolerability as well.

  Hugh, as a friend, could very possibly be molded into a tolerable husband. He was pleasant, had a fine sense of humor, and wasn’t a complete idiot.

  Neither was he hard on the eyes.

  And ah, yes, suitability. As a viscount, he was born of a fine lineage. Her parents would not find any fault in him whatsoever. Which wasn’t really an issue for Penelope, but it would make things easier.

  Availability.

  Hmmm… this was an uncertainty. Not that Danbury was actually attached to any other female of her acquaintance, but he had certainly been successful in escaping wedlock thus far.

  The debutantes who’d set their sights upon Viscount Danbury had gone about attempting to capture him in all the wrong ways. They’d endeavored to seduce him with their frills, sighs, batting eyelashes, and empty-headed opinions.

  But Penelope had an advantage. She knew Hugh.

  She knew him for what he was. A bit of a rogue. He preferred a turn of the ankle to a pretty blush any day. He preferred cleavage to lace, passion to infatuation, and he also preferred…

  Red hair.

  How did she know this? How could she not know this? Every demi-mondaine he’d ever appeared with had had red hair. Quite honestly, he must have worked his way through piles and piles of the stuff. And why had Penelope noticed this tendency?

  Well, she had red hair herself. Not the brassy, deep-colored red hair of Danbury’s lady friends, but a sun-kissed sort of red, closer to blond, but definitely red.

  This could come in quite handy.

  And, she reasoned with herself, Danbury needed to marry eventually. He was halfway through his
thirties, for heaven’s sake. He might as well marry her. They got along well enough. Aside from some occasional bickering, that was.

  She was a baron’s daughter and tolerably pretty when she put forth an effort. She had a decent-sized dowry, and she was smart as a whip.

  Well, perhaps he would not appreciate the last attribute in his wife at first, but eventually, he would be forced to admit that such a characteristic made for a considerable asset in the woman one married.

  With her as his wife, he would not beggar any of his estates, nor would he cast any unwise votes in Parliament.

  Yes, Danbury could use such a guiding hand as hers.

  The cool air sent a shiver through her as she entered the large open foyer of the ancient castle. It reminded her of entering a cathedral—or a museum. The large home at Summer’s Park certainly boasted enough artwork and sculptures to rival either. She handed her coat, bonnet, and gloves to the stoic butler and then commenced climbing the long curving staircase to the upper floors.

  Would Danbury still be in the study?

  Would he be alone?

  Penelope stopped to glance in a mirror at one of the landings and pushed a few tendrils of hair behind her ears. She then removed her fichu and tucked it into her skirt. Shimmying her shoulders a bit, she leaned forward and plumped her breasts upward, so they were nearly coming out of her stays. Ah, yes, a bit of cleavage was just what she needed. She bit her lips to plump them up as well.

  Much better. Studying herself again, she untucked the hair from behind her ears and pulled out a few hairpins. The released strands made her look softer… less the spinster she’d been for several years now.

  Her eyes were shining, and her cheeks were a bit reddened from the cold outside. Penelope bit her lips one last time and smoothed her skirts.

  If Danbury was to be the father to her child, she’d best get to work now.

  She spun on her heel and marched purposefully toward the masculine study, her plan to land a husband underway.

  Later, she would consider that perhaps she ought to have slept on the matter first—allowed herself a few days to consider the matter practically. One didn’t always make the wisest of decisions when they’d gone two days without sleep.

  Hugh leaned back and swung one leg over the armrest of the ancient leather chair he preferred while visiting Summer’s Park. He was more than a little foxed. Cortland had deserted him over an hour ago to go to his duchess and newborn son, leaving Hugh to his own devices. The two men had paced the study for ages before receiving the news of Lilly’s safe delivery. Well, Cortland had paced anyhow. Hugh had languished on the comfortable settee, sipping scotch—liberal amounts of it. And now, even though he had every intention of retiring to the guest chamber he normally used, his body refused to obey. He really must cut back on the spirits.

  Guilt groused at him. He ought to be traveling north. He needed to investigate rumors of tenant unrest at his estate near Manchester. He’d only detoured to Summer’s Park to consult with Cortland before addressing the situation, but then Lilly had gone into labor, and he could not leave his oldest friend at such a distressing time!

  That had been two days ago.

  Tomorrow, he would depart.

  Hearing footsteps approach the corridor, Hugh glanced toward the door, expecting to see Cortland. He would be strutting like a peacock, no doubt, having sired a son first time around. Preparing for another toast, Hugh reached for the decanter of scotch but then stopped when he saw that it was not Cortland.

  Definitely not Cortland.

  Rather, it was a disheveled Penelope Crone. The good old girl was one of the rare single ladies with whom a bachelor was safe to find himself alone. As an unmarried viscount, he remained vigilantly mindful of ambitious mamas and debutantes. He enjoyed his bachelor status far too much to risk it for a peck and a feel.

  No, Penelope, a confirmed spinster, was as reluctant to marry as he.

  Except, this evening, there was something different about her.

  As she entered the room, her hips swayed in a manner he’d almost consider beguiling. Very unusual. Penelope was pragmatic about all things. Was she ill? Was she foxed? Holy hell, he must have drowned in his cups, because damned if Practical Pen wasn’t looking as though she wanted to seduce him!

  Surely, he was mistaken.

  Her cheeks flushed crimson, and her lips tilted upward in a secret sort of smile. Soft tufts of reddish golden hair framed her face. Hugh also could not fail to notice that her breasts were very close to spilling out the top of her bodice.

  He pulled his leg off the chair and sat up straight. “Pen,” he nearly choked when she leaned forward, giving him an even better view of her…, “I trust all is well with mother and babe?”

  Hugh had known Penelope for ages and being alone with her was not something he’d normally find concerning. She was like a cousin to him, practically a sister! Obviously, assisting the ladies with the long birth had brought about her unusually disheveled appearance. She’d most likely not slept in over twenty-four hours. This sensuality in her gaze was surely an aberration—the concoction of her tousled appearance and too much scotch on his part.

  And then she turned toward the window, raised her hands up and behind her neck, and stretched, like a feline soaking up the sun. Her position thrust her chest forward and emphasized the long, swanlike column of her neck. Her skin was the color of porcelain except for a few delicate freckles sprinkled here and there. Hugh gulped as he watched the edge of her bodice.

  She then turned her head toward him and gave him a look.

  This could not be reality, for Hugh knew women, and that look was the look a woman gave a man when she wanted him. “Lilly and the little marquess are perfect.” Her voice sounded breathy as she floated toward him.

  Hugh’s body stirred.

  Jumping to his feet, he ignored the unwanted sensation of lust. Where had his manners gone? A gentleman always rose to his feet when a lady entered the room.

  “What a day, eh, Pen, old gal? Join me for a toast?” He reached for the glass he’d been going to pour for Cortland, tipped a few fingers of the amber liquid into it, and held it out toward her. He struggled with his balance but managed to avoid spilling any of the liquid onto the table. His hand barely shook as he handed her the drink.

  Penelope stepped closer to him. Closer than necessary for her to retrieve the drink. “I’ve never tasted scotch before.” She wrapped her fingers around the glass, covering his, her voice low and velvety.

  Hugh wanted to release the drink, but fragile fingers had captured his own and, for the life of him, he could not figure out why he would ever want to be free. His mind was unusually distracted by her lips, which parted temptingly when Penelope lifted the glass, along with his hand, so that she might take a sip.

  Watching the aromatic liquor flow into her soft, wet mouth, held him in an enchanted trance. After taking a long and steady sip, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back. She licked her lips and swallowed the strong spirit.

  “Mmm…” She surprised him by not coughing. And then she lowered her chin again and opened her eyes. Emerald eyes that he’d never really noticed before. With her hair not pulled back so tightly, they appeared wider. Her lashes were lightly colored but lush and thick. Studying them for the first time, he noticed little blue flecks. Why, her eyes were nothing short of spectacular!

  She stood intimately close to him, her hand still covering his. Hugh glanced down to her bodice and pleasantly noted how proximity gave him quite an eyeful of cleavage. His groin tightened when she again lifted the glass.

  To his lips.

  He watched her over the rim as he swallowed. She then took another drink for herself before returning it to the table. What in the hell was going on?

  And then Miss Penelope Crone, the original wallflower, bluestocking, queen of all spinsters, pressed her body up against him and wound her arms around his neck. She was tall, not as tall as Hugh, but tall enough that when she spo
ke into his ear, her breath heated his skin.

  “We ought to celebrate, don’t you think?”

  Of their own volition, Hugh’s arms wound themselves around his fantasy. That’s what this was, a dream, a drunken hallucination. He might as well enjoy it!

  One hand reached for her bottom, and the other wrapped around her waist. With no hesitation whatsoever, he tightened his grip, pressing her against his torso and groin. “Damn straight we should,” he growled in agreement before claiming her lips.

  This was going to work. This was actually going to work! The thought had barely registered in Penelope’s mind when Danbury covered her mouth with his. Encouraged by such enthusiasm, she parted her lips and allowed his very capable tongue free reign. In her mouth!

  She’d known he was something of a womanizer. She’d known he was experienced and would be well-versed in the aspects of physical love.

  She had not known how it would affect her.

  Her control slipped slightly, but she had no cause to be concerned.

  Because, the thing about a true gentleman, even a roguish one like Danbury, was that he would never dally lightly with a woman who was a lady.

  For if he were caught dallying with a lady, he could be forced to marry her. And if he refused to make the poor girl an offer, his honor was compromised.

  And Hugh Chesterton, Viscount of Danbury, was nothing if he was not honorable.

  And technically speaking, Penelope was a lady.

  First and foremost, an unwed lady had her virginity. A gentleman had his honor.

  Did she feel guilty for presuming upon Danbury’s honor? Ouch, yes, she did. A little.

  But really, she reasoned with herself as his hand reached around to claim her breast, he was going to get a great deal out of this as well. When she’d entered the room, she’d only intended allowing him to compromise her in the most innocent sense. But—she couldn’t stop the moan from escaping past her lips—that felt delightful. Was he pinching her? Oh my!

  Hugh moved to her other breast and she was able to return to her train of thought. Oh yes, if she allowed him even greater liberties, then the end result would be far more expedient.