by Emma Sloane
“I agree it’s an ingenious plan, your Grace, but I’m afraid I don’t understand your reasoning. Why do you wish to encourage, even champion, Hugh and Amelia’s friendship?”
“That’s easily explained,” he said with a wry grin. “Hugh is my heir. Since I’ve no wish to marry, I have a keen interest in Hugh doing so. Your cousin is the first young woman Hugh has shown any serious interest in pursuing. I want to encourage that interest, with a view toward matrimony and offspring to follow as soon as possible. Hugh’s not getting any younger.”
Penelope didn’t know which part of his explanation was the most interesting. Was it his apparent approval of Amelia as a potential wife for the heir to his dukedom? Or was it his confession that he had no wish to marry? She couldn’t decide.
“I see.” She chose a vague, noncommittal response. Which certainly must mean I’m a coward for not immediately quizzing him as to why he doesn’t want to marry. “You realize you’re suggesting we join forces and become matchmakers?”
She nearly laughed aloud at his instantly horrified expression.
“Surely not.” He shook his head in refusal. “I refuse to be ranked with the matchmaking mamas that torture every poor titled bachelor.”
This time, she couldn’t stifle a giggle. “I fear you must own the connection. Although to be fair, you look nothing like the ton’s matchmaking matrons. You lack the appearance of strained anguish and hunger that some eager mothers have.”
“That’s precisely the expression,” he agreed. “You might also have added barely hidden greed.”
“Sad, but true.” They exchanged a look of complete understanding and Penelope felt a warm surge of genuine liking for the Duke. The reaction was unexpected and distracting.
“Great-aunt Minerva will be sending an invitation later today or tomorrow. I hope you’ll agree to join us for I cannot matchmake on my own. I fear I have neither the patience nor the necessary mindset to make a success of it.”
“So you’re agreeing to be guided by my feminine intuition?” she teased, raising a brow in patent disbelief.
“In this particular instance, yes.” He leaned forward and returned his cup and saucer to the tray before rising, close-fitting buckskin trousers pulling taut across muscled thighs as he stood. “I have an appointment with my London agent and must leave you. I hope you will consider my Great-aunt’s invitation and accept.”
“I promise I shall seriously consider joining you. However, my first consideration must be Amelia and William’s feelings on the matter. This will be their first Christmas without their father and I’ve already promised William he can attend as many London entertainments as we can reasonably fit in. I’m not certain how he’ll feel about spending the holidays elsewhere.”
“Understood. You might tell him I have several nephews who are roughly his age. They’re a friendly bunch and will no doubt get up to all sorts of mischief, so he’d have plenty of companionship. Then of course, winter at the Park has endless pursuits for youngsters what with sledding, hurling snowballs at unsuspecting family members, and accompanying the men out to cut the Yule Log. He may likely find the month will fly by.” The Duke nodded and offered a graceful, polite bow that spoke of honed athleticism and years of practice. “Good day, madam.”
“Good day, your Grace,” Penelope murmured to his back as he disappeared into the hallway. She heard the low sound of male voices as Bartle ushered him out and then all was silent.
She sank onto the divan, mind awhirl with their conversation. The Duke’s visit had been markedly different than the one she’d been expecting for the last weeks that she could barely grasp the many implications.
Matchmakers. Me and the Duke, together. The prospect was so improbable she simply couldn’t get her head around it.
She poured another cup of tea and absentmindedly sipped in between nibbling on a buttery scone. Lost in her thoughts, Penelope was still staring, unfocused, at the blue, red, and cream jewel tones of the Aubusson carpet when Amelia and William arrived home.
William’s boots could be heard clattering off toward the kitchen to find Cook and moments later, Amelia popped her head around the doorframe.
“There you are, Penelope,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed with pink from the cold, her eyes bright from exercise. “William is off to the kitchen in search of apple tarts. We had a lovely walk.” She broke off, tilting her head as she carefully examined Penelope. “What is it? You have the very expression William has when he’s puzzling out a particularly knotty mathematics problem.”
“Do I?” Penelope shook her head and beckoned Amelia. “I’m sorry, I fear I’m distracted. Come in, please, we need to talk.”
Chapter 6
“What is it?” Amelia eyed her with trepidation as she took a seat in the elegant chair recently vacated by the Duke. “Are you quite well?”
“Oh, yes,” Penelope realized she’d worried her cousin and immediately apologized. “I’m sorry, Amelia, all is well, I assure you. It’s just that I had a visitor shortly before you arrived home and we’ve received a completely unexpected invitation.” She paused before continuing. “Hugh’s cousin called on me this morning. He told me his great-aunt, our Lady Minerva from Hookham’s Library, will be sending an invitation to join the St. Cyr family at Sheffield Park for Christmas.”
Amelia’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth, but only squeaked. Penelope’s own eyes widened at the unusual, startled sound from her normally calm and composed cousin.
“Does that mean you’re happy about the prospect?” she asked tentatively. “Or perhaps uncomfortable and not pleased at the invitation?”
“Not at all. I’m surprised, certainly. This truly is very unexpected.” Amelia leaned slightly forward, fingers gripped tightly together in her lap. “Will you accept?”
“To be frank, I have mixed feelings. I’m certain Sheffield Park is a lovely place to spend the holidays and I’m equally sure the company will be congenial.”
Penelope considered Amelia’s tense figure and what her cousin’s reaction to the invitation might mean. In an effort to ease Amelia’s obvious concern, she leaned forward to lift the still-warm teapot and filled a cup. Amelia automatically accepted the cup and saucer when offered, her fingers pale against the floral porcelain. “You must be chilled after being outside in the cold with William,” Penelope told her, gesturing at the steaming cup. “Drink your tea.”
“Oh, yes of course.” Amelia dutifully sipped, her tense shoulders easing further as Penelope quietly refreshed her own cup.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the muted snap of logs in the fireplace.
“I’m concerned about the change of venue for Christmas and what that means for you and William,” Penelope went on when she decided Amelia had been given sufficient time to absorb the pending invitation.
“What do you mean?” Amelia asked, a frown pleating her brow.
“I promised William that he could attend as many London holiday attractions as we could fit into our days,” Penelope reminded her. “If we spend Christmas at Sheffield Park, we’ll likely need to leave London in time to arrive before Advent Sunday. With all the packing and preparation to be done, I fear we’ll have little time for William’s list of city entertainments. I don’t want to disappoint him.”
“As it happens, William and I were discussing the holidays on our walk this morning,” Amelia said. “While he’s looking forward to the holidays here in London, I believe he’s equally sad that we’ll miss the comfort of country traditions. He appeared rather wistful, wondering if the snow is deep and if his friends are sledding on the hill behind the stables.”
Penelope brightened. “Could it be that the Duke’s invitation may be just the thing to lift his spirits? After all, Sheffield Park and the St. Cyr family would provide new surroundings while William also enjoyed the traditional joys he’s accustomed to.”
Amelia sipped her tea, clearly considering Penelope’s comments. At last, she nodded. �
��I think this may be the perfect solution. Nothing will erase the sadness we both will feel that father isn’t with us this year, but we must move forward and this may be the happiest way to do so.”
Relief at her assurance flooded Penelope. That satisfies my concerns about William, she thought, now to ascertain Amelia’s feelings on the matter. “And you, Amelia,” she said gently. “How do you feel about the prospect of spending the holidays at Sheffield Park?”
Her cousin bent to return her cup and saucer to the polished mahogany table before lifting her gaze to meet Penelope’s.
“If I’m to be completely honest, I must confess I am both pleased and yet equally worried.”
Penelope’s heart lurched. “I want you to be comfortable with the decision, should we decide to accept the Duke’s gracious invitation. Can you tell me why you’re worried?”
Delicate pink color tinted Amelia’s cheeks and she dropped her gaze to the tea tray before looking up at Penelope once again. “I’m nervous about meeting Hugh’s family. He’s been so kind to William and myself and I don’t want to lose his friendship. What if his family doesn’t approve of us?”
“Oh, Amelia.” Penelope leaned across the table and covered her cousin’s tightly clasped hands with one of her own. “They will love you. You’ve already met his cousin the Duke and his Great-Aunts. They would not have invited you--all of us--into their home if they didn’t approve of you.”
Amelia’s worried gaze searched Penelope’s, the shadow of fear easing in the blue depths, and she turned her hands over to grip Penelope’s. “Do you really think so? I treasure Hugh’s visits and can’t bring myself to contemplate his ending them if his mother or sisters don’t care for me--for us,” she added hastily, her cheeks growing rosier.
“Amelia, dear.” Penelope smiled with warm affection. “Could it be you treasure Hugh’s visits so very much because you’ve come to care for him over these last weeks as more than a friend?"
"It would not be unusual,” she went on when Amelia hesitated to answer. “Hugh is a handsome, well-spoken gentleman with beautiful manners and a rare, much to be desired, natural kindness of spirit. Any one of those aspects would be enough to make a young woman fond of him.”
“I admit I look forward to his visits,” her cousin responded. “But, Penelope, I’m quite certain he visits so often to spend time with you. I don’t want to wear my heart on my sleeve when his interest lies elsewhere. Nor do I want to embarrass you in any way if other people discovered I feel what surely must be unwelcome interest for Hugh.”
“Ah,” Penelope smiled fondly, squeezing Amelia’s hands with affection. “Your concern is noted, my dear, but I can assure you that I do not have designs on Hugh, nor he on me. I truly believe he spends time with us because he genuinely likes our little family.”
She swiftly considered whether she should nudge her cousin’s interest further, then decided a little encouragement surely wouldn’t harm the progress of Hugh’s quiet courtship. “Besides,” she leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I suspect Hugh may return your interest.”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “Do you really think so? Oh, Penelope, I so wish it were true. But I’m not at all certain your suspicions are correct.”
“Perhaps,” Penelope agreed with a casual shrug, not wishing to overwhelm Amelia with her conviction that Hugh had left interest far behind weeks ago and moved on to fixed intent. “But all the more reason to go to Sheffield Park and make the most of this time with his family. They will have no inkling of your feelings toward Hugh and thus, you may spend time with him and discover whether he returns your interest.”
“Very well.” Amelia’s chin firmed and she gave a resolute nod of determination, eyes bright as she laughed. “Then you’ll accept the invitation?”
“I will,” Penelope replied. “Of course, I haven’t received it yet as the Duke said his Great Aunt will be writing to us today, or perhaps tomorrow.”
“As we’ve determined to spend the holidays at the Duke’s home, let us hope she writes as the Duke has said.” Amelia lifted a brow, her eyes dancing with mischief.
“I suspect in this instance, Lady Minerva will do as the Duke requests,” Penelope said dryly. “Now,” she said briskly, sitting back and ringing the bell. “Let’s have the tea tray cleared away and begin a list of what must be done before we depart London for a month in the country!”
Chapter 7
The two traveling coaches slowed to turn off the main road, then bowled down the snowy surface of the well-maintained lane and approached Sheffield Park. The sturdy trunks of tall oaks lined the snowy roadway like welcoming sentinels, their bare limbs lifted toward the sky.
“Oh, my, it is lovely, isn’t it, Penelope?” Amelia commented from her seat within the leading coach as it rounded a sweeping curve and the great house came into view.
“Indeed,” Penelope agreed. Her bonnet brim brushed Amelia’s as they both leaned forward for a better view of the grand building. The honey-colored stone and tiled roof of the stately house were brushed with snow, but the wide arc of the circular drive had been shoveled and swept clear. As they watched, a cluster of people left the house and gathered before the entry’s impressively tall double doors.
“I wonder if the Duke will greet us or if one of his female relatives is acting as hostess,” Amelia said, sitting back to anxiously brush at the dove grey bodice of her woolen pelisse and straighten her already tidy bonnet ribbons.
“I hope it’s Hugh,” William put in. “He promised to go sledding with me while we’re here.”
“I’m certain whoever greets us will be most welcoming,” Penelope assured them. She wasn’t nearly as confident as she wanted her cousins to believe. Granted, the Duke and Hugh had both seemed happy to learn she’d accepted their great-aunt’s invitation, but that didn’t guarantee the rest of their family would be as eager for their company. Please let the St. Cyr’s be generous with their kindness to Amelia and William, she thought as she smoothed her kerseymere pelisse and straightened her own bonnet. The cherry red edged with white ermine of the stylish hat matched her woolen twill coat and kidskin gloves. All were recent purchases made especially for the trip, as was the lovely pale gray bonnet and pelisse that Amelia wore. Braided darker gray ribbon edged the brim of her cousin’s bonnet and added a touch of elegance. Penelope firmly believed that mourning was no excuse for a woman to eschew fashion and Amelia’s attire happily expressed her agreement.
Both coaches slowed as they neared the house, finally pulling to a stop in front of the doors. A trio of servants immediately left the waiting group of people and moved toward the second coach where they quickly handed out the two maids and began to unload luggage. An older man in a black coat and trousers of a butler neared Penelope’s coach and lowered the coach steps before pulling open the door.
“Good afternoon, madam,” he said, holding out a white-gloved hand.
Penelope accepted his assistance with a smile and a murmured word of thanks, pausing to give Amelia and William time to join her before turning to greet the Duke, Hugh, and the older woman who stood with them. Petite and slim, she was wrapped in a voluminous sky-blue shawl and beneath the fringed edges peeped an afternoon gown of darker blue.
“Lady Wentworth.” The Duke bowed, the hint of a smile lighting his eyes and curving his hard mouth. “And Lady Hamilton, Master William. Welcome to Sheffield Park. May I make known to you my mother, Lady Anne St. Cyr.”
Penelope and Amelia dipped curtseys and William managed a credible bow. “Thank you for having us, Lady St. Cyr,” Penelope said, noting the warm smile on the older woman’s face.
“Please, call me Anne.” She stepped forward and enveloped Penelope in a quick, firm hug. For one brief moment, the scent of jasmine mixed with cinnamon teased her senses before the Duke’s mother stepped back, taking Penelope’s hands in hers. “Your mother and I were dear friends when we were girls and I fear I’ve been sadly remiss in allowing our connection to lapse
over the years. She wrote to tell me about you just after you were born but due to ill health, could not travel to London. We both became very busy with husbands and babies, time slipped by and we lost touch.”
“My mother told me lovely bedtime stories when I was a little girl,” Penelope replied. “Tales of dancing all night at balls and the lovely gowns she adored. And she always spoke of her friend Anne, who shared the gaiety. She must have been speaking of you.”
“Very likely, my dear, for the two of us were quite close friends although it’s possible she had other acquaintances named Anne.” She studied Penelope, a warm, wistful smile lighting her expression. “You’re the very image of your mother. It’s as if she’s standing in front of me once again. We must make certain we do not lose touch, you and I, from now on. I warn you, I fully intend to treat you as one of my own daughters.”
A lump in her throat blocked a reply and Penelope tightened her clasp of the older woman’s hands. Such unexpected kindness, she thought with a rush of emotion.
“I should warn you that means she will insist on your writing to her very often,” the Duke interjected dryly. “You may find yourself commanded to send long letters that detail every moment of your day.”
“I should not mind at all,” Penelope assured the Duke, smiling up at him with open happiness, the dampness clinging to her lashes wholly due to the warmth of his mother’s welcome. “It will be lovely to exchange correspondence.” Her gaze was caught by his, the St. Cyr green irises darkening as he seemed similarly unable to look away.