Penelope tensed. Her stepfamily’s “dilemma” involved creditors demanding her physician stepfather, Dr. Walker, to settle the family’s enormous debt with money everybody knew Papa didn’t have, or else give up Highfield Manor and deprive his children of the only home they’d ever known.
The extra income would undoubtedly help. Penelope wasn’t averse to working for a living if the opportunity arose. Sadly, no opportunity was forthcoming, and she admitted it in a flat, emotionless voice: “Mrs. Bexley didn’t offer me employment.”
Mari gaped at her. “I don’t understand. I specifically told her that I’m not the only one in Bouth who has a claim to both beauty as well as impeccable manners, and you said she came to you to discuss the position.”
“She did.”
“Then why — ”
“Mrs. Bexley asked me about the position,” Penelope confirmed, arching a brow before adding dryly, “She asked if I happened to know anyone, other than you, who ‘possessed both beauty and impeccable manners.’ She was even gracious enough to give me time to think of an acceptable candidate.”
Mari shook her head, causing auburn tendrils to sway against her temples. She started to express her outrage but stopped suddenly.
Penelope sat with her back straight and shoulders rigid, hoping no emotion flickered in her eyes. Mari studied her face for a long minute, and Penelope’s lips quivered as she valiantly struggled to keep her smile in place.
Evidently concluding that more indignation about Mrs. Bexley’s thoughtless act would only emphasize how the harridan obviously thought Penelope wasn’t good enough for the post, Mari said softly, “Mrs. Bexley was … clever, indeed, to have sought your help in finding an excellent governess. She correctly assumed that, as Lord Maitland’s daughter, you’d have expert judgment about who deserves the position.”
Her friend’s considerate words sent a fierce streak of relief through Penelope, leaving her strangely giddy. “Exactly,” she agreed, nodding her head as a bubble of laughter escaped her. “Why, my father was so confident in my abilities that he never needed to leave London more than twice a year to visit Mama and me in Maitland Hall.”
Mari giggled. “Don’t forget your uncle and your cousin! The present baron and his son are clearly impressed with your talents.” She paused to swipe away tears of mirth. “If they didn’t have such faith in your capabilities, their honorable nature and familial affection would oblige them to at least write to you once in a while.”
“My noble relatives are undeniably in awe of my accomplishments.” Penelope laughed at the sheer absurdity of the entire situation while she affectionately stroked Nelson’s furry neck.
Her friendship with Mari, she mused, flourished because of their mutual ability and conscious choice to laugh, instead of wallow, at the disadvantages life handed them. In this little village where the idyllic country life was disrupted only by the occasional trespassing sheep or carriage accident, women had to learn to cope if they wanted to survive in a society where entitlement to opportunities depended largely on nothing more than an accident of birth.
If Penelope had been born a boy, she’d have been the valued heir. She would’ve secured her father’s affection, studied at university and inherited properties. Uncle Hugh wouldn’t have been able to cast her out of her own home merely weeks after Father died, and she wouldn’t be in the situation she was in now: rejected and forsaken.
On the other hand, she would’ve never known the blessing of having a warm, caring stepfather or experienced the simple joy of finally seeing Mama’s smile, of witnessing the twins grow up.
Thinking of the twins reminded Penelope of the actual reason for her visit to the inn that day. Reaching behind her chair, she pulled out a fistful of daisies, amused by the look of dread on Mari’s face.
“Colin asked me to give you these.” Penelope released a theatrical sigh and handed the bouquet to her friend. “Yet another dozen flowers have sacrificed their lives for your beauty.”
“Oh, joy. These daisies are lovely … but you shouldn’t encourage your brother, you know.” Mari grimaced as she accepted the bouquet and laid it on the table. “I like Colin. I don’t want to be the cause of any pain for the boy.”
“You’re the cause of a lot of pain for most of the young men in Bouth.” Penelope shrugged. “Besides, Colin’s fifteen — he needs that kind of pain. He also wrote a poem. Would you like me to read it to you?”
“No.”
Penelope ignored her. With a grin, she took a crumpled sheet from her pocket and cleared her throat. She had just opened her mouth to utter the first line when Mari interrupted her.
“I wonder how many flowers your earl will slay when he finally claims you,” Mari remarked in a teasing voice.
Her grin faded. Her earl, indeed. After the Mrs. Bexley debacle, Mari was probably trying to remind Penelope of her own worth. Unfortunately, Mari’s tactic failed because these days she rarely thought of her fiancé — the man people referred to as “Raving Ravenstone.” There were only four things Penelope knew about her engagement to “her earl”:
First, it was their fathers who had agreed on the betrothal, long before both she and the earl were old enough to understand or refuse.
Second, never in the twenty-two years since the betrothal contract was signed had Lord Ravenstone given any indication he would honor the agreement, and she was quite certain he would never do so. Her usefulness as a baron’s daughter died with her father. Since status was everything to the nobility, she had long ago ceased to hope the earl would ever acknowledge her existence.
After recovering from her drastic change in social standing, she considered a plain, little thing like her lucky to be exempted from the ordeal of finding a husband, as women were expected to do.
Penelope had turned twenty-five this year, and if it weren’t for her “engagement,” she would’ve already been dismissed as the next in line for the title of Village Spinster. Already, she harbored more animals than “Mad Sally,” Bouth’s reigning Old Maid, who lived in a cottage with her thirteen cats and spent her days demanding children get off her front garden.
Actually, Penelope doubted the earl even remembered their engagement. The way everyone was still inclined to believe her claims was a small miracle. She hoped she could keep the pretense up until the time Lord Ravenstone decided to marry.
It was imperative to keep people certain about her affianced state. Nothing was more important, because the third thing she definitely knew about her betrothal was she had used it to ask the creditors to give Papa a little more time to pay off debts. Papa would be livid if he found out she’d used her engagement as a bargaining tool, but there had been little else the family could have done. Her stepfather had been away on business, and if she hadn’t bargained for more time, they would have already lost Highfield Manor.
The fourth thing she knew about her engagement was there would be the devil to pay if Lord Ravenstone ever found out she’d been using his name without his consent or knowledge.
Penelope sighed and dismissed the gloomy thoughts. She refused to allow unresolved issues and forgetful earls to destroy her day. This rainy, muddy day.
“Don’t worry, I’m not leaving Rusland anytime soon,” she reassured Mari. Rusland Valley was where Highfield Manor was located, a five-minute horse ride north of Bouth. “I haven’t received any message from Maitland Hall regarding the earl.”
“Speaking of Maitland Hall,” Mari said in a hushed tone while she looked around to see if anyone was within hearing distance before deciding that it was safe to go on talking, “A gentleman from London checked in here last night, asking about Baron Maitland and directions to your uncle’s estate.”
Penelope’s eyebrows rose and before she could stop herself, she asked in a tone of mild curiosity, “What did the gentleman want with my uncle?” Mari opened her mouth to
speak but Penelope held up her hand for silence as she hastily dismissed the news. “Never mind. Whatever my uncle is up to, it has nothing to do with me. I don’t care what Uncle Hugh does as long as he leaves me and Mama out of it.”
“Aren’t you the least bit interested in this visitor?” Mari pouted, clearly disappointed with her lack of enthusiasm for juicy gossip.
“I’ll admit it’s an unusual occurrence. No one ever goes to Maitland Hall.” She considered that for a moment. “Very well, did the gentleman say what the visit was about? And why are you so sure he’s a gentleman?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“Penelope, I grew up in a coaching inn.” Mari crossed her arms over her chest, looking smug. “I know when I see nobility. It’s a skill an innkeeper’s daughter has to learn. This particular gentleman’s clothes were of the finest quality. And even if his clothing were shabby, his accent and good manners would’ve given him away. Why, even his giant of a horse looked positively regal.”
Penelope reined in her sudden impatience. “Did the gentleman have a name? And what did he want?” Why did she care?
“Papa was the one who checked him in, so I don’t know his name. You know how Papa can be about guests’ privacy. But I was the one the man asked about Lord Maitland when I brought his breakfast in this morning. He said he had ‘personal business’ with the baron.”
“Well, that certainly counts Mama and me out,” Penelope said cheerfully even as a strange combination of relief and disappointment settled on her chest.
She stiffened. Disappointment? What was the matter with her? Hadn’t she learned long ago not to hope for anything from her aristocratic, pompous relatives or her equally self-important fiancé? Their social class gave them a bloated sense of entitlement, making them consistently disregard anyone whom they deemed to be useless.
She suspiciously eyed the now empty plate before her on the scarred oak table. Perhaps the apple and blackberry pie wasn’t so awesome after all. Perhaps the pie had somehow muddled her mind, for the most trifling matters agitated her. She’d heard that sort of thing happened by eating too many sweets.
“It could have something to do with your beloved earl! Oh, Polly, what if your white knight has come at last?” Mari clasped her hands together, her pretty face alight with excitement. “It’s so romantic! Just imagine — a chivalrous knight in shining armor, riding his glorious steed to rescue his fair maiden.”
“Why would I want to marry a medieval knight?” she scoffed. “You forget those ‘heroic’ knights were paid to be ambitious murderers, and I’ll wager they also carried the scent of the Middle Ages.”
Mari’s look of dismay made her laugh heartily.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” she continued, still chuckling, “I can assure you my ‘beloved earl’ has long since forgotten about me.”
She gave Nelson one final pat on the head before rising to leave when a captivatingly deep, curt, male voice addressed her from the staircase behind them.
“I wouldn’t be too quick with giving assurances, if I were you, Miss Maitland.”
Penelope and Mari whirled in unison toward the staircase where an imposingly huge, well-dressed man loomed.
“And who, pray tell, are you?” Penelope demanded, refusing to be cowed by such a haughty individual. She placed her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. “Didn’t anyone tell you it’s considered ill mannered to eavesdrop on other peoples’ conversations?” Somehow, she managed to crane her neck, look the man straight in the eye, and ignore Mari’s horrified gasp.
The tall, black-haired beast of a man stalked to her and Mari with a purpose that lent deadly grace to his soundless footsteps. Ill-concealed interest and amusement glittered in his midnight-dark eyes as his bold gaze raked her insolently from the top of her bonneted head to the tips of her well worn half-boots, then travelled back up to meet her eyes.
“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s considered ill mannered to talk about one’s fiancé with so little respect?” the arrogant man said in a gentle, chiding tone that, if Penelope hadn’t known how deliberately unpleasant she’d just been to him, she would have thought the stranger was actually flirting with her.
She stole a glance at Mari to gauge her reaction. Her friend had always known more about men because unlike her, Mari had a nicely trimmed form and a face of classic beauty.
At the moment, however, Mari seemed unable to do anything but stand there, gawking nervously.
Penelope had a sudden, sinking feeling of foreboding in the pit of her stomach as she dragged her eyes to meet the giant’s dark, steady gaze. “Who are you, sir?” she asked again in the barest of whispers.
Please, God, let me be wrong, she silently prayed.
In answer, the immaculately dressed gentleman bowed in one swift, smooth motion, then grabbed her bare hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles.
At the touch of his lips on her skin, Penelope felt a disturbing, unwanted tingling sensation all the way up her arm that made her heart pound while a strange — if late — warning rang inside her head like distant church bells and … the man refused to let go of her hand! She must’ve tried to tug her hand free from his iron grip at least three times by now.
“I am delighted to finally meet you, Penelope,” the stranger murmured in an inappropriately intimate voice, a smile tugging at his lips. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lucas Arthur Phillip Drake. And I, my dear, am your ‘beloved earl.’”
Penelope paled. A ghost from the past had come back to haunt her.
And she was in big trouble.
Chapter Two
She watched the Earl of Ravenstone dwarf the private reception room of The Mucky Duck while he paced the flagstone floor and stopped in front of the cozy fireplace, looking more like a fierce warrior than a self-important peer of the realm, despite the elegant cut of his dark blue coat and buff riding breeches.
He looked so out of place and alone that she had an almost overwhelming impulse to pat his powerful shoulder and tell him everything was going to be all right.
But first, she had to make sure he was real.
Because Penelope knew she was hallucinating. This wasn’t the first time she’d imagined the earl coming for her, though it had been at least seven years since she’d last daydreamed about him.
She sat on the red velvet settee opposite the hearth, not sure of what to make of the situation. Perhaps, if she blinked, he would disappear.
She blinked. Hard.
He is still here. Either she was feverish or she’d actually stepped into one of those “horrid” novels she and her sister Sarah loved to read. Except she wasn’t a miserable, beautiful damsel in distress. No, indeed.
She fought to contain a wayward, sympathetic grin, imagining how the earl must have felt seeing her for the first time, standing in the dining hall next to the gorgeous Mari. What a surprise that must have been for him.
A disappointing one, she thought deprecatingly.
When she was with Mari, men generally regarded Penelope in the same manner one regards a side vegetable no one asked for but was always served with the meat nonetheless.
She looked down at her plain, eucalyptus-hued wool gown, inspected her mud-splattered half boots, and felt another urge to giggle inappropriately. Was I worth waiting twenty-two years for, my lord? She almost asked him the question as he continued to stare into the flames, his back to her. I do hope you like your women plain, short, and plump.
She forced herself to stop fidgeting with the ties of her reticule. Fidgeting was a clear sign that one’s nerves were rattled, and she was someone with very strong nerves. It would take more than this man to send her scurrying for a vinaigrette.
When the silence stretched and became awkward, Penelope scrambled for something to say but didn’t know exactly how to begin. What did one say to a fiancé wh
o, despite everything she knew about him, was still technically a stranger? A fiancé whose name one had been using to fend off creditors without his permission?
She considered starting the conversation by asking him about his journey, but somehow that didn’t seem appropriate. Perhaps a direct approach would be the most effective one as well. She cleared her throat and broke the silence.
“I suppose you’re here to ask me to cry off from the betrothal, my lord?” she ventured.
He whirled to her, surprise evident in his sharp, forbidding features that somehow reminded her of the craggy fells surrounding her hometown.
“Why would you think that?”
“Well,” Penelope answered, managing to look everywhere but directly at him, “I assumed you plan to marry someone else, and you’ve come here to demand I break our engagement. I mean, why would you travel all the way from London if not to make certain I cry off?” She directed her gaze to the fire. “It’s the only reason I could think of that’s important enough for your lordship to honor one such as I with your esteemed presence.”
Was that a bitter edge in her voice? No, of course not. She was nervous, that’s all. She had no cause to be bitter; she was only stating facts. It just so happened the facts were humiliating.
She stole a look at him, and the earl leveled her with a piercing stare for what seemed like several minutes before speaking.
“I have not come here to ask you to break our betrothal,” he said in a quiet voice that nevertheless conveyed an iron resolve as he strode toward her with his hands clasped behind his back and continued, “Quite the opposite, actually. I meant to call upon your uncle, but from the conversation out in the hall I gather he isn’t responsible for you?”
Penelope shook her head. “I haven’t had anything to do with my uncle since my father died.” But you’d know that if you bothered to think of me in the past two decades.
Time After Time Page 89