by Ivory Lei
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 who, 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.
She gathered up her courage and looked him straight in the eye. Of course, she had to crane her neck all the way up to do so. Did he have to be so tall? He loomed over her, arresting and intimidating and overwhelmingly male.
He probably didn’t even realize the effect his low, rumbling voice had on the female population. It was definitely affecting her in a way she found most disturbing. Then the rest of his words sunk in.
He didn’t want to break the betrothal?
“If you don’t want me to cry off, then what is it you want, my lord?”
His dark eyes flashed with what looked like irritation. “First, I want to know what in the flaming heaven you think you’re doing, ensconced in a private salon in a coaching inn with a strange man. Have you no sense of the sort of danger you could put yourself in?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but he silenced her with a wave of his aristocratic hand as he continued to pace in front of her, his back to the fire.
“You came to a coaching inn without an escort of any sort,” he bit out. “Not even an Abigail.”
Why, the arrogant wretch! He had the nerve to question her actions? He, who’d hardly bothered to send any communication in all the time they’d been engaged. How dared he question her conduct now? He had no right! She couldn’t believe she’d actually felt sorry for him a few minutes ago.
If he presumed their engagement authorized him to lecture her, then he’d given her the right to treat him as if he were an imbecile. “If you were paying any attention, my lord, you’d know that I did have an escort. He was eating with me and my friend.”
“You had a dog.”
“Who is perfectly capable of protecting me better than any lady’s maid.” She trusted Nelson implicitly. Besides, she couldn’t afford a lady’s maid. But he didn’t need to know that. She reminded herself that she needed this man’s cooperation if she wanted to keep fending off the creditors from her family’s doorstep.
She sat straighter in the settee and gave him a bright smile. “And I’m confident of my safety now that you are here, my lord. I trust you’ll make sure no harm comes to my person.”
“Bloody hell.”
Her eyes widened at the curse, but she wisely refrained from commenting on his appalling language. “Since you’re not here to break the betrothal, I assume you came to do your duty?”
His square jaw seemed to clench. “You assume correctly, Miss Maitland. Is there anyone I should speak to before we get married?”
So he thought he could walk in here and marry her just like that, did he? The earl was obviously a man who was used to getting his own way without any arguments from mere mortals like her.
She suddenly felt a burst of anger over her predicament, and her hand itched to slap the smug look from his lordship’s aristocratic face. She clenched her hands to resist the impulse. Her eyes narrowed as an odd sense of betrayal washed over her, heating her blood until it boiled.
She’d been willing to entertain the possibility he’d forgotten her existence, but his very presence in this room proved he’d merely relegated her to the bottom of his list of duties. The way everyone else did.
He’d ignored her when she’d wanted him to notice her, and now — when she actually needed him to stay away — he came rushing in. She felt as if the chains of matrimony she’d had dangling around her feet every day for the past two decades had unexpectedly tightened around her neck, strangling her.
It was suddenly all too much. If she were destined to wear chains, then she would make certain the entire world heard them rattling.
“Well!” she glowered at him as she put in, “I would say you should talk to me first, don’t you think?”
“Your consent was already given when your father, acting as your guardian, signed the betrothal contract,” the earl pointed out in that annoyingly calm tone. He arched one raven brow as he added, “I merely wanted to know if there is anyone you would want me to help you break the news of our impending marriage to.”
She remained mutinously silent.
“Is there anyone I should speak to before we marry?” he repeated.
“You would know the answer to that if you bothered to send any sort of communication to me in the past two decades!” she shot back, spitting fire.
Standing up, she moved toward him. He was here, he thought he was marrying her, and by God, he had some explaining to do. Very well, she would hear him out. And then she would throw him out.
• • •
Lucas watched a strange look that was a combination of curiosity and determination cross her features as she stood up to join him in the middle of the small room between the fireplace and the settee.
Unbelievably, he actually felt the urge to back away as she advanced on him. His enormous size and reputation were usually enough to warn most people off. No man, let alone a woman, had ever confronted him as this brave, reckless little baggage was doing.
He realized he’d somehow ruffled her feathers at some point since they started talking. Her pretty eyes were suddenly shooting daggers at him. He sighed wearily. He’d been on horseback for several days, deciding it would be faster than his carriage, which had followed him soon after his departure from London. He had no interes
t in dealing with a shrew who, for some reason, had suddenly found him disagreeable.
A pretty, irritating, alluring, little shrew, Lucas thought as he took in his betrothed’s winged brows and guileless hazel eyes that to him seemed strangely reminiscent of the woodlands surrounding this little village. He noted her pert nose, her softly rounded cheeks and proud chin. A chin that was now defiantly lifted even as it quivered with nervousness at his scrutiny.
“Why now?” she whispered, her voice so low he had to lean toward her to hear. “Why have you come here now, after so long? When I thought you’d forgotten about me?”
“I never forgot about you.” That at least was true, though he’d be damned if he’d let her know the real reason behind his sudden appearance in her life.
He returned her searching gaze steadily while he wondered where she was trying to lead him with her questions.
A harsh, bitter laugh escaped her. “Don’t say you never forgot about me, my lord, because you lie!” She shook her head, her eyes suddenly bright. “We have been engaged for twenty-two years, and in all that time you never once contacted me. If I didn’t happen to be here at the same time you are, you wouldn’t even know that I don’t live with my uncle anymore.”
She stepped closer to him, her face alive with pain and accusation. “Twenty-two years and you never once thought to send me a note to ask how I was. You never sent your condolences when my father died.”
She proceeded to punctuate her accusations with a poke on his chest. “You never bothered to send your felicitations when my mother married my stepfather, or when I had a new brother and sister. Or ever wished me a happy birthday … ” Her eyes widened, as if a thought just occurred to her. “Do you even know when my birthday is?”
Lucas opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, not sure of how to answer her questions. An heir to an earldom was raised to always have his duties and responsibilities as his first priority. He’d never shirked any of his responsibilities. He’d been only sixteen when Father died, but he’d taken over the family’s dwindling holdings and made them prosper. He’d taken care of his tenants and made sure they had a livelihood and roofs over their heads. He’d raised little Olivia as best he could …
But he didn’t know when Penelope’s birthday was. It hadn’t occurred to him that Penelope might have wanted letters or to meet him before now.
Then again, she’d never sent any to him.
For some reason, that thought rankled. Hadn’t it occurred to her that he might have needed to know she no longer lived with her uncle? Or that he might have needed advice on how to raise a little girl when he’d been barely more than a child himself?
How dared she feel outraged at his neglect, when she’d behaved no better! She’d hidden from him all these years like the coward her father was.
He drew himself up. “Do you know when my birthday is, Penelope?”
She gasped.
He gave her a cold smile. “I’ll admit I haven’t acted the way a betrothed person would’ve normally done all these years, but neither have you.” She tried to look away, but he tipped her chin up, forcing her to hold his gaze. “Unlike a normal engaged couple, we both needed to live our lives as fully as we could before taking on the duties that come with a betrothal. Because this isn’t a normal betrothal, is it?”
She was silent for so long that he thought she wouldn’t answer. He was starting to feel a little disappointed that she lacked the grace to admit her own transgressions when she drew a breath and spoke, her voice ringing with quiet dignity.
“No,” she conceded. “This isn’t a normal betrothal at all. It was unfair of me to accuse you of abandoning me.” She offered a small, conciliatory smile. “And my birthday is in February.”
Lucas felt an inappropriate surge of pride at the maturity she displayed. The chit was not only spirited, she was also pragmatic. He liked that. “I’ll make a note of it,” he murmured, accepting her offer of a truce.
“Why now?” she persisted, returning to her original question.
Lucas found himself unwillingly captivated by her tenacity. She wouldn’t let the subject drop until she got to the heart of the matter.
He hesitated as he tried to think of a way to tell her the truth without revealing all of it. He had a feeling Penelope would bolt if he told her now about Father’s will. He couldn’t risk that.
“It’s time I marry,” he said blithely, stepping closer to the woman whose name had haunted all but the first nine of his thirty-one years. “Since I’ve given you enough time to cry off, I naturally assumed we’re in accord regarding the betrothal.”
“Then you assumed wrong, my lord!” she shot back, all wounded dignity and female indignation once more. She shook her head in disgust. “Did you actually think I would be so desperate for a husband that I would sit down and meekly wait for some man I’ve never met to finally deign to marry me?”
Lucas went very still. “Let me see if I understand this correctly,” he said tersely. “You are saying you’re not going to marry me.”
“Precisely,” she clarified.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care!” she burst out, stamping her foot and plunking her hands on her graceful hips. She gave him a good glare, and then she turned toward the door without further warning, obviously intending to leave the room.
Lucas had been so shocked by her breathtaking impertinence that for a moment all he could do was stare at her retreating back. The outrageous wench! If she thought she could get rid of him that easily, then she had another think coming.
He caught her arm in a none-too-gentle grip just as she reached the door and whirled her around to face him, holding her as he leaned close. “I was not asking you to care, Miss Maitland. In fact, I wasn’t asking you to do anything at all. But I think I have the right to expect you to honor your word.”
“Who do you think you are?” she cried, struggling to free her from his grip.
“I know who I am, Penelope,” he hissed in his most menacing tone. “It’s you who seem to have forgotten your identity, so let me remind you. You are Baron Maitland’s daughter, and as his daughter, you have a duty to honor your father’s wishes. Just as I have a duty to honor my father’s wishes.” He gave her his most imperious look. “I suggest you start acting with the integrity and maturity expected from a lady of your station, instead of behaving like a petulant child.”
His words seemed to startle the bravado out of her, for she suddenly looked deflated. Penelope was finally seeing sense.
She swallowed visibly and said quietly, “Please let go of my arm, my lord.”
So much for seeing sense. “Not so fast, Penelope,” he growled, but he loosened his grip on her arm. “Do we have an understanding?”
Her brows met in consternation. “I am sure I am not at all what you wished for or expected in a fiancée.”
His eyes narrowed. “We all have our duties to perform, no matter our expectations or wishes.”
She brightened immediately. “Ah, then you are in luck!” Her eyes were feverishly bright, making her look like a forest nymph who couldn’t wait to grant him a favor. “As it happens, my lord, I am more than willing to set you free from your obligation to me.”
“Are you, indeed?”
“For a price,” she announced.
“You need money?”
Of course, she needed money. Her plain clothes attested to that fact. She wouldn’t have stood there bargaining like a fishwife otherwise. It was a game women had played with him since he’d regained the fortune that came with the earldom. It irked him to know his fiancée turned out to be no better than those women, no better than her father.
She stared at him with wounded pride. “I don’t need your money.”
He looked up at the beamed ceiling, praying for patience. �
��Then what is it you need?”
“I need your help. If you are willing to help me, I shall release you from your duty to marry me.”
“And if I refuse?”
She gave him a smug look. “You won’t refuse.”
“Bloody hell! What makes you think that?” he snapped. Hadn’t he just told her he was here to marry her? The woman seemed to be addled.
“My lord, let us have some honesty here. We both know this betrothal has nothing to do with us, but our fathers, God rest their souls.” She went to the window and stared at the raindrops distorting the view of the courtyard. “I know more about you than you think. If you had any interest at all in marrying me, you wouldn’t have waited two decades to act on it.”
The pain behind her words made Lucas uneasy. He took in her proud countenance, and in spite of his earlier annoyance at her transparent attempts to manipulate him, he couldn’t help but be fascinated. He wondered how much it cost her pride to admit to him she knew he didn’t want her.
She was wrong, however.
She wasn’t a classic beauty to be sure, and he had no doubt men who weren’t as observant as he would find her looks passable at best, but he sensed an air of innocence and pride about her that he found … arresting. She bore the same name as that of Odysseus’s devoted wife from Homer’s famous work, but she had the look of the hero’s mistress, the goddess Circe, a forest nymph who drugged men and turned them into beasts.
In fact, she bore an uncanny resemblance to a Romney painting he’d seen of the devious Circe, but the portrait lacked Penelope’s look of radiant good health, her air of mischievous humor and calm assurance that captured a man’s gaze and held it there.
She turned back to him, her form silhouetted by the light coming in from the window, making her seem ethereal, and his eyes shifted to her generous, plump bow of a mouth. Those soft lips reminded him of sun-ripened peaches. He wondered if they could possibly taste as sweet as they looked even while they curved into a frown of displeasure.
He sucked in a steadying breath as his gaze travelled down her lush breasts and gently curved waist outlined by her simple, practical gown that somehow managed to call attention to her graceful form.