‘Will you wear tall boots, milord, or do you prefer the white-topped Hessians?’ Strickler had already made the fashionable choice and carried the Hessians as he returned to the chair without confirmation. Perhaps his valet anticipated he’d capitulate to the fashion recommendation without complaint. The realisation didn’t sit right, but with little concern for which boots to select, Penwick took the chair and accepted the footwear. He’d done everything as he should and followed politesse to the letter, sparing no expense. As a result, he felt as trussed as a dinner goose at St Michaelmas.
‘My schedule?’
‘Yes, milord. You have appointments through late afternoon. Following breakfast, Lord Chelsney is expected at the stables. After which you’ve allotted time for fencing practice, a bath and change of clothes. Lunch with the Lending Library Foundation at two, your weekly dance lesson at four and then off to the jeweller’s where you are to choose your betrothed’s wedding ring.’ Strickler paused, an encouraging smile slanting his slim lips upward before he reclaimed a noncommittal, austere demeanor.
An unwelcome ill-ease ran through Penwick at the latter statement. How ridiculous. He’d chosen his bride particularly, selected her with the utmost care from his list of suitable marriage candidates, observed her in society, conversed with her on numerous occasions and, at last, convinced himself she would suit. With the wedding in less than a fortnight, he’d need to overcome this odd reaction to thoughts of marriage. Claire deserved better.
It wasn’t as if he’d never considered the institution. True, he’d foreseen his future with a different outcome, but his plans had fallen apart unexpectedly; a story as common as a lost letter in the post or a broken heart. His eyes slid to the brass lock on the topmost drawer of the wardrobe, all at once anxious to be left in private.
‘That will be all, Strickler.’ Penwick accepted the pocket watch and guard chain the manservant held in his gloved palm, the wait for his valet to leave a moment too long. Then he turned the key in the lock and slid the drawer open to reveal a tightly bound packet of letters, the papers well creased and wrinkled from countless handlings, the pages a potent addiction.
Guilt was quick to put a dampener his actions. He should be rid of the letters. Cast them into the fire or drown them in the Thames. Cleanse all memory of the words and promises that scarred his heart, and end his dependency on the impossible.
But he couldn’t.
The realisation he possessed this weakness weighed heavily on his soul. How could he enter into marriage, a sacred union built on honesty and trust, when his truest emotions, love, devotion, passion, lay tied with a ribbon hidden in his wardrobe? How could he betray his intended and compromise his own integrity? With the deepest reverence, he respected his betrothed. She presented a kind smile and clever intelligence. He’d encountered not one poor word in reference to her reputation or family. Still, despite earnest effort, he’d collected no tender emotion.
He cleared his throat as if the action would somehow rid him of the reality of his choices. He had a duty, a new station to uphold. He would marry. He would propagate and carry on with the most congenial of relationships. Ardent affection could develop were he to allow it the opportunity. This was the truth and the lie he told himself daily while enduring the ritual of overdressing required of his station.
He slammed the drawer closed and locked it before he could change his mind. He would not read a letter this morning. He had a long, happy future to look towards and the letters did not signify.
Chapter Two
Dearest, I cannot allow you to speak poorly of your dance ability. You are, no doubt, a swan in the ballroom, a rose among weeds, delicate, graceful and captivating. I long to waltz with you, hold you in my arms and circle the floor, proud and honoured to be offered the boon. One day we will waltz. You have my word.
Livie allowed a gentle smile, the remembrance of Randolph’s words bittersweet, the letter in her lap dated over a year ago. At the time, she had believed his vow to be no more than a fairy-tale wish made by a kind gentleman who knew her solely through correspondence, never having seen or conversed with her in person. Yet as their exchanges grew in frequency, through weeks and months, emotion became more important than probability. Their conversations evolved into lively banter, two friends who hinted at more, a man and woman who’d met under the most unlikely of circumstances and forged a relationship by letter writing.
How she looked forward to his heartfelt missives, their discussions exploring every subject imaginable, no topic off limits or too mundane. Perhaps it was the act of committing the words to paper and sending them into the post that freed her from inhibition. She shared fears and aspirations, goals and accomplishments. The anticipation of his reply kept her counting the days and mentally listing all the new questions and comments she longed to include in her next message.
Together they spoke with refreshing candour and frank honesty, which led to a natural progression of sentimental affection and, though they never confessed it, feelings of love. An undercurrent of adoration and devotion laced their final letters, hinting at what might be were one to take that final step, to wish hard enough and plan a meeting. She clenched her eyes closed against the onslaught of emotion she worked so hard to ignore.
Because Fate had intervened.
She’d never foreseen the accident or impairment that interrupted her life, crushing her dreams along with her legs.
She inhaled, holding the breath until her lungs hurt to prove she was alive and in control, then folded the letter with care and returned it to the wrinkled pile kept in a small rosewood box on her dresser. How odd so much time had passed and the memories of Randolph’s words remained vivid, as if they’d conversed only yesterday. Unwilling to consider her loss any longer, she turned away, that segment of her life beyond her now. Too much time had passed. She needed to look towards a bright new future.
She would master the steps of every waltz, cotillion and quadrille, her ability more polished with each lesson. She would embrace her come-out, her sister’s zealous plans and effort not going to waste, and she would pursue a congenial place in society.
All in all, if one couldn’t have eternal love, one could have shoes… many, many pairs of lovely, fanciful shoes. Shoes represented freedom and choice, the ability to move forward and stand tall. The distraction prompted a smile and she spied the brown wrapped box she’d snuck upstairs and hid under the coverlet at the foot of her bed. Strategically placed pillows helped to obscure them somewhat, though the situation was only temporary.
She closed the door and turned the lock before peeling away the brown wrapping, her anxious fingers fumbling with the lid as she finally opened the carton.
What was this? Where were the orchid silk slippers with matching ribbons and delicate embroidered embellishment?
With haste she upended the box and dumped the contents atop the mattress as if another pair of shoes lay hidden beneath the plain black walking boots she’d discovered within.
But no, nothing except a small burlap pouch, as unattractive as the leather boots, slid into view when she examined the contents. Disappointment rippled through her, yet she couldn’t complain when she should never have made the purchase in the first place.
For no other reason than curiosity, she lifted the pouch and pulled loose the drawstring at the top, spilling the contents into her cupped palm. A pair of bow-shaped shoe clips captured the afternoon sunlight slanting through the window and glistened with blinding clarity. The clips were encrusted with a multitude of large, clear stones that could only be some type of glass crystal, for were they real diamonds, their size and cut would have been enough to secure wealth beyond imagination.
Not sure what to do, she raised the adornment towards the window where it caught a kaleidoscope of colour in every gleam and glimmer, the faceted reflections waltzing along the far wall. Perhaps the clips were worth salvaging from the entire mistaken-shoe incident. She’d never seen such sparkling beauty and owned s
everal pair of slippers that would showcase the embellishment at parties or formal social functions. They twinkled in her palm with a bold wink, as if to assure her the secret confidence remained safe. She didn’t have time to consider it further as her sister’s voice echoed in the hall.
‘Livie, are you home?’
‘Yes.’ Livie yanked the coverlet over the boots, box and wrapping, shoved the shoe clips into her skirt pocket and unlocked the door a breath before Wilhelmina breezed into the room.
‘Perfect. We need to decide on decorations for your come-out. Have you chosen any colours in particular? I thought a pale shade of blue would complement nicely, or pink and lavender.’
‘Pink for certain, but we need to elevate the décor. I would hate for anyone to equate my gathering with a young girl’s birthday celebration, jejune and ordinary.’
‘How true.’ Wilhelmina’s expression changed to one of discomfort, her eyes flicking around the bedchamber as if searching for a place to rest. ‘While I have your attention, there’s something else we need to discuss.’
‘Really?’ Livie looked towards the coverlet, relieved no evidence showed.
‘Dash mentioned you’ve overspent your allowance again. The bill from the shoemaker this month exceeded last month’s, and while I truly understand your desire for fancy shoes to accompany your new-found freedom, I had little defence for your behaviour. My husband took me to task and what could I say? You couldn’t possibly need another pair…’ Wilhelmina’s faltering comments trailed off in a whisper.
‘Oh, dear.’ Livie reached for her sister’s hand, pulling her closer in hope of erasing the concerned frown on her face. Wilhelmina worried, Dash grumbled, and here Livie hid yet another pair of shoes, albeit the wrong ones, under the quilt at the foot of the bed. She needed to reorder her priorities and practise a bit more common sense. Hadn’t Esme warned her? ‘I’m sorry. I’ll do much better. I know my debut is a tremendous undertaking and with Kirby Park’s complete renovation and your recent wedding celebration, it’s selfish of me to continually overspend, most especially when additional footwear is unnecessary.’ The contrite apology matched her sincere expression.
‘Oh, Dash wasn’t terribly bothered and all is right, I assure you, but he did bring the matter to my attention.’ Wilhelmina smiled. ‘Aunt Kate and I have worried about you for so long. I suppose much as you rediscover freedom, we must allow you room to manage your independence.’
Wilhelmina led them to the bed where they took a seat and Livie paid particular attention to the hidden box, willing it to stay put despite the movement on the mattress.
‘You’ve been through a horrible ordeal and regaining your ability to walk and move freely is the greatest gift, a true cause for celebration. I understand,’ Wilhelmina continued. ‘Still, you couldn’t possibly wear all the slippers you’ve accumulated. Promise me you’ll focus on your dance lessons and party plans more than the newest designs at Lott’s.’
‘I will.’ Livie squeezed her sister’s hand tightly. ‘I promise not to go near the store and practise more mindful spending. I won’t even window-shop for fear of temptation,’ she added with commitment.
‘Thank you.’ Wilhelmina released Livie’s hand and offered a quick embrace. ‘There are so many exciting moments within reach. We have to choose your gown and decide on flowers, the menu and musicians. Your debut will be the grandest London has ever seen. I do love you so. I know I shall cry as you have your first dance.’
They sat in silence, their thoughts likely equalled in review of their shared history: a carriage accident Wilhelmina believed she’d caused, one that had claimed their parents’ lives and crippled Livie. The accident had resulted in over a year’s worth of therapy and hard work to see Livie’s legs strong and useful again, additional money worries, and then Wilhelmina’s marriage to the Earl of Dashwood and their relocation to Kirby Park, his country estate. The result had been fortuitous, her sister finding the man of her heart, but the path to true love had contained several ruts and detours, bringing them to this moment when Livie would finally celebrate her debut.
‘All this talk of dance reminds me I should get ready for my lesson.’ Livie broke the quiet, anxious to let go of the disconsolate memories and focus on what was to come. ‘I’ll think about this conversation during the entire ride to London.’
‘I’ve no doubt.’ Wilhelmina rose from the bed and headed towards the door. ‘If only your instructor could come to Kirby Park, but when you hire the best, sometimes you have to make a sacrifice. I would assume Monsieur Bournon’s services are in great demand in the city.’
‘I don’t mind travelling to Monarch Hall. Dinah is delightful company and I’m learning the most wonderful techniques. It requires a great amount of practice to appear light on one’s feet.’ She tapped her toe forward as if to begin a dance.
Wilhelmina answered that comment with a little laugh. ‘I agree. I’m anxious to hear all about your progress at dinner this evening.’
With her sister gone, Livie scrambled to reassemble the box and boots, cramming the package under the chair near the washstand and arranging a quilt in unceremonious fashion across the top until she could hurry back to Lott’s and return the mistaken purchase. She never should have made the secret jaunt to the shoemaker’s in the first place and now she’d have to do the same to return the unwanted pair, despite having promised Wilhelmina the opposite. The store was situated in Paddington, on the outskirts of the city, and having travelled there this morning, it seemed foolish to ride past the same area without taking the shoes with her. But she’d never have time to accomplish her waltzing instruction, carry the package to the south side of London and return home before dinner. The errand was best left for another day.
Until then she’d need to make ready for her lesson. Monsieur did not appreciate it when she arrived late and no excuse seemed satisfactory in the dance master’s opinion.
Penwick advanced upon his soon-to-be brother-in-law, Jonathan Allington, and let loose a hearty chuckle as the assault was countered with razor-sharp accuracy, the clipped slice of his foil echoing in the empty hall, no point earned. They’d already been at it too long, tired and sweated through, but neither man would relinquish the challenge despite practising their fencing to hone skill, not resolve differences.
‘You should admit defeat and bow out gracefully. I won’t tell a soul your advanced age of thirty-two years has brought on an inconvenient fatigue, impairing your ability.’ Penwick flashed a devious smile, pleased by the proposition of sharing the jest.
‘You should mind your own business.’ Allington passed forward, his blade fast to counter the parry, the tip of his sword just missing the side of Penwick’s shoulder. ‘And you should invest in my father’s mines or, at the least, admit the opportunity intrigues you. Diamonds are lucrative, valuable and a gentleman’s wisest investment, especially in consideration of your new status.’ Again he lunged. ‘I will continue my attack on both fronts. Bear in mind it presents as an ideal way to join our two families.’
‘I assumed my marriage to your sister symbolised the perfect union.’ Penwick widened his eyes at Allington’s callous remark and lunged forward with a bold advance. ‘And I have few relations of whom to speak.’
‘Touché.’
The conversation continued in silence, the back-and-forth phrasing of their blades the only communication for several minutes.
‘You do love her, I assume.’ Allington whipped to the left, his offhand comment more a feint than his sudden manoeuvre.
‘And who is this unexpected responsible older brother? I’ve not made your acquaintance these past months.’ Penwick continued his riposte, a drop of perspiration trickling into his right brow with the swift movement. Still, the wood-panelled walls grew closer with each of his strikes. Another moment and Allington would have no retreat, his back to the wall, the match won.
‘I assure you I have many sides, as faceted as the gemstones my father offers to the wealthiest cl
ientele throughout England and beyond. Do not play the fool and neglect opportunity. An earldom is an expensive undertaking.’
Allington sounded winded. Too much talk and not enough skill. Penwick’s stamina remained banked.
‘I appreciate your concern, though I’ve taken every precaution to secure my future with wise investment. I stand to lose more than profit, were I to accept the offer. Your sister would believe I courted her to gain favour with your father or, worse, possessed an ulterior interest in the family mines, valuing the property’s worth more than her beauty and poise.’
‘Beauty and poise age and fade away, unlike money, which grows more valuable and attractive the longer one keeps it. You did not answer my question.’
Allington’s boot heel hit the floor moulding. His brows narrowed, aware there was no retreat, and he assumed a combative stance, at once attempting an envelopment to seize Penwick’s blade and rotate their position, but his lack of control versus Penwick’s superior strength guaranteed failure.
‘Which question would that be?’ With an accelerating lunge, Penwick knocked the sword from his opponent’s grasp.
Allington leaned against the panelling, catching a breath before he slid down to sit hastily on the floorboards. ‘Hell, your skill is unmatched. I would do well not to cross you.’ He glanced upward, an expression on his face that reflected a mixture of acknowledgement and defeat. ‘At least not with a sword.’
‘You presented an excellent defence.’ Penwick extended his hand and hoisted his friend upward. ‘I’ve had more practice, ‘tis all.’
‘Perhaps.’
They walked to the side of the room where two glasses of water waited beside fresh towels.
‘I’m serious in regard to your investing in Father’s diamond mines. For clearer understanding, I’m not suggesting you travel beyond England. The mines are located in some godawful region of the world where even I wouldn’t venture a visit. There the stones are unearthed, cleaned and prepared before they ever reach our soil. Once in England, Father chooses the best gems, commissions the cut and sells them or designs the best into unique pieces. It’s all done quite easily. Money in, money out, except we’re profiting at such high margin, it would be against all honour not to urge you to partake of a share, most especially now that you’re betrothed to Claire. What profits you will provide for her lifestyle.’
His Forbidden Debutante Page 2