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Penelope

Page 20

by Anya Wylde


  “I am sorry, what did you say, Madame?” Penelope asked shaking her head. Surely she had heard wrong … about baboons and buttocks.

  “What is worrying you, my dear?”

  Penelope squirmed.

  “Miss Fairweather, you can hardly confide in Anne and the dowager if it is about the duke. I am good at keeping secrets.”

  “How did you know it concerned the duke?”

  “I have been trying to get your attention for some time, and the moment I mentioned the duke and his glorious bottom, you snapped to attention. Are you in love with him?”

  “In love? The man tried to kill me!”

  Madame rolled her eyes, “Did he now?”

  Penelope bristled at Madame’s tone. Annoyed, she told Madame all that had occurred since her arrival at the Blackthorne Mansion. Anger forced her tongue to say a little more than she would have liked.

  Madame heard her out in silence, her face turning grave.

  “Penelope, I think I can call you by your name after all that you have told me? Now, if the duke truly wanted to kill you, then why did he save you from that man in the alley? Why did he lift the beam away when you were trapped? Why did he tell you his secret and beg you to stay?”

  “I am not sure …”

  “You never really believed that he meant to harm you, did you? What is worrying you is the fact that in anger you accused him unjustly. You are frightened—”

  “Frightened? Yes, I suppose I am. I still get nightmares of being trapped ….”

  “Oh, I don’t mean that. You are frightened of the intensity … the intensity that the duke brings with him every time he encounters you.”

  “I am frightened because of … peanuts.”

  “Peanuts?” Madame asked faintly.

  “Yes, peanuts. Beth, one of my stepsisters, is allergic to peanuts. Whenever she eats a peanut her face flushes, her tongue feels swollen, her heart starts racing, and she feels queer. I feel the same when the duke is around, so you see the only conclusion is that I am allergic to the duke. I know he does not truly want to kill me but he might do just that by simply being around me.”

  Madame started laughing until tears streamed down her eyes. “This is why I think girls should be educated in the matters of love. You really should know what happens before and after … especially after,” Madame sobered and continued, “Penelope, you are not allergic to the duke, and I think you know that as well as I do. You are an intelligent girl and yet you are trying to grasp at silly excuses to explain away your feelings.”

  Madame let her words sink in. She then changed the topic, “You are coming along fairly well in your lessons, but even after the season is over, I want you to remember that I will be here for you.”

  “Madame, what should I do about him? “

  “The word ‘duke’ freezes on your tongue,” Madame said, smiling kindly. “I suggest that you focus on your season and stay true to your goal. You have to marry, my love. As for the duke, deep down you trust him with all your heart and soul. You always have from the moment you pinched his exquisite ear. Don’t lie to yourself or him.”

  Penelope traced the grooves in the wooden desk, her eyes refusing to meet Madame’s.

  “That is all for today. I will see you again tomorrow. And, Penelope, my final advice on the matter is to never forget the existence of Lady Lydia Snowly.”

  Penelope’s hand stilled. Her eyes met Madame’s, and the look she got in return was full of pain and pity.

  ***

  “Mother, stop keeping Penelope all to yourself. Why does she have to read to you every single day? I have something really important to discuss with her.”

  “Penelope has to practice her music, Anne, as per Madame’s instructions. Your gossiping can wait,” the dowager replied firmly.

  Anne scowled but consented. Accordingly, they trooped to the music room, dragging a reluctant Penelope along.

  The late afternoon sun streamed in through the tall windows, and Penelope stared at the various musical instruments placed around the room. She gulped.

  “Anne, I think we need to discuss something urgently. I can play for you some other day.”

  “No. You will play right now, Penelope. It is only Annie and I in this room. Come now, choose an instrument,” the dowager coaxed.

  “You cannot be worse than me,” Anne said and added in a whisper. “We will talk about that issue later. I will come to your room early tomorrow morning.”

  “Will we have time to plan?” Penelope whispered back.

  “I will be in your room before the sun rises,” Anne replied with a militant look in her eye.

  “Girls, stop whispering like imbeciles,” the dowager scolded.

  Penelope, looking sheepish, shuffled towards the piano and sat down. She pressed a key and the note rang true. The piano was tuned perfectly and ready for use.

  Penelope squeezed her eyes shut in dismay. She had run out of excuses. She had to play.

  She struck the first note just as the duke walked in.

  Her fingers paused, her eyes darting to the dowager in panic.

  The duke greeted his mother and sister with a kiss on the forehead, and then did the oddest thing. He came and stood by her side and held out his hand to her.

  She stared at his hand in confusion.

  He raised his eyebrow and smiled, “Give me your hand, Miss Fairweather.”

  She gave it without thinking.

  He clasped it gently and turned it over. He then bent his head and kissed the back of her hand.

  “Good afternoon,” he said softly.

  The dowager and Anne gasped in shock. The duke had never before treated Penelope like a human being, and here he was treating her like a lady no less.

  Penelope sat staring at the point where his lips had touched her skin.

  The duke’s voice broke her trance, “What’s the matter, Miss Fairweather? Is the instrument not good enough for you?” He stopped and frowned. After taking a deep breath, he spoke again in a politer tone. “I would like to hear you play.”

  Penelope frowned in annoyance, “I have never before handled such a fine instrument. I... I am not very good. I am afraid you will be disappointed.”

  “Stop dawdling, Penelope. We have only an hour left before we get dressed for dinner,” Anne said.

  Penelope turned to the piano once again. This time her stomach was fluttering, and she did not trust her voice. Her eyes darted to the duke. At his encouraging nod, she gingerly touched the keys.

  After the first few practice notes, her hands flew over the instrument. Closing her eyes she launched into a jaunty tune.

  Merrily I sang through the hole in the pant

  Of a big bottomed baboon.

  I was the legs you see while the head was Maryanne,

  Of a big bottomed baboon.

  We galloped across the stage,

  With leopards and lions,

  Peacocks, rabbits and a leathery old man,

  While I was part of a big bottomed baboon.

  Surely and merrily and happily we sang,

  Of wild jungles and fairy wine.

  My head it poked out,

  My tongue it stuck out,

  At the unhappy crowd,

  All through the hole in the pant

  Of a big bottomed baboooonnnnn!

  Penelope stopped and opened her eyes. She thought she hadn’t been so bad. Smiling, she looked at her audience.

  A deathly silence met her.

  After a minute a clap rang out, which soon turned into a standing ovation from Anne.

  The dowager yanked her daughter back down.

  “Err… that was … something. The song, perhaps not right for a social gathering, but you showed enthusiasm and your enjoyment was a pleasure to watch,” the dowager muttered.

  “Mother, that was ghastly and sung so badly that the animals she sang off would collapse and die after hearing the dreadful sound emanating from my excellent piano. I cannot have her touch the
instrument again for fear that either my ears will bleed or that the servants will quit in anguish … What possessed you to sing something so ridiculous?” the duke stormed.

  Penelope knew why she had sung it. Her conversation with Madame earlier about baboons and the duke’s bottom must have been lurking at the back of her mind.

  Anne gave up and laughed, “That was … oh, Penelope, wherever did you hear it? I adored every moment. Do you know any others like it? Perhaps you will teach me?”

  “She will do no such thing, Annie. I will not have my sister singing like a tavern wench.”

  “I am sorry,” Penelope said miserably.

  Anne sobered, “I didn’t mean to laugh. I did enjoy it. Although, I have to be honest, you can’t possibly sing such songs in public. As for your skill with the piano, a more delicate instrument may not survive the fervour with which you attack the keys.”

  Penelope slumped in her seat.

  “Don’t be disappointed, my dear,” the dowager consoled.

  “I am not. I am relieved. I know I can’t sing or play. I am just so happy that I will not have to face all those people and make a fool of myself. I often had to in my village and it was never a pleasant experience.”

  Anne smiled in delight, “I can’t sing either or play. Although, I would have paid more attention if my teacher had taught me songs like that.”

  The duke glowered at his sister, not at all pleased with her enthusiasm.

  “Did you learn it in Finnshire? Is it popular there?” Anne continued, ignoring her brother.

  “Oh no, Jimmy taught it to me.”

  “The highway—,”Anne started asking.

  “Yes, yes, who else could she mean?” the dowager said hastily, shooting a glance at the frowning duke.

  Anne closed her mouth, and the dowager plunged into a lengthy discussion of ribbons, buttons and petticoats. The duke left the room.

  ***

  Penelope was on her way to change into a dinner dress when the duke blocked her path.

  “Who is Jimmy?” he growled.

  “A man,” she shot back, annoyed at his demanding tone.

  His eyes closed, his head tilted up towards the sky, and it seemed as if he was saying a silent prayer. When he spoke again, his tone was more respectful.

  “In the past I would have assumed he is your lover. But now … I am asking you.”

  She refused to answer him. He had no right to ask her such questions, and she was not going to jump and do his every bidding.

  “Penelope, I am trying very hard to be reasonable. I would like us to be friends. It is not easy switching from a hostile relationship to an amicable one. You have to help me.”

  She felt a little guilty. After the talk with Madame, she knew that he was not completely at fault. Yet here she was punishing him for some odd reason.

  “I want to be friends,” she replied, offering a tremulous smile.

  He smiled back, his face lighting up. But when she made a move to get away, his hand shot out to grip her arm.

  “You have not answered my question. Who is Jimmy?”

  “I, too, have powerful friends, your grace,” she replied mysteriously.

  “What sort of friend teaches a lady tavern songs?” he asked silkily.

  “Why do you care? He is my friend and I like his songs. He eats the likes of you for breakfast, so you best watch your tone, your grace,” she smirked.

  “Penelope, stop testing my patience. I am asking you for the last time, who is Jimmy?”

  She balked at his expression. Her bravado slipped a notch.

  “Jimmy is a highwayman, a deer stealer and a burglar of some note. He is the Falcon,” she squeaked.

  Stunned, the duke dropped his arm, and Penelope was off like a shot before he could recover his wits.

  Chapter 27

  Penelope felt like the salmon she was eating; squashed between slices of soft white bread. The slices of bread being the bosoms of two heavily perfumed ladies that were having an animated conversation with each other directly above her head.

  “Did you hear that the poet kept sixteen mistresses? They testified, in fact, swore during the trial that he kept each one of them satisfied. It is a pity he had to go kill his granduncle. I would have liked to …”

  “Penelope?”

  “Hush,” she said, waving away the intruder. The topic had just turned exciting when someone yanked her away from the gossiping women.

  She turned around in annoyance.

  The duke stood holding a glass of lemonade.

  “Why did you pull me away?”

  “I would not leave Anne suffocating between two inflated women.”

  “I am not your sister,” she said irritably, her eyes searching for the two women. Perhaps if she followed them she would hear more?

  “No, you are not my sister.”

  Something in his voice yanked her attention back to him.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, turning her face away.

  “Like what?”

  She did not need to see him to know that he was smiling.

  “You know …”

  “I don’t. Please explain.”

  “Oh, to hell with you,” she said, taking a step away from him.

  “Running again, Penelope?”

  She froze and turned to glare at him, “I am not running away. And I never gave you leave to use my name, your grace.”

  “I am the duke and I do as I please,” he replied smugly.

  Penelope frowned. She had never seen the duke like this. Teasing, relaxed and smiling … It made her feel unsettled and oddly shy.

  She lifted the lemonade glass to her lips to hide her face when a thought struck her. She eyed the duke suspiciously and then the glass.

  “You brought me lemonade?”

  “I did. I thought you might be thirsty.”

  He was laughing at her.

  “I am … It is a little hot here.”

  “You look warm.”

  She blushed, her eyes falling on the cup once again.

  “I haven’t poisoned the drink, Penelope. Have you not forgiven me yet?”

  She didn’t reply.

  After a moment he chuckled.

  “I think,” he said snickering, “your name, instead of Miss Fairweather, should be Miss Badweather.”

  “That was terrible.”

  “I know, which is why it’s funny,” he said grinning.

  Penelope felt her lips twitch. “You shouldn’t laugh at your own jokes, your grace.”

  “You smiled and that means I am forgiven,” the duke smirked.

  “What nonsense. And I did not smile.”

  “I saw your lips curve upwards. You smiled.”

  “I did not, and you are not forgiven.”

  “I beg to differ. If you smile at my terrible joke, then that equals forgiveness.”

  “Your logic is daft,” she muttered, draining the cup.

  “You drank the lemonade. Now that definitely means that I am forgiven.”

  She glared at him and then the cup.

  “Miss Badweather?” he prompted.

  A giggle escaped her lips. “Alright, I forgive you, your grace. And I think I see Anne. I should go.”

  The duke inclined his head and stepped aside. His eyes were blazing joy.

  ***

  “I know I promised to come and see you this morning, but I did not wake up on time, Penelope. What are we going to do?” Anne wailed.

  “Anne, we cannot discuss anything here. Too many ears. I suggest you ask Bessie to wake you up early tomorrow morning and you will have to …” She stopped suddenly and then asked in a reverent tone. “Who is he?”

  “Lord William Ellsworth Hartell Adair, the Marquis of Lockwood, and with him is Lady and Lord Scrivenor. You have met the marquis,” Anne replied promptly.

  “I have not met the marquis. How could anyone forget meeting him? He is almost as handsome as the du …” she stopped biting her lip.
r />   “People consider him handsomer than Charles,” Anne said, her eyes twinkling.

  “Oh, where is he going?” Penelope cried, watching the marquis excuse himself from the group.

  “Come, let’s follow him. I can introduce you to him,” Anne said, her face alight with mischief.

  Penelope did not quibble and rushed after the departing figure.

  He disappeared onto the balcony. Penelope and Anne quickly followed.

  A young woman in a scarlet gown detached herself from the shadows and fell into the marquis’ arms.

  Anne pulled Penelope behind a large potted plant. The scene before them was not opportune for introductions. They would have to wait for the woman to leave.

  The lamps on the balcony allowed Penelope to admire the man in all his glory. He was tall and broad shouldered with slim hips. But it was his face that caught her gaze. It was carved perfection, with a long aristocratic nose, sensual lips, and dark eyes framed by the longest lashes she had ever seen.

  The woman moved her arms to pull his head down for a kiss. Just before their lips touched, he smiled.

  That smile turned Penelope’s admiration to shock. Lord William Adair, the Marquis of Lockwood, was no other than Madame Bellafraunde.

  Anne was also shocked but for a different reason. Why in the name of Beelzebub was Madame Bellafraunde kissing a woman?

  The couple kissed for what seemed like an eternity. The two girls watched in avid fascination, each one taking mental notes of every sigh and moan emitted, the angle of the head, the practised technique that avoided the two bumping each other’s noses.

  When the kiss ended, the marquis whispered something in the woman’s ear. She nodded and with a last loving look disappeared back into the shadows.

  Lord Adair pulled out a cigar and said loudly, “You can come out now, Lady Radclyff, Penelope.”

 

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