by Devon, Eva
“And Marianne very nearly lost her sense of self,” he put out, agreeing with her far more than he wished.
“That, I should never do,” she said. “I would never throw myself into such mad passion as Marianne. I wish to experience life, but I do not wish to lose myself to it. I do have a modicum of self-restraint.”
“Do you?” he asked softly, his gaze shifting up and down. “I have my doubts.”
The heavy powers of the duke’s eyes did not daunt her. At least, not at this moment. “I promise you that I do, Your Grace.”
“So you’re declaring to me that, essentially, you wish to be my mistress?” He drew back, folding his hands behind him, and he tsked. “It’s a mad thing to say, Penelope. You are a debutante.”
“I am a debutante,” she agreed, “but only by chance. I never should have been one if it hadn’t been for Persephone. I’ve never been intended for a London Season, Your Grace. It had been my life’s ambition to live in the country, likely with my father, until my dying day. Perhaps I would have found a scholar or someone who would have me, but it has never, never, been my deepest desire to be married and accepted by society.”
The fierceness of her words echoed in the room.
“You take a great chance, then,” he surmised softly.
“Would you cast me out, then?” she challenged, feeling far too bold. “When we are done, would you throw me to the wolves to die in the streets, impoverished and alone?”
She said this in a mocking tone of voice, but at the same time, his stomach tightened. He could take care. . . But there was always a risk.
His gaze narrowed. “Are you asking me to take care of you?”
“I don’t know what I’m asking,” she said with surprising optimism, “but perhaps I’m asking that if we were to enjoy each other, you would understand the risk I was taking and alleviate it a bit.”
Alleviate it?
The woman always took on far more risk than the man.
Did she truly understand that?
In all events, with him, it mattered not. For he’d care for her until she was old and wrinkled if that was her wish.
“Are you asking me to keep you as a mistress? Do you wish us to form a contract?” he asked boldly, hoping to give her hesitation. “It’s not something I do. I don’t have contracted mistresses.”
“No, not a contract, but something of honor,” she protested, clearly perplexed. “Something that you would understand that if I was ruined, you would ensure I wasn’t upon the streets.” She cleared her throat as she fiddled with her bodice. “That you would not abandon me entirely.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “I could never abandon you, Penelope. Such a thing is not in my heart.”
“That’s why I asked,” she said. “If I had thought you could be cruel, I would never have posited the suggestion in the first place.”
“If we are discovered,” he warned, “and I don’t marry you,” he added, “you will be anathema to society. You will be cast out. You will become a courtesan. You will become part of the demimondaine.”
“There are worse things,” she said. “At least in the demimondaine, women are allowed to be as intelligent as they please and to have as many conversations in their salons as they wish. If you help me,” she said, “at such a point, I can ensure that I will entertain artists and the greatest thinkers of the day.”
“Some husbands might allow such a thing,” he said.
“None that I know,” she disagreed.
He drew in a long breath. “In truth, I have a whole list. There are only about five men upon it. None of them are actually good enough for you, but they would all do.”
“None of them are good enough for me?” she queried lightly with surprisingly little fury.
“Then I shan’t marry any of them, if none of them are worthy. What would be the point? I think I shall keep my freedom. Perhaps I shall find my independence. Perhaps I should become a writer. Just like Mary Shelley.”
“Not like Mary Shelley,” he protested suddenly. “She’s a miserable person.”
“She might be a miserable person, but she’s an absolute genius.”
“That, she is,” he agreed, his insides rioting. “And I quite like her, but you wouldn’t wish her life. It’s been a remarkably difficult one, and I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, if you must know. It’s a great deal of pain and suffering. No one deserves that.”
“Then, help me,” Penelope said. “Help me to have a better life.”
“You are asking me to do exactly what your friend Persephone asked Drake to do. Is this what you two had in mind all along?” he asked.
“Are you angry with me?” she demanded. “Because, no, it wasn’t my plan. It wasn’t something that I thought out, but I find, standing here with you, that I cannot deny myself knowing you. It seems as if I did, it would be the greatest mistake of my life.”
“To not know me would be the greatest mistake of your life?” he asked softly. Surely she didn’t mean it?
“Yes,” she affirmed passionately. “I never believed in grand amour before, not out of the books. I love to read of it, of course, in plays and poetry and books, a passion so large that one cannot turn it away. But that is how I feel about you. You are in my thoughts every moment of the day. My body pines for you. It burns. What can I say? You are what I want. I cannot take that back.”
He stared at her, astonished.
“Dear God,” he said. “I have never known anyone like you, Penelope. You say everything in your thoughts. You put your feelings upon the world as if there were nothing to be punished for doing so.”
“Perhaps there is punishment for it,” she said adamantly, “but what is the punishment of not doing so?”
“Penelope, I don’t wish to regret it, if we. . .” he shook his head, looking away. “I have enough regrets in this life, and I should hate to hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me, Rafe,” she declared, her voice as deep and promising as an ancient river. “I promise you that. If we ever do end, well, I’m sure there will be some sadness about it, but at least we will have grown and known each other. Don’t you think?”
“So that’s this, then,” he said. “If you do this, you no longer wish to find yourself a suitable husband?”
“I’ve never wished a suitable life,” she countered with surprising vehemence. “And now that I’ve dabbled with it, I cannot commit myself to such a thing.
“No, I think I shall throw myself into the storm,” Penelope professed, locking gazes with him. “I shall choose freedom rather than marriage.”
“Unlike your friend Persephone?” he asked, unable to stop himself.
“Persephone chose marriage to save us all, and I shall choose not to marry to save myself,” she said, “and to be with you.”
“And to be with me,” he repeated, the world spinning so fast he could barely countenance it. “I cannot believe that this is what we are doing.”
“But don’t you feel happy about it?” she asked.
“Happy?” he said, his heart banging with dread. “No. Happiness is the furthest thing from my mind at this moment, and yet I find that I cannot stop myself. How the devil is a girl from the country able to lead me off the path?”
“You’re already off the path, Your Grace,” Penelope said easily. “You’re a rake.”
“I am a rake, Penelope,” he agreed, wishing he could tear himself from whatever they’d begun. “But I’ve never, ever seduced a debutante, a young lady like yourself.”
“Oh, Your Grace,” she said. “You’re not the one seducing me. I’m fairly certain right now it is I who is seducing you.”
Chapter 11
“Shall we seal the bargain with a kiss, then?” he murmured, his voice rough to his own ears.
Penelope gazed up at him with eyes full of anticipation.
Bloody hell, he loved to see her desire.
How often had he been in this position with women of experience?
&
nbsp; That had all been very pleasant, but it was nothing like this.
Here, with her, he felt as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice where if he flung himself off, he would soar to heights hitherto unknown.
Without question, he was going to fling himself.
’Twas almost as if he had no control over himself and his actions when in her company. Somehow she had drawn him so deeply towards her spirit that he could not pull himself away. . . Nor did he wish to at this particular moment.
It seemed as if he was willing to cast off all his previous vows, despite the cost.
She smiled up at him, her lips a sumptuous berry color. “With a kiss,” she whispered, her voice pure temptation, though he did not think she knew it.
With that, he drew her towards him, enraptured by the feel of her body so close to his, and wound his fingers into her hair.
Gently, he tilted back her head and gazed down upon her. As if he had all the time in the world, he drank in the curves of her cheeks, the slant of her eyes, and the fullness of her lips.
God, he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anyone in his life.
It might destroy him, that desire, but he no longer cared.
And with that last fragment of a thought, he took her mouth with his.
Her slender hands slid up to his shoulders, possessive.
She let out a small gasp as his mouth traced over hers, giving and taking easily. She kissed him with great passion, and her desire only inflamed his. With each kiss, he only wanted her more and more, and she clearly he.
He slid his hands to her back, curving her soft body into his.
The taste of her was divine, maddening even. Wine was nothing compared to her sweet tongue.
’Twas all that he’d ever hoped for and more.
Freed now by their bargain, he traced his hand down to her skirts, sliding them slowly up her leg.
Now, he could give in.
If this was the road she wished to pursue, he would not stop her from it. . . No, he would go down it with her, hand in hand.
Chapter 12
“You have been up to absolutely no good,” Mary said, her lips pursed with assessment.
Penelope blushed as she forced herself to meet her friend’s eyes. “It’s true,” she confessed.
Lady Mary waggled her dark brows. “Do tell, do tell.”
Penelope folded her hands before her, wondering what exactly she could say to Lady Mary.
Lady Mary herself was a young woman who had traversed the trails of lack of virtue, or at least, so Penelope was fairly certain.
Lady Mary let out a frustrated exclamation. “Come now! Out with it.”
“Well,” Penelope cleared her throat. “I’ve kissed the Duke of Royland.”
“Yes. I had surmised as much,” said Lady Mary, with a knowing tone. “It was very clear that you liked him a good deal in the office the other day, and there was a certain something between you two that I could not ignore.”
“Truly?” Penelope queried, amazed that the attraction was so obvious.
“Oh, yes,” said Lady Mary, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “The way he looked at you. It was as if he might devour you at once.”
Lady Mary leaned forward, a cheeky grin tilting her lips. “And did he? Has he devoured you, then?”
Penelope gasped. How the devil was Lady Mary so perceptive? “Lady Mary, the things you do say!”
“You know,” her friend’s eyebrows furrowed together. “You really must stop calling me Lady Mary and begin to call me Mary. I think we are going to be closer friends than anyone else.”
Penelope thought about this.
For all her life, she’d been the closest to her cousin Persephone, but she never really had an opportunity to make other friends, and it did seem at this moment as if she and Mary were about to become extremely close indeed.
“And yourself?” Penelope suggested, not quite willing to show all her scandals as of yet. “I wonder if there’s someone near and dear to your heart, Mary?”
Mary stilled. “What makes you think so?”
“There’s a certain something about you.” Penelope cocked her head to the side before she leaned back against the silk divan tucked in the corner of her room. “You have a secret. Of that, I’m certain.”
“Oh, you and your secrets,” Mary scoffed. “How do you know?”
“I scent them out. I must be like a bloodhound.” Penelope laughed.
“Indeed.” Lady Mary took her hand. “A very lovable bloodhound.”
Oh, the idea that she was comparing herself to such an animal seemed preposterous, and yet there was an instinct she had for people’s secrets.
“Do you love him?” Penelope asked suddenly. “Whoever the fellow is?”
Mary blanched white. “Love him? Penelope, there are no words to describe the way I feel for him.”
“Who is it? Who is it?” urged Penelope.
Mary slipped her hand away then held up her pointer finger, “No, I shouldn’t say. Not yet anyway.”
“You don’t trust me yet,” sighed Penelope.
“Oh, trust isn’t the issue,” Mary corrected swiftly. “It’s that it’s a far more complicated situation than you could hope to understand.”
“My goodness,” Penelope drawled dramatically, knowing Mary hadn’t meant to give offense. “How very condescending of you to insult my intelligence.”
Mary threw up her hands. “That’s not what I meant at all, but it is a difficult situation, and I don’t wish to get him into any trouble.”
“Oh, my, how terribly fascinating,” Penelope replied, nibbling her lower lip.
“Not fascinating at all. It is extremely troublesome,” Mary said. “And you mustn’t go trying to ferret out my secret. I will tell you when the time is right, and you must leave it at that.”
“I will leave it at that,” agreed Penelope, not wishing to upset her new friend.
Mary blew out a relieved breath then said, “You must tell me what the devil you’re doing with Royland. Will he marry you, do you think? Will you marry him? Will you cause a scandal?”
“No, I don’t think he shall marry me,” Penelope said seriously. “I have no idea who he’s going to marry. Perhaps no one at all.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Mary reached for the glass of wine that she had snuck up the stairs. The two had been sharing the decanter for the last hour when all had gone to their collective beds. “Dukes always end up marrying.”
“No,” Penelope frowned. “I don’t think that’s true. He seems most reticent.”
“Well, I suppose it’s possible,” Mary said, eyeing the deep ruby of her wine, “but it’s very rare indeed. The pressure usually gets them in the end. You know, country, duty, honor, family, and all that. Very, very true of the upper classes. It’s hard to escape a thousand years of history, really.”
Penelope gave that thought as she too picked up her crystal glass and took a long drink of the rich wine.
She didn’t have a thousand years of history of anything in her family. Her father came from newish money, so to speak.
Oh, she didn’t think her ancestors had ever been truly poor.
Somehow, they’d been landed gentry for some three or four hundred years. Possibly longer, but they’d never been remarkable in any particular way except for perhaps their ability to analyze the current government and make commentary just as she seemed to be doing now.
Perhaps such a thing ran in her blood, and that’s why she was drawn to it.
“Well,” Penelope declared boldly, “I have decided to throw myself into sin.”
Mary’s eyebrows rose before she took an exceptionally long drink. “Well, good for you, my dear, if you think you can survive such fire.”
Penelope lifted her glass in a salute. “I’d rather be scorched and warmed than frigid and left out in the cold.”
Mary nodded. “I understand that all too well. I myself am dancing a rather tight rope.”
“
So I surmised,” Penelope replied, angling her glass towards the firelight.
“So you’re going to have an affair with him?” Mary whispered.
“Yes,” Penelope confirmed, her insides fluttering at the very thought. “We have an arrangement now.”
Mary blinked. “How very business-like of you to reply thus.”
“Should I reply any differently?” Penelope asked. “He wants me, and I desperately want him, and I cannot abide the idea of having a husband that I do not desire.”
“Well, there are a great many fellows whom you might possibly desire and wish to wed,” Mary returned. “Why not give them a chance?”
“I don’t think I’m the type to marry such regular people.”
“Now who’s too condescending?” Mary said dryly. “All those poor, regular fellows.”
“Oh, how very melodramatic of me,” Penelope agreed readily, but still. . . It was how she felt. “You see, the idea of living day in and day out as someone’s wife, counting up the account books, measuring the tea, and totting out all the servants’ wages? I wish for so much more.”
“More?” Mary prompted.
Penelope blushed as she dared to admit her dreams. “I wish for poetry and the theater. I desire discussion and great writing and great books.”
“Oh, my dear.” Mary arched a brow skeptically. “I do hope that all will be well with you. You are choosing a very dangerous path.”
Penelope gave Mary a serious stare. “And I think you would choose it too.”
Mary groaned into her wine glass. “I think you could say that I already have.”
“Have you?” Penelope gasped. “At least we can be allies in this.”
“Well, yes.” Mary’s lips pressed into a serious line. “But it can be rather ruinous.”
“Is that why you have told no one about your fellow?”
“Yes, it is why I’ve told no one,” Mary said gravely before reaching for the crystal decanter on the Italian table beside her. She poured a good bit into her glass, contemplated, then sipped. “I’m not quite ready to entirely throw myself into ruin’s company. After all, my father was good friends with. I never thought we’d have such a thing in common.”