by Devon, Eva
Penelope reached out and touched Mary’s arm. “If needs be, perhaps if discovered, we can be scandalous old ladies together in some great salon, hosting the most notorious people of society.”
Mary stared at her for a long moment then lifted the decanter and happily poured more into Penelope’s glass. “It might come to that,” she said. “It absolutely could. And it doesn’t sound so very terrible.”
Again, Penelope raised her glass, only this time, she kept it aloft to toast. “Then, I’ll make my second deal of the day. If you and I should both come to ruin, we shall set ourselves up as scandalous ladies of the demimondaine and have only the very best people in our midst. And when I say the best, I of course mean the most interesting people. They shall visit us morning, noon, and night. We shall be the sun to poets, philosophers, scientists, and politicians. Together, we shall eke out our bread without a husband.”
Mary studied her carefully before she raised her own glass and rather grandly clinked it against Penelope’s. “Agreed.”
Mary took in a quick breath before admitting, “While that sounds a rather adventurous life, I do hope that it doesn’t come to that because, well, to be honest, I do love him desperately. My dream is to be with him always.”
Penelope’s heart warmed. . . and frightening realization hit her as she thought back on the short time she’d spent with the duke. “I think that I might be falling in love with Royland as well.”
“Oh, not falling. You are,” Mary said brightly.
“Love is such a strange sensation,” Penelope marveled, amazed she did not attempt to deny Mary’s claim.
“Ah. Lust, my dear, lust,” Mary said. “Lust is a very common emotion, and once you have him, if he is indeed the one, you shall be lost forever.”
“Is that what happened to you?” Penelope asked bluntly.
Mary blushed. “Are you suggesting that I have had him?”
“Well, haven’t you? You seem to know a great deal about it all.”
Mary smiled a slow, secret smile. “I shan’t tell.”
“I’ve told you my secret!” Penelope protested with feigned outrage.
“Yes, you have,” Mary agreed like the cat with the cream. “And thank you for it. I shall keep your secret. I promise you that. But I’m not quite ready to reveal mine.”
Penelope groaned before taking a deep swallow, glad that the wine was as bold as her own feelings. “I thought we were to be dear, dear friends.”
“Oh, we are,” countered Mary. “I’ve told you far more than I’ve told anyone else, and you’ve surmised far more than anyone else has.”
Penelope laughed, feeling a wee bit tipsy. “Well, I suppose that’s something.”
“So what shall you do now?” Mary queried, her face shadowed now by the firelight. “Have you arranged a meeting? And how shall you attend them? It’s no easy thing.”
“You’re right, of course.” Penelope bit the inside of her cheek before, confessing, “I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”
Mary looked at her with slightly narrowed eyes. “Knowing the Duke of Royland, he’s about to have a qualm of conscience.”
“You can’t be serious,” Penelope said, gaping with horror.
“Oh, I am,” Mary replied honestly. “I wouldn’t be surprised at all if you received a missive very soon, stating that he has changed his mind and that, really, the whole thing was a mistake. He’s a good fellow, you know, not used to despoiling virgins.”
Penelope threw up her free hand and exclaimed, “I don’t think that is the way that it should be described, should it?”
Mary’s lips cocked in a wry grin. “How else would you describe it?”
“Well,” Penelope thought about it. She supposed she could come up with a prettier response. “The selection of one’s independence.”
“My goodness, how very scientific that does sound,” Mary said.
“Now, Mary, let’s not prevaricate,” Penelope rushed. “What ever should I do next? I don’t wish him to change his mind! I’ve made up mine, and I’m ready to launch myself.”
“If it were me,” Mary said, “I would wait until it was very dark and the servants have gone to bed this very night. I would slip out of the house, and I would find myself a hackney and take myself to his abode. He doesn’t live far from here, after all.”
“A hackney,” she echoed. “By myself?”
Mary shrugged. “It seems as if you’ve chosen to live boldly, my dear, so boldly you must go.”
She contemplated this. It was certainly a bold choice. “Is that something that you would do?”
“Oh, my dear. I’ve done it,” Mary whispered.
Penelope squared her shoulders. “Then, will you help me?”
Mary leaned forward and took her hand firmly. “Yes, I can help you with this, but you must help me with my secret as well.”
“Done,” Penelope agreed. And they shook as if to make certain that they had absolutely agreed upon their mutual doom or liberation, depending on the possible outcome.
“I say, Mary, you’re very good at this.”
“Thank you,” Mary said. “I’ve already had a bit of practice, but I have to confess it will be quite nice to have a friend to share such things with. It’s been rather lonely.”
“I can only imagine,” Penelope said.
Mary licked her lips. “The last few years have been. . . They’ve been challenging and rather dark.”
“I’m glad to bring you some happiness,” Penelope said, quite pleased.
“I think you bring happiness wherever you go, Penelope.”
Penelope smiled at that and hoped it was true.
Chapter 13
Royland sat at the engraved writing desk in his large chamber, staring at the blank parchment, quill in hand, wondering how the devil he was going to break it to her that he’d changed his mind.
God, the passion that they’d shared was intense. He’d never felt anything like it. He kept saying that about her. In all his life, she had been the most unique thing in it, and he was going to cast it away because he had to, it was the right thing to do.
He was a gentleman.
Well, mostly a gentleman, and he wasn’t about to start ruining young ladies. Even if she wished him to.
Or so he told himself.
And he’d told himself this several times now.
Frankly, he was beginning to feel a bit like Hamlet, who couldn’t make his mind up. After all, during the course of the four-hour play, the damned fool kept declaring things and then changing his ideas.
He couldn’t be such a fellow. He was the bloody Duke of Royland.
Rafe picked up the quill once more, stared at the parchment again, dipped it into ink, and wrote, “Dear Penelope.”
To his horror, he found himself staring at the parchment again, wondering how in the blazes he could put this without sounding like an idiotic arse.
His hands seemed to resist the will to write.
The breadth of his whole body seemed to scream against it, as if it knew better than he did. Such a thing wasn’t possible. He was a man of thought, a man of reason, a man of letters.
As such, he should sure as hell be able to make his hand go to the paper and scribble out a few words, telling her to hie off and never come back, to leave him be, to find a good husband.
Or some such statement in diplomatic phrases.
Yes, that was exactly what had to be done.
He tried once more.
As if embroiled in a terrible fog, the words wouldn’t form in his brain. He couldn’t seem to find a way to say it without sounding like. . . Well, an arrogant, patronizing arse.
Any reply he seemed to make, made her sound infantile, and the one thing that Penelope was not, was infantile. She was a lady of great intelligence, of great resolve, and it seemed insulting for him to assume that he knew what was best for her.
Maybe he had seen a great deal more of the world than she, but was that enough for him to di
ctate her future?
Could he truly know what was better for her than she did?
Yes, he assured himself, he could.
Rafe scooted forward on his finely made wood chair and wrote in bold strokes, It is my deepest regret, sending you this letter, but it is of the utmost importance that we are of an understanding. I do not wish—
Suddenly, there was a knock on his door. His quill stuttered across the page, spraying black ink.
“Bloody hell,” he bit out.
With a resigned sigh, he placed the quill down.
The moment it dropped from his fingertips, the strangest sensation passed over him.
It was her.
Somehow, he knew, as if there was an invisible cord between them and it had suddenly tugged.
Yes, it had to be her.
My God, he thought as he swung his gaze to his door.
Was it possible that he should know such a thing just simply by that knock?
No, he was a fool. He crumpled up the now-useless parchment and ordered himself to pull his rioting thoughts together.
It was one of his good friends come to visit, or something to do with the newspaper office or one of his estates.
An estate manager. Yes, that’s who it was.
A message in the middle of the night, telling him that something had occurred on one of his estates. Yet, his gut had not twisted with apprehension or fear. . . No, he felt anticipation.
“Come,” he all but barked.
The door opened, and his butler, Adams, stepped in. The old fellow lifted a hand to his mouth and coughed. “Your Grace, we have a bit of a dilemma.”
“Do we, indeed, Adams?” Rafe intoned, his body all but humming.
“Yes, Your Grace. There is a young woman down in the foyer. Well, not woman,” Adams said, frowning. “A young lady, or at least she seems to be. She is insisting upon seeing you, and I don’t know what to do. Your Grace, it is quite late. Therefore, I can’t send her back out onto the street. Her hackney has already left. She’d be quite alone, and that seems very dangerous.” Adams’ brow furrowed in an alarming series of wrinkles. “She almost flew up the stairs, if you must know, when I told her to wait.”
Rafe fought a satisfied smile. He shouldn’t smile. He should be bloody well irritated and dismayed by Miss Finley’s behavior.
Yet, he was not. Quite the opposite.
“She doesn’t happen to have a lovely shade of brown hair, does she?” Rafe ventured. “And a rather remarkable turn of phrase?”
Adams cleared his throat. “She does, indeed, Your Grace. A Miss Penelope Finley? She announced it as if she wished the entire house to know it.”
Royland’s breath caught in his chest. This was the moment. He had to decide. No more could he prevaricate like young Hamlet.
Rafe stood. “Send her up.”
Adams’ brows lifted. “Send her up, Your Grace?”
“Yes, Adams,” Rafe declared firmly. “Send her up.”
Adams glanced about the bedroom chamber. “Here, Your Grace?”
“Yes, Adams.”
Adams’ eyes widened for a single moment before he merely nodded. The butler of many years knew that there was absolutely no point in questioning a duke.
One didn’t question dukes, after all. Not even butlers, prodigious fellows that they were.
After that nod, Adams began to retreat quietly and swiftly.
“Oh, and, Adams?” Rafe called. “Send up a bottle of red wine or whatever you deem fit.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Adams intoned. “Whatever Your Grace desires.”
The door shut.
Rafe looked at the crumpled parchment. Just a moment before, he had been so resolved.
Resolved? He had been about as a resolved as a jelly.
It was a terrible thing. How had he been overcome by such a minx?
The maddest thing of all? Neither of them was doing the seducing, and yet they both desperately wished to give into each other.
They were simply two people inexplicably pulled together, unable to break free.
They’d already almost given in.
And he would have if it hadn’t been for the fact that they’d sealed their bargain in his friend’s, the Duke of Drake, library.
Such a thing just wasn’t done, after all.
But now that she was here?
She came, determined, to his house.
There was no going back.
Not for her. If anyone had seen her, she was already ruined.
So what was the point in sending her off now?
There was no point.
It was time to give in.
It was time to allow himself to have something that he truly wanted. It had been years since he’d done such a thing.
Oh, it might seem like he was a man of indulgence, but none of those things had been his deep desire.
Not like this.
After several long moments as he swiped the papers away, the door opened, and wordlessly, Penelope entered, looking positively magnificent.
Adams followed, carrying a silver urn with a bottle of champagne nestled inside it and two glasses. Adams quietly set the champagne down, and then as if this were the most common occurrence, he shut the door behind him.
Slowly, he turned to her. He raked his gaze up and down her cloaked figure.
The deep green cloth swung about her body, outlining her beautiful curves.
The hood bathed her face in shadows, and he longed to push it back so he could see if her cheeks were flushed with excitement.
The light from the fireplace and the few candles about the room danced over her.
In all his rather debauched life, he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
To him, she looked like a present waiting to be opened, to be cherished, to be savored.
“Draw back your hood,” he said softly.
Silently, she lifted her gloved hand to the edge of it, and then, slowly, she let it fall to her back.
Her dark hair was down, cascading about her shoulders.
“My God, you’re stunning,” he breathed.
She smiled at that.
A cheeky, winsome grin.
There was nothing seductive at all to it, but it was seductive to him because it was completely without reserve and without manipulation.
She simply smiled because she felt joy.
How he loved that about her.
“Come here,” he said softly, his heart beginning to take up a swift rhythm.
“My goodness,” she teased, her pink lips parting mischievously. “How authoritative of you.”
He laughed, a low rumble of a sound. “I am a duke,” he reminded.
“So you are,” she agreed ruefully, and she did as he asked.
Penelope crossed the room in slow, graceful steps. The skirts of her gown and her cloak rustled, the sound mixing with the crackle of the fire.
She spotted the rumpled parchment next to his writing desk as he stepped away from his chair.
Her eyes crinkled as she took in the untidy bit of paper. “What ever is that?”
A muscle tensed in his jaw. Was he going to have to confess? “I was struggling to write a missive.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “To me?”
“Yes, by God, to you,” he admitted, driving a hand through his hair. “How would you know such a thing? You’re almost omniscient.”
“No,” she said, bemused. “It’s simply that Lady Mary suggested you’re such a good fellow that you might write me a letter to send me off, which is why I’m here. I didn’t wish to receive it.”
Rafe took that bit of news in, surprised that he was so transparent. “Well, it seems that Lady Mary is most intuitive.”
“She is very, very intelligent,” Penelope pointed out, “and I like her quite a lot.”
“So do I. Her life has been difficult, and I wish her happy.”
“I do too,” Penelope said, her eyes warming. “And me. I wish me happy, too,
which is why I’m here.”
“You think I can make you happy?” he queried, his voice rough.
“Absolutely,” she said.
He sucked in a breath, unable to fathom she could truly think such an erroneous thing. “My God, you’re a daring young woman.”
She lifted a hand to the ribbons of her cloak. “I take that as the highest compliment.”
“It is a compliment,” he said, his gaze riveted to the hand at her throat, which was pulling at the string. “And yet, I’m afraid.”
“You?” she asked, pausing. “The Duke of Royland, afraid?”
“Yes, Penelope Finley,” he ground out. “The Duke of Royland is afraid. More afraid right now than I’ve ever been. More afraid than standing on a battlefield and being shot at by the French.”
“I had no idea I could cause such a feeling.”
“You can,” he gritted. For she trusted that he wouldn’t make her miserable in some way. . . And he was terrified that he might. Not on purpose but because. . .
No, he wouldn’t think of that. Not now. Not with her standing in the glow of the fire.
“You do that to me, too,” she murmured. “You make me think. . . You make me think that there’s so much more to this world, and I cannot settle for anything but adventure. If I did settle, I know that I should be unhappy all my life.”
She took a step towards him, her gaze suddenly imploring and urgent. “So please, please don’t try to send a letter again. Please don’t try to change your mind.”
“I won’t,” he vowed. Then he blurted, “I won’t be like Hamlet, running around for five acts, changing his mind back and forth.”
She laughed, tilting her to the side. “What ever made you think of that? While I do quite like that play, I never did particularly like poor Hamlet. What a silly young man he was. And you. . . You are not silly.”
“No,” he agreed. He was many things. Silly was not one of them.
Rafe stretched out his hand to her then, offering it. “You’re here and I’m glad. So, let us celebrate this life.”
She placed her gloved hand in his lightly, her lips parting slightly. “And take joy where it comes.”
“And take joy where it comes,” he agreed, before he pulled her towards the warm fire, ready to bare her body as well as his soul.