My True Love

by Cheryl Holt

  She was young, too young to be by herself with such an older man. Had the cad lured her outside? Had she come willingly, innocently unaware of his dubious intentions? Had she run into him by accident and the knave taken drunken advantage? He couldn't help speculating as to who her parents might be, and what kind of people they were that they had allowed such a dastardly misadventure to occur practically under their noses.

  "Would you like me to walk you to the house?" The offer was perilous, but he could hardly leave her huddled up and anxious in the dark.

  "No," she said, refusing with a shake of her head. "I'll be fine. I just need a moment to gather myself together."

  "But someone should know what happened," he said. "Is your father about?"

  "He wouldn't care, I shouldn't think."

  "You must be joking."

  "No, I'm not. Unfortunately." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. ' 'That man you chased off is my fiancé. My father selected him for me."

  "Now I know you're joking," he insisted.

  "I'm not. They're longtime acquaintances. My father knows exactly the sort of man Edward is, yet he arranged a marriage anyway."

  Just then the clouds decided to part, and a sliver of moon broke through. Its brilliant glow shone down on her, and he felt his breath catch. In the shadows her beauty had been hinted

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  at, but in the fuller light she was spectacular. Her face was perfectly formed, heart-shaped, and lovely, with creamy skin, high cheekbones, a small nose upturned at the end, and generous pouting lips, the kind meant for kissing and no other task.

  Her hair had come loose during the skirmish, and it hung long and free, so blond that it looked silver, and she seemed to shimmer with an unearthly luminescence. Though the moon was bright, he could not distinguish the color of her eyes, but he suspected they would be blue, a deep, dark sapphire that would only add to her allure. She stared at him, courageously fighting the tears that clung to her lashes.

  "Oh, dear Lord," she exhaled softly, "what am I going to do?'' Leaning forward, she rested her arms on her thighs, her shoulders sagging, her head down. "The wedding is in three months. I don't see how I shall be able to carry on until then. And after ... oh, I can't bear to think about after. ..."

  "Is there anyone you can talk to?" he asked. "Anyone you can turn to for help?''

  "No. There's no one," she said, and the admission was the last straw. The tears she'd so carefully held at bay began to fall, looking like tiny diamonds as they splashed down her cheeks. There was only a pair at first, then another and another, until it was a raging torrent of despair.

  She even cries prettily, he thought, completely touched. He knew he should leave her to her own devices. A woman's tears always made him feel helpless and out of his element, but he couldn't forsake her during this private moment of sorrow.

  "Here now, love," he said quietly, "it's not as bad as all that."

  "It's worse," she said. "It's so much worse."

  It appeared that her heart was breaking, that she'd been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders and had finally collapsed from the strain of it. "Have a good cry, then," he advised. "You'll feel better."

  He dug around in his clothing, surprised to discover that he actually had a kerchief. Tugging it out, he gave it a shake, then

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  tucked it into her hand. She pressed it to her face and wept for a time, making no sound, as though sobbing were an indignity far beneath her position. Without thinking, he rested his palm on her back, stroking up and down, comforting her as one might a small child who's had a terrible upset. After a lengthy time the emotional upheaval began to wane, and he could sense her relaxation.

  “I'm sorry," she said, giving him a somber half-smile. “I didn't mean to make such a scene." She dabbed at her eyes, willing her tears to return to the reservoir from which they'd sprung.

  "What's your name, lass?" he queried, deciding that she was without a doubt the most enchanting woman he'd ever met, and that he'd have to see her again.

  "Penelope," she said. "Penelope Westmoreland."

  The name hit him in the center of his chest like a physical blow. His heart skipped several beats, and he had to force the air out of his lungs. Striving to remain calm, he asked,' 'Harold is your father?''

  "Yes," she said, obviously not finding it odd that he would know her father's name. Most people did. The duke was famous and infamous.

  She straightened, fiddling with her skirts, and finally turned to look at him. As she shifted, he couldn't help but notice what should have been apparent from the beginning of the encounter. Of course she was a Westmoreland! His young nephew, Harry, was her double. In her face, hair, and eyes he could see how the boy would look when he was grown, but that was hardly surprising. Miss Westmoreland was, after all, Harry's half sister.

  Just then, a commotion erupted from the house, and he stared over his shoulder. Several figures were milling about on the terrace. One of them was the duke, and he was flanked by several men who looked armed and determined. Immediately he jumped to his feet. "I have to go," he announced.

  "What?" she asked as she stood, confused by the sudden change of circumstance. They'd been conversing so pleasantly, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so uninhibited

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  in the company of another. In a few short minutes she'd admitted secrets to the stranger that she'd never disclosed to anyone.

  "I have to go," he repeated, peeking warily through the hedges.

  From a distance she heard the duke's voice calling, "Penny? Are you out there?"

  "That's my father," she explained, gazing up in consternation at her handsome protector. "He can't be looking for you! Edward wouldn't have had the audacity to say anything about what happened."

  "I doubt if it was anything your Edward might have said or done," Lucas responded, flashing her the jaunty smile that had never failed to melt a female heart, "but your father and his men are looking for me." He gauged the brick wall and the leap he'd be required to make, then smiled at her again. "I need a head start in order to be safely away. Please don't tell anyone you saw me."

  "I won't," she vowed, not knowing what he was doing in their garden, where he'd come from, or where he was going, but in a world where no one cared about her, he'd become a fast friend. She'd protect him no matter the cost, despite the risk to herself.

  He bent down, reached into his boot, and retrieved a knife. "Keep this," he urged, handing it to her. "Bring it with you the next time you come out to the yard alone. If that scoundrel dares to accost you a second time, don't be afraid to use it!"

  Her eyes widened in surprise, but she gladly latched on to it. The weapon was small and deadly-looking, with a sharp blade, and an ivory handle that exactly fit the curve of her hand.

  "I'll keep it at the ready," she promised, smiling too, while glancing to the house. The duke remained on the terrace, leaning against the balustrade and scanning the property, but his men were rushing down the steps onto the pathways, and her visitor's urgency became her own.

  "What's your name?" she asked hurriedly.

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  "Lucas," he said. "Lucas Pendleton. But don't tell anyone we've met."

  She shook her head, liking this bit of intrigue they shared. "May I see you again?"

  "Yes," he said without hesitating. "Tomorrow night. Right here."

  "Midnight," she agreed, not in the least apprehensive or concerned about arranging a rendezvous. There was something about him that made her feel secure in his presence.

  Footsteps were quickly approaching. "Remember," he cautioned, "not a word to anyone!" He grasped her by the shoulders and placed a light kiss on her forehead. "Until tomorrow night," he whispered, and in an instant he'd vanished.

  Penny looked at the spot in front of her where he'd been standing only moments before, and blinked several times. Mr. Pendleton had come into her life, then disappeared so
rapidly that she could barely believe he was real and not a dream. Still ... she held the knife and his kerchief—definite proof of his existence. She raised the kerchief toward the light and saw his initials, L.P., embroidered in the corner.

  "Penny!" her father shouted again.

  Others were calling, "Lady Penelope!"

  Relieved that she was allowed to keep those articles, she carefully tucked the blade and linen square under her cloak, then started down the walkway. "Father!" she answered. "I'm here. What is it?"

  One of his men came charging up, his eyes searching the yard even as he made his bows. "Are you all right, my lady?" he asked.

  "Quite," she said calmly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

  Her father bustled to her side, saying, ' 'How long have you been out here?"

  "Goodness ..." she mused, acting as casual as possible in the face of their alarm and anxiety. Whatever could Mr. Pendleton have done to create all this furor? "I suppose it's been nearly an hour."

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  "Begging your pardon, my Lady," the other man said, "but did you happen to notice a darkly clad gentleman dashing across the grounds?"

  "My heavens, no," she lied. "I've been walking for quite a spell, and I've seen no one. Although I did hear a dog barking next door, in Lord Wessington's yard...." She pointed to the house that sat on the adjacent lot, far away from the route Mr. Pendleton had taken. The duke's men needed no other encouragement; they simply took off in the direction she'd indicated.

  Satisfied with her night's work, she turned to go in, but her father stopped her. "Where are you off to now?"

  "Is Edward lurking about?"

  "No," he answered. "Your mother mentioned that he left in a hurry. After he returned from talking to you, he seemed somewhat agitated."

  "Really?" she asked, sounding as bored as she could manage.

  The duke looked at her in that stern, fierce way he had, waiting, then waiting some more, for her to comment on why Edward had departed so abruptly, but age had made her more wise in their dealings. Let him wonder. Let him stew.

  "I believe I shall be off to my room," she said, refusing to tarry and be interrogated. "Make my apologies to anyone who feels they are necessary."

  She walked away, leaving her father in the deserted garden while his minions scaled the wrong wall, looking in vain for Lucas Pendleton. Pausing once, she offered up a prayer of Godspeed for the American, and she rubbed her fingertips over the place on her forehead where he'd kissed her. It tingled and burned as though afire.

  By the time she reached the stairs, Lucas was many streets away. He casually strolled into a noisy tavern and blended with the throng, pretending he hadn't a care in the world. His brother, Matthew, lingered with false patience for him to arrive. Their eyes met the second Lucas stepped through the door. They possessed the same tall, broad-shouldered physique, so Matthew

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  stood a head above most of the other men in the establishment, making him easy to locate.

  On seeing Lucas, Matthew signaled the barkeeper, and an extra glass was prepared by the time Lucas worked his way through the crowd.

  "What did the bastard say?" Matthew asked, foregoing any light conversation.

  "He refused."

  "What a surprise," Matthew said, shaking his head. "How did you leave it?"

  "As we planned. I told him he had three days in which to reach a better decision, and that we'd be in contact for a different answer." Lucas sipped at the frothy brew, letting it slide down his throat. "I think he'll end up agreeing."

  "Really? You never thought so before. What makes you think so now?"

  Lucas paused, considering the sweet turn of events and how he could best put them to beneficial use. "You won't believe this—"

  "What?"

  "I've chanced upon his daughter, Penelope."

  "No." Matthew gasped, then laughed. "Don't tell me that's what took you so bloody long to get back here."

  "It seems she fancies me," he said, his eyes full of mischief and plotting.

  "You always did have the devil's own luck with women."

  Lucas shrugged, knowing it was true. "Westmoreland has made an outrageous wedding arrangement on her behalf to a drunken pervert, and I can believe he did it only because he stands to gain a fortune through the match."

  "Which means she's worth her weight in gold," Matthew deduced sagely.

  "Exactly what I was contemplating," Lucas agreed. Pensively, ominously he asserted, "I'd say Harold Westmoreland is going to be more than happy to meet our demands. No doubt his pretty Penelope will prove extremely beneficial in changing his mind."

  CHAPTER THREE

  As Penelope waited for her coming tryst with Lucas Pendleton, the next twenty-four hours were the longest she'd ever endured. After leaving the garden and retiring to her room, the night had proved endless as she'd tossed and turned, unable to sleep. She kept recalling the incident with Edward, reliving all that he had said and done, and what his behavior would mean for the future.

  Interspersed with memories of him were those of Mr. Pendleton. She couldn't seem to think of one man without immediately thinking of the other, so back and forth she went. When she closed her eyes, she repeatedly heard Mr. Pendleton's fist as it collided with Edward's stomach, with his jaw. There was such a sweet ring to it. Her fearless American had been tense and ready to continue the fight, able and confident in his ability to send Edward packing.

  Who was this mysterious stranger who had come to her aid without a thought as to the consequences? As Edward had intimated, he was very powerful, an equal to her father in nearly every way, a nobleman who could commit any despicable act and never be held accountable. Yet, Mr. Pendleton hadn't blinked an eye at confronting him. If anything, he seemed to

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  relish the idea of taking the brawl to the next level. He'd actually threatened to kill Edward! And Penelope had the feeling that j it was the kind of caveat upon which he'd be more than able ; to carry through.

  In her entire life she'd never met anyone like him. There . was certainly not another who equaled him in looks, and no gentleman of her acquaintance could hope to match him in bravery, daring, or chivalrous comportment. He was like a prince out of a fairy tale, and he had rushed to her rescue like a knight in shining armor, just as it had always happened in those make-believe stories of her childhood.

  As a girl she'd read them voraciously, always imagining that the same sort of handsome, bold, adventurous hero would sweep her off her feet someday, that she would fall madly in love and be whisked away to live happily ever after.

  Over the past three years, though, her eyes had been opened to reality, and she'd had to put aside her fanciful dreams with their idyllic endings. There were no dashing princes or courageous knights waiting to deliver her from her plight. She was : frightened and overwhelmed, and her meeting with Mr. Pendleton had only underscored how desperately she needed to devise a plan in order to survive the coming months. If she didn't develop a strategy, she had no idea how she would make it through her wedding day—or her wedding night.

  Although she was supposed to be an innocent on conduct of men and women in the marital bed, she wasn't. Her personal maid, Colette, never passed a chance to regale her with stories of what went on in the bedchamber, so while Penelope still had a few questions about the details, she had a fairly clear notion of what would be required once she spoke her vows. After Edward's mauling, she didn't see how she could perform j her wifely duties. Indeed, so great was her despair that several times it had crossed her mind that she would rather kill herself than submit to him, but as quickly as the thought came, she ; hastily pushed it away.

  Her life had been one long, interminable lesson about duty.

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  Her responsibilities had been drilled into her until it was difficult to fathom acting of her own accord. Her father had found her a husband; he had ordered her to marry. In her small, structured society the
re was no alternative but to obey. In fact, so carefully had she been groomed that she couldn't consider the possibility of doing anything but following his lead.

  Occasionally she liked to fantasize that she was a braver person, the sort who had no qualms about running off and starting over. Infrequently she imagined herself finding a place of her own where no one recognized her or had any expectations of her. But where? Where would she go, and how would she survive?

  She had no illusions regarding her condition: She was completely dependent on her father. While it was amusing at times to picture herself just walking away, she never would. There were women of the lower classes who worked to support themselves, but she was hardly one of them. She had no skills that were particularly valuable, having been raised to be competent at only those tasks that would be essential for the countess or duchess she would eventually become.

  She knew all there was to know about such topics as planning a huge dinner party, what servants were necessary to the smooth running of a large household, and how to appropriately seat guests around the supper table, but there were no calls for those abilities out on the streets of London.

  The other option would be to ask a relative to take her in. Only a handful of acquaintances might initially welcome her if she fled her father's house, but none of them would be willing to let her stay. They'd never go against the duke by shielding his errant daughter. Indeed, most of them would perceive her refusal to marry Edward as immature and uncalled for.

  In her world a daughter did as her father commanded. No one would think twice about the actuality that the marriage had been arranged and wasn't to her liking. Such a happenstance occurred often, and it wasn't for the daughter to question her father's motives. In fact, she could imagine seeking shelter

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  from distant relations, only to be turned back at their door and sent home to where they would feel she belonged.

  How she wished her father had found her a husband such as Mr. Pendleton—one who was strong and tough yet who could be gentle and supportive. He was exactly the type of man she always imagined she might someday marry. What would it be like to build a family with one such as he? She couldn't even begin to envision it.