The Duke's Quandary (Entangled Scandalous)

by Hutton, Callie

  She turned to where he stared, but he quickly placed her arm in his and hustled her through the French doors. “Ah, I see the next set is starting up. I’m sure your partner will be looking for you.” He kissed her hand and left.

  The beginning strains of a waltz summoned couples from the patio, making it difficult for Drake to ease through the door to return to the garden. Eventually, he cleared it, and hurried to where he’d seen Penelope. Once he spotted the two figures, he strode down the steps, and across the garden path.

  “I’m very happy to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Smythe, but as I’ve said, I must return to the ballroom before Her Grace misses me.” Penelope attempted to pull her hand free from the man who clutched it.

  “Let the lady go,” Drake growled.

  Penelope’s shoulders slumped as Drake clamped his hand on the man’s shoulder, and he immediately released her. He spun the man around. “Smythe?”

  David Smythe, the notorious third son of Viscount Digby, had a reputation for pursuing wealthy young ladies. It had been known for several years that the man was deeply in debt, and needed a woman with a substantial dowry to clear his vowels and maintain his comfortable life style.

  “What do you think you’re doing, man?” Drake turned to Penelope. “Miss Clayton, please return to the ballroom and find my mother. I will speak to you when I am finished here.”

  Smythe backed up, tugging on the cuffs of his evening coat. “I don’t know what you’re raising such a breeze over. I was merely talking to the girl.”

  Drake leaned in close to the man, causing him to back up once again. “Let’s get something straight, old boy. Miss Clayton is a guest of Her Grace and is under my protection. She is a lady, and you well know a lady doesn’t dally with a gentleman outside of her chaperone’s sight. And from what I could see, she was attempting to leave your presence, and you were preventing her from doing that.”

  “The chit was flirting with me.”

  Thinking of shy Penelope, so inept in social matters and engrossed in her science, the man’s comment was almost laughable. Except seeing Smythe’s hand on Penelope did nothing to inject humor into his mood.

  “If I see you anywhere near her again, or if I observe you even glancing in her direction, you will be a very sorry man. Do I make myself clear?”

  Smythe gave a brisk nod, and Drake turned before he gave way to the temptation to land a facer on the man.

  And now to deal with my houseguest.

  …

  “Miss Clayton, may I speak with you in the library, please?” Drake handed his hat and gloves to Stevens, then turned on his heel and strode away.

  Abigail’s eyebrows rose, and she glanced at Penelope. “What is that all about?”

  Terrified at facing Drake’s wrath, Penelope could only shake her head, the ability to speak having momentarily fled. She wished she could do so as well.

  “Whatever the matter is, it doesn’t concern any of us, so off to bed, girls.” Despite her words, Her Grace studied Penelope for a moment, clearly interested herself.

  They’d just arrived home from the Ponsoby ball. Drake had come in after his confrontation with Mr. Smythe, and had coolly informed his mother it was time to depart. Despite her obvious surprise at his announcement, she agreed she was weary, and it would be best if they left.

  Drake had ignored Penelope, except to offer his hand to help her alight from the carriage. He’d taken her elbow as well when she missed the bottom step. Even then, he had avoided her eyes, and the set of his jaw told her all she needed to know about his state of mind. She’d blundered again, and now had to face the consequences of the duke’s wrath. Stiffening her back, she wiped her damp palms down the front of her dress and followed him on shaky legs.

  He stood by the sideboard, pouring a glass of brandy. “Would you care for a sherry, or perhaps some tea?”

  “No, thank you.” The words came out breathless, but considering the banging of her heart, and her difficulty accessing any air, it was a wonder she could speak at all.

  “Please, have a seat.” Drake indicated a chair by the fireplace.

  Penelope sat at the very edge, back straight, her hands tightly clasped in her lap, stiff fingers gripping her reticule. Drake set his glass down on the table next to her, then paced. After a few moments of strained silence, she mustered some courage, and looked up. “You wished to speak with me?”

  “Yes I do.” He stopped abruptly and faced her, the pulse in his neck visibly pumping. “What in heaven’s name were you doing in the darkest part of the garden with that rogue?”

  Tears rushed to her eyes at the anger in his tone, but she blinked furiously, refusing to make matters worse by collapsing into feminine hysteria. She raised her chin, and eyed him. “I assure you I did nothing wrong.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sure you didn’t, but a young lady does not spend time with a man beyond the sight of her chaperone, or even other people. You should know this.”

  “I repeat, I did nothing wrong. I merely went for a breath of fresh air after that disaster in the ballroom. Mr. Smythe apparently spotted me from the terrace, and, of his own accord, joined me in the garden. I did not invite him, did not encourage him, and tried to return to the ballroom, but he refused to let me go.”

  Placing his hands on the arms of her chair, he leaned in, causing her to back up. His hazel eyes had deepened with anger. The little bit of air between them was filled with the scent of brandy, bay rum cologne, and the unique essence that was Drake.

  Her stomach muscles tightened with his nearness as much as the anger directed toward her. Despite her precarious position at the moment, she had the overwhelming urge to move just a few inches forward and once again taste him. Would his second kiss affect her as much as the first one? Did she even want to know?

  “Mr. Smythe is a purse-pinched rake who is seeking a wealthy woman to marry.” His soft-spoken words eased into her thoughts, all the more deadly because of its silky utterance. “Had you been discovered alone with him by anyone other than myself, he would have offered for you, and you would have been required to accept—or be ruined.”

  The blood drained from her face. Of course she knew being alone with the man was unacceptable, but she’d no idea the consequences would be so dire. Married to that popinjay? When she remembered how much she’d disliked him, and how he’d held onto her when she had attempted to flee, the idea that he was trying to compromise her changed the fear of Drake’s wrath into teeth grinding anger. “How dare he use me in that fashion!”

  “Precisely.” He stood and returned to his seat, crossing an ankle over his knee, now seeming more at ease. “You would not be the first woman trapped that way. Or man, for that matter.”

  “I shall never understand these people.” How simple life had been in the country with her scientific work. That was what she found important. Not some sniveling wastrel trying to snare a wealthy wife in order to continue a debauched lifestyle.

  Fatigue and depression descended on her like a shroud. Perhaps it was time to visit Aunt Phoebe and beg to be sent back home. Not only did she not belong here, and had no desire to remain, but she could easily ruin the rest of her life by one small mistake. She shivered at the thought of marriage to Mr. Smythe.

  “I’m sorry, are you chilled? I can easily ring for some tea, or have a footman start a fire.”

  …

  Drake studied Penelope as she rubbed her palms up and down her arms. The poor girl had paled to the color of new snow when he had told her what Smythe might have had in mind. One thing was obvious. Penelope was correct. She did not belong in his world. She was far too innocent and naïve, more so than most girls having their come out. Which was why he had to keep a closer eye on her. It would devastate his mother if their houseguest got caught in some type of scandal while under Her Grace’s care.

  Penelope made a movement to get up. “No. Tea will not be necessary. If you’re finished, I would like to retire.”

&n
bsp; The weariness in her face troubled him. Between the difficulties on the dance floor, and her encounter with Smythe, it was no wonder she looked exhausted. He nodded at her request, then called her back as she headed to the door.

  “Yes?”

  “I suggest you put your spectacles on. I know you have them in your reticule. Wouldn’t you find it easier to see where you’re going?”

  She flushed, and clutched the small bag to her chest, as if he intended to rip it from her fingers. Perhaps she took it as a criticism, when he merely wanted to keep her from stumbling her way upstairs.

  “Haven’t we had a conversation about that before?”

  Penelope chewed her lower lip. He was stunned at his body’s immediate reaction to that innocent gesture. Except there was nothing innocent about those lush, berry-red lips. In fact, he had a vivid memory of tasting them just a few days ago. They’d been warm and sweet, and had left him with a desire for more.

  He also noticed how her gown sparkled in the room’s candlelight. Each time she moved, the gown shimmered, drawing his eyes to her lovely form. That he hadn’t noticed the allure of that gown until now amazed him. Although of modest cut, the neckline displayed her alabaster skin and the rise of her plump breasts to perfection. Her hair had been pulled up into a fetching knot, with the activities of the evening loosening it somewhat, giving her a soft, feminine look. No doubt it was not only her money that had encouraged Smythe to pull that stunt.

  Anger once again coursed through him at the idea of Smythe, or for that fact, any man, putting his hands on her body. Of slowly easing that gown down to expose her perfect breasts, cupping them in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over the nipples until they beaded while he ravished her mouth, and then. . .

  Sweat broke out on his forehead as he quickly pushed those disconcerting thoughts to the back of his mind. Who Penelope married, and consequently was bedded by, was not his affair.

  “I find it hard to forego Aunt Phoebe’s remonstrations about my spectacles.”

  It took him a moment to remember their conversation. “Ah.” His lips twitched, not wanting to embarrass her further by laughing. “But I thought you mentioned not having an interest in catching a husband?”

  “You are right.” With a slight smile, she fumbled with the string on the reticule and yanked the spectacles out. As she settled them on her face, she caught several strands of her hair in the frames.

  “Here, let me.” He strode up to her, and took the spectacles off, smoothing her hair back before replacing them. “You have such soft skin.” He stroked his thumb down her cheek, over the angles of her cheekbone, and then lightly cupped her chin.

  She stared at him, her thick eyelashes slowly closing as he continued his caress. She licked her lips, a definite hitch in her breathing. Before he could consider the consequences, he lowered his head and moved his mouth over hers, devouring its softness. The very air around them seemed electrified and her innocent response to his embrace spurred him further.

  Drake’s other hand moved up until he was cupping her face, both of his thumbs grazing her velvety skin as he angled to get a better taste of her sweetness. A shudder passed through her, and she leaned in farther, resting her delicate palms on his chest.

  Penelope’s acceptance of his kiss stoked a gently burning fire into a raging inferno. He broke from her lips and kissed her jaw, her neck, and then the soft skin at the back of her ear. She turned her head aside, giving him greater access to the smooth, flower-scented skin.

  “Drake, are you still speaking with Penelope?” His mother’s voice broke into his drugged brain, reminding him he was standing in the middle of the library, ravishing his mother’s houseguest.

  Chapter Eleven

  Drake and Penelope broke apart, both of them breathing heavily as the door to the library moved open, and the duchess entered. “Oh, there you are. I wanted to ask. . . ” Her voice faded as she took in the scene before her.

  “Yes, Mother, what is it?” The abruptness of his statement and raspy tenor of his voice disturbed him. He moved to his desk, and shuffled the papers there, desperate to get himself under control. What would his mother make of this? She certainly was astute enough to guess what had been happening as she entered.

  “If you will excuse me, Your Graces, I would like to retire.” Penelope grasped the sides of her skirts and hurried past the duchess, who kept glancing back and forth between the two of them, a slight smile twitching her lips.

  “How did your ‘talk’ with Miss Clayton go?” The duchess inquired.

  He noticed definite mirth in her eyes. Once again he felt as he did when he was in short pants and his mother had caught him in some transgression. Like with biscuit crumbs all over his mouth right before dinner. Or the time he’d placed a frog in Abigail’s bed. But dash it all, he was a man grown, and did not have to squirm under her amused glance. “Our conversation went very well, thank you. And to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Drake, unstiffen your back. If you think I intend to berate you, perhaps I will. Only to remind you that Penelope is our guest, and an innocent young girl. I will not see her trifled with, not even by my own son. Especially my son, under whose protection she resides.” She inhaled, and Drake took his opportunity.

  “Enough, madam. I know who Penelope is, her station in life, and her status as a guest. I was not trifling with her, and I assure you I have been, and will continue to be, a gentleman. Now what is it that caused you to seek me out?”

  Her Grace smoothed her skirts out and sighed. “I only wanted to tell you that I need you to watch over Penelope, but now I’m not so sure.”

  Drake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What is the problem?”

  “I heard one of the wretched matrons refer to our guest as ‘Clumsy Clayton.’ I know Penelope heard it, because she had just reached me, and I heard it as well. The poor girl blanched, and she had already looked pale when she returned from the garden. It was most unkind, and I’m afraid she will begin to hide herself as Marion does.”

  …

  Penelope fled down the corridor, then hurried up the stairs, her hands cupping her flushed cheeks. Whatever was wrong with her? This was truly a complete disaster. Being discovered in the dark garden with Mr. Smythe, and goodness sakes, even disgracing herself on the dance floor, was nothing compared to the duchess finding her and Drake together that way. Had she guessed what had been going on?

  Of course she had. The woman is anything but stupid.

  Her mind was made up. She would definitely go to Aunt Phoebe’s and beg to be sent home. She had to get as far away from Drake as she could. Nothing would ever come of her attraction to the man. He and his sisters had been very vocal about how he was seeking the “perfect” woman this Season to be his duchess. She was so far from the perfect woman as to be laughable. And it was best to stop her growing feelings before she got hurt.

  “Penelope, is that you?” Marion called from her room as Penelope hurried past.

  Not the best time to engage in a conversation; the only thing Penelope wanted to do was go to her bedroom, change into her nightgown, and crawl into bed. But the plea in Marion’s voice stopped her. “Yes, it is me.” Penelope pushed open the door to find Marion standing by the fireplace.

  “Can you visit for a while?” The young widow seemed more animated than Penelope had ever seen her. Marion gave her a warm smile and waved at the settee.

  Pushing aside her own turmoil, Penelope joined her, noting the tea things set up on a small table. A blue flowered teapot, with matching cups and saucers, was daintily laid out with a tray of biscuits and small lemon tarts.

  They chatted amiably for a while, but Marion seemed distracted, as if she had something on her mind she needed to talk about. Eventually, she wiped her hands on a serviette and cleared her throat. “I’ve been looking at the garden for some time now, and I thought I would enjoy a walk there. Perhaps in the morning. I do love the forsythia that b
looms this time of year.” She took Penelope’s hands. “And I want so much for you to accompany me.”

  Stunned at this request, and with so many family members ready to jump at the chance to see her out and about again, Penelope smiled warmly. “Certainly. I would be honored.”

  “You see, my family loves me very much, but I know a great deal of fuss and possibly questions will arise if I go by myself, or if I ask one of them to accompany me.

  “Frankly, I am a bit nervous, not having left this room in two years.” She glanced around at what had surely become a prison. At least to Penelope’s way of thinking, that’s how it would be for her. Because of her work, time spent out of doors was her life. To be cooped up in one room—for two years no less—would be torture.

  Marion breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much. Shall we say, nine o’clock? Would that be acceptable to you?”

  Pushing aside her plans to visit with Aunt Phoebe first thing in the morning to beg for release from her own torture, she agreed. “Nine o’clock will be wonderful.” Penelope took her last sip of tea and rose. “Now you must excuse me, as I fear I must seek my bed.”

  …

  The next morning, deep in thought, with his hands clasped behind his back and his head lowered, Drake came to the end of the garden pathway. His attention was gained by female voices. Surprised that his sisters had risen early enough to take a stroll, he glanced at the two figures approaching him, and came to an abrupt halt, his mouth falling open. Marion and Penelope walked arm in arm, both of them strolling as if it were an everyday occurrence.

  He shook his head to clear it, and make sure he wasn’t mistaking Abigail or Sarah for Marion. No. It was definitely his eldest sister, and she was chattering and waving her arm as if her last two years of self-imprisonment had never happened.

  What the hell?

  Something held him back from making a fuss. If Marion were to resume life outside her room, she needed her family’s support, not hysteria at her decision. “Good morning, ladies. A fine day for a stroll, is it not?” He tipped his hat as they halted.