A Lady's Dilemma Or The Dandy and Lady Penelope

by Margaret Bennett

  Penelope’s temper spiked. “Silly?”

  He must have sensed her displeasure, for he took a step back with a Gallic shrug. “I meant no offense, mademoiselle.”

  She nodded her head and said dismissively, “You will excuse me, monsieur.”

  Penelope followed Max toward a set of double doors that led onto a small room where refreshments were served. She noted his subdued attire, a black satin suit with wide gold braid appliqués outlining the collar, the front, and cuffs of the jacket. As he lifted a fluted glass of champagne, his complexion appeared pale. In fact, his colorless lips and cheeks nearly matched the white lace fall of his cravat and the ruffled lace at his cuffs. His smile, when he saw her, even appeared pained.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked by way of a greeting.

  “You look pale. Are you unwell?” She accepted a glass of champagne from him, though she didn’t take a sip. At the rate she was drinking the bubbly brew, she’d be tipsy before the music started.

  “Ah, you’ve discovered my secret. I’ve taken to wearing maquillage,” he quipped. “Do you like it?”

  Deciding not to play his little game, she shook her head. “Not particularly.”

  “Is it because you dislike the color? It’s not white like lead.”

  “Max, you are as pale as a ghost. And is that a bruise on your temple? What happened?”

  Two giggling, young ladies sauntered in, followed by several gentlemen. Max shot them a disgusted look, then took her champagne glass and set it along with his on a table. He took a firm hold of her elbow and drew Penelope close to his side. Her heat fluttered at his nearness, as she allowed him to guide her toward a set of French doors that opened onto a small balcony overlooking the rear of the house. Together, they stood looking down at the garden below lit with flickering flambeaux that gave the trees and bushes a magical life of their own.

  Max gave her a sharp look. “How noticeable is it?”

  “If I had not been studying you face, I would not have noticed.”

  “You were studying my face?”

  He sounded pleased, and the smile he gave her brought the heat of a blush to her cheeks, and she demurely lowered her eyes. He seemed to actually care for her, making her heart soar with hope.

  “What did Arnaud want?”

  Though it shouldn’t have surprised her, his question stilled Penelope’s breath. Her dearest wish, grounded like trampled flowers, was not to be. Finding her breath once again, she said, “Nothing, although he did hint that I should avoid you.”

  “Did he say why?”

  She studied his profile, the square jaw, almost hawkish nose, his intent gaze in the pale moonlight. She wondered what it would be like to run her fingers through his dark rakishly ruffled curls that brushed the back of his collar. Then she reminded herself that he was her friend and nothing more. Anger over such wayward thoughts caused her reply to sound terse. “Because you are different, and . . . people talk.”

  He studied her eyes intently, his gaze never wavering. “Does it bother you that I’m different, as you say?”

  “Yes, no, I mean . . .” She took a deep breath. “I do not care that you are a dandy, or fop, or, or--”

  “Tulip?” he said half laughing.

  “Or tulip.” She gave him a soft smile. “I like you.”

  “Why?” he asked, placing his hands on her shoulders.

  Behind them, a dark shadow blocked the light from the room. “Penelope, what are you doing out here?” Lady Lenwood demanded.

  “I was in the need of fresh air, and Lady Pen agreed to keep me company,” Max said glibly as he guided Penelope toward her mother.

  With her lips pressed together, Lady Lenwood looked from one to the other before she said, “Victor has been looking for you, Penelope.”

  “I leave you two now,” Max said with a slight bow. “Don’t forget to save the first waltz for me, Lady Pen.”

  Before Penelope could reply, he was swallowed up by the ballroom crowd. When she felt her mother’s hand on her arm, she met Lady Lenwood’s stern countenance.

  “I must insist you stop seeing Lord Aldwyn,” her mother said sotto voce.

  “But why? He is just a friend.”

  “People take notice, Penelope. You are seen more with Aldwyn than with Victor, your fiancé. You will have a name for being fast before you are even married.”

  “What about Victor?” she answered defensively. “He can do no wrong?” For once, she didn’t flinch under her mother’s scrutiny.

  “So that is what this is about?” Lady Lenwood said cryptically, patting Penelope’s shoulder. “We’ll talk of this later. For now, let us enjoy the ball.”

  ~~~~~

  Arnaud may dislike him, but that didn’t stop the wily Frenchman from taking his vowels, Max thought as he watched Arnaud on the other side of the ballroom cozening up with the Dowager Duchess of Blackmoor. She, however, appeared indifferent toward Arnaud’s bootlicking. Max noted that his grandmother looked splendid in a royal blue silk turban that matched her scooped neck gown with a gray net overdress.

  When Arnaud moved off, Max sauntered over and took the seat the Frenchman vacated next to the Dowager Duchess. “You’re frowning, Grandmère. Have I offended you?”

  “What nonsense, Maxwell,” she said, offering her cheek for a salute. “You can never offend me. No, it is that oily Frenchman, angling for an introduction to the Earl of Sayer, like his lordship would ever invite that man to his hunting lodge at the end of the Season,” she groused, then tapped his arm. “Maxwell, what is the matter?”

  “Huh?” Max had watched Arnaud’s progression across the ballroom where he encountered Victor Bynes. Drawing his eyes back to his grandmother he offered his apologies and added, “I’ll see you tomorrow night for dinner.” Rising, he slowly ambled around the perimeter of the ballroom, all the while keeping Arnaud and Bynes in sight. The men appeared deep in conversation, making Max wonder what was their relation. He was aware that Bynes gambled. After all, that was why Lord Lenwood had asked Max to draw Penelope’s interest toward someone else. Could Arnaud own a pound or two of Bynes’s flesh?

  As the two men moved toward the French doors that led to the rear garden, Max started after them but was brought up short when Lady Lydia linked her arm through his.

  “I do not believe I thanked you for the lovely evening at Vauxhall Gardens, my lord,” she cooed, pressing her body closer to his.

  Short of being rude, Max allowed the lady to lead him to the refreshment tables. “I received your gracious note the following day doing just that,” he said cordially. Procuring two glasses of champagne, he resigned himself to several tedious minutes listening to her chatter. When he heard the opening strands of a waltz, he excused himself to find Penelope.

  Reentering the ballroom, Max nearly bumped into Arnaud and then, spotting Victor on the dance floor with Penelope, cursed under his breath.

  Arnaud raised one black eyebrow. “Pardon, monsieur?”

  “A missed opportunity,” Max quipped by way of apology. Aside from the fact that Penelope didn’t appear to be enjoying the dance, Max was angry with himself for allowing Bynes the opportunity to waltz with her. As he watched her graceful, slender figure glide smoothly around the dance floor, Max’s chest tightened with ardent desire, a true yearning to hold her in his arms. He had to do something, or he’d likely cut in and deliver an upper cut to Bynes’s jaw. “Up for vingt-et-un later tonight?”

  “Oui, my lord.” Arnaud sounded hesitant. “But you, how do you pay? More vowels?”

  The Frenchman’s snide remark grated on Max’s already ruffled temper. He had enough evidence to hang the weaselly turncoat, so Max decided a little revenge was in order. “I won two hundred pounds on Dudley’s Arabian at Hampstead Heath.” He watched Arnaud’s eyes light up at the prospect of relieving Max of his newfound blunt and smiled broadly. “Later tonight then, at Mrs. Doodles.”

  Before calling for his carriage, Max took one last look over his s
houlder, just as Penelope whirled by in Bynes’s arms, and again felt the constriction in his chest. Turning away, he accepted his hat from a footman and set it at a rakish angle. Well tonight, he’d likely prove the old adage true: Lucky at cards, unlucky at love.

  Chapter 9

  As Penelope twirled around the dance floor, she kept one eye on Max talking with Monsieur Arnaud. When he bestowed a dazzling smile on the Frenchman just before exiting the ballroom, her heart felt heavy, and she missed a step.

  Victor’s hand at her waist pulled her closer as he frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  Gamely, she smiled and shook her head. In truth, what could she say? The man she loved had forgotten her, had abandoned her to her fiancé to pursue his own heart’s desire.

  When the waltz began, she’d been standing by her mother when Victor appeared at her elbow and asked, “May I have this dance?”

  “Lord Aldwyn requested this dance,” she’d answered.

  “I do not see him,” Lady Lenwood said and turned to Victor. “Penelope does so like to waltz. I will explain to Lord Aldwyn that you offered in his stead.”

  It was as if Aphrodite was conspiring against her.

  “You’re not yourself,” Victor said.

  “I am merely tired,” she answered.

  “Perhaps you should restrict your activities. Aldwyn takes up too much of your time.” His tone was reproachful. When she didn’t reply, he said, “I think it’s time we set a wedding date.”

  Penelope glanced up and saw the firm set of his lips. “Why now?”

  “We’ve been engaged since you were fifteen,” he said irritably. The music stopped, and taking her elbow, Victor stirred her over to a deserted alcove. “Most girls would be thrilled to set a wedding date. Don’t forget I’ll be a baron when my father passes.”

  “But this is my coming out, my first Season,” Penelope said, hoping she didn’t sound peevish. She had to push for a delay. “I do not want to worry about planning a wedding now. I want to enjoy myself and have fun before I get married.”

  “Enjoy yourself,” Victor spat out. “Is that what you’ve been doing with Aldwyn?”

  “Do not be insulting,” she retorted. Taking a deep breath, she tried again. “I have been faithful to you, Victor. I have never done anything to bring shame to you or myself, unlike you.”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  Penelope returned his glower with one of her own. “At my coming out ball, you all but ignored me.”

  Anger heightened the reddish hue of his face as he shook his head in denial. “Now you’re being ridiculous, Penelope. Besides, you danced every dance.”

  “Then at Almack’s, you openly flirted with Miss Myers-Smythe,” she said crisply. A long moment of silence ensued. Finally, he shrugged. “I’ll talk to your father about setting a date.”

  He’d made no effort to apologize or promise to pay more attention to her, she noted. “I rather you not,” she answered softly. A sense of being cornered, trapped, overcame her, and like a fox with the hounds nipping at her heels, she fought back. “This should be my decision,” she said with vehemence.

  “We’re past that,” he snapped, then stomped off, leaving her alone in the alcove.

  For a moment, Penelope was stunned. She would soon be married to Victor. Stepping back into the shadows, she fought the tears that threatened to spill. How could she marry someone she didn’t love, especially since she loved Max. What was more, Victor didn’t love her, and over the past several weeks, she’d lost respect for him and was, in fact, growing to hate his arrogant and abrasive behavior.

  “Penelope, I have been looking all over for you,” Lady Anne said, stepping into the alcove, taking Penelope off guard. When she sniffed back a tear, Lady Anne took a square of lace-trimmed linen out of her reticule, handed it to Penelope, and kindly asked “What has upset you?”

  “Oh, Anne, I do not know what to do.” She blotted the tears streaming down her cheeks and tried to breathe slowly. “He wants to set a date to get married.”

  Lady Anne bit her lower lip. “Penelope, dearest, I think you need to talk to your parents.”

  “My mother is dead set on this wedding,” Penelope whispered forlornly. “She keeps reminding me that the Newton Viscountcy dates back to Norman times.”

  “What about your father? ”

  Penelope took several deep, calming breaths. “Lately, he acts as if he cares less for Victor.”

  “Then you must talk to him,” Lady Anne said. “Explain how you feel. If there is a way out of this, he will know. Now, come,” she said, linking her arm through Penelope’s. “My cousin Ian, Sir Coyers, has asked for an introduction.”

  ~~~~~

  Deep play had drawn in a number of interested observers. As the evening progressed into the wee hours, a smoky haze settled around the four whist players. The room was as quiet as the herald halls of the Bank of England, as well it should be with the small fortune trading hands on this final game.

  When Max threw down the final card that trumped Pierre Arnaud’s queen of diamonds, a cheer went up around the room.

  With a look of disgust, Arnaud pushed away from the card table and leaned back in his chair. “It appears the goddess Fortuna smiles upon you tonight.”

  With a broad smile, Max looked up from the pile of guineas and vowels he pulled toward him. “There is no luck to this, Pierre.”

  “More like a slight of hand,” Bynes grumbled under his breath.

  Max speared Bynes with a contemptuous eye. “I’ve honed my proficiency to read the pasteboards. Have a care, Bynes.” Max’s voice was deadly calm. “No one impugns my honor.”

  “I believe Bynes misspoke,” Edric Kingston, Max’s partner, interjected quietly.

  With angry red splotches mottling his complexion, Bynes looked anything but shamefaced. Still, he kept quiet as fellow gamblers toasted Max and Edric’s victory and the room thinned out. Before long, only the four men remained.

  “I’ll send ‘round a bank note this afternoon,” Max addressed Arnaud. “It will clear my debt with you.”

  In answer, Pierre nodded his head, then rose and gestured for Bynes to follow. Max thoughtfully watched as the two men silently left the room. “Strange bedfellows, hey Edric? I wonder how much Bynes is into Arnaud for?”

  “I’d have thought Bynes would spurn the Frenchman as unworthy of his notice,” Edric said.

  “Victor’s father has voiced his concern over the unentailed assets of the Newton estate,” Max answered.

  Edric let out a low whistle. “If that’s so, there’s not much that can be done.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m concerned for Lady Pen,” Max said. “Victor’s not in a position to be an informer. But if he’s in deep enough, Arnaud could turn him into a carrier.”

  “One’s as bad as the other.” Edric shook his head and said ominously, “There’s no way this can end well.”

  ~~~~~

  The next morning, with her mind preoccupied thinking of a life with Victor, Penelope was slow to dress. After dismissing Lucy, she sat at her dressing table, trying to muster the courage to speak with her father. She hadn’t seen Victor after he’d told her he wanted to set a wedding date and assumed he’d left the ball. She hadn’t seen her father either, but he didn’t like to dance, and at those functions he’d usually hide in one of the rooms set aside for cards.

  Finally heaving a heavy-hearted sigh, she rose and made her way to the breakfast room where she found her father studying the Morning Chronicle and The Times. “Good morning, Papa,” she said, taking a seat across from him. Pouring a cup of tea, then taking a scone from the bread basket, she asked, “Is there anything of note in the papers?”

  When Lord Lenwood gave her a sapient eye, she watched with some trepidation as he carefully folded the papers and placed them next to his plate.

  Lenwood’s face softened as he looked at her. “Victor sought me out last night at the ball. Said he wants to set a date for the wedding. Nat
urally, I told him I’d have to talk to you, but he didn’t sound happy about that.” Clearing his throat, he asked, “Is there something I should know, Penelope?”

  “No,” she answered, studying the scone she was buttering. Taking a shaky breath, she said, “I tried to explain to Victor that I am not ready to get married. Or start planning a wedding. This is my first Season, and I want to enjoy it.”

  He stared at her for a moment and nodded his head contemplatively. “Don’t worry, Penelope. I’ll handle Victor.” Then he gave a sigh. “But your mother won’t be happy about it. Don’t know what she sees in him anyway.”

  Penelope wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but she was so relieved not to have to set a wedding date that she let it pass.

  But her relief was short lived. Later that morning while sharing a cup of tea with her mother, Lady Lenwood said, “Penelope dear, Victor has asked for my assistance in helping you set a wedding date.” She raised one elegant eyebrow. “He claims you are dragging your feet.”

  Putting her teacup down on the tea tray, Penelope was surprised to see her hands shaking. Clasping them tightly in her lap, she drew a deep breath. “I talked to Papa this morning, and he said I need not get married until after the Season.”

  “You can still set a date,” her mother challenged.

  “I do not want to,” she answered slowly.

  “What nonsense is this?” Lady Lenwood looked at her shrewdly. “Does this have to do with Victor neglecting you at Almack’s?” When Penelope didn’t answer but lowered her head, her mother continued in a softer tone. “Dearest, men can be fools for a pretty face. Victor will come around, especially once you are wed.”

  “You do not understand, Mother,” Penelope said, swiping a tear away. “I do not want to marry Victor. I-I do not care for him.”

  Lady Lenwood sat up straighter. “Do not tell me you have developed a tendre for Lord Aldwyn?”

  “No,” Penelope answered a little too fast.

  “It will not do, you know.” Taking a small sip of tea, she eyed Penelope over the rim of the teacup, then put it down. “My friends have commented to me about the relationship.”