A Lady's Dilemma Or The Dandy and Lady Penelope

by Margaret Bennett

  “We are friends,” Penelope said. “Why does everyone insist there is something more to it?”

  “He has made it a habit of singling you out wherever you go, Penelope,” her mother persisted. “There is something strange about it all.”

  “There is nothing strange, Mother,” Penelope said flatly.

  “Very well,” Lady Lenwood replied, “just remember, Victor is your fiancé. Do not forget that, Penelope.” Standing up and smoothing out the folds in her blue and white muslin gown, she added, “I will tell Victor you have chosen a date for late summer. Actually, that is more practical. It will provide the time needed to put together your trousseau.”

  ~~~~~

  On the way over to Berkeley Square for the Duke of Blackmoor’s dinner party, Max leaned against the dark green velvet squabs contemplating Penelope’s clear blue eyes, then lips.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, inspired. “Rosebud lips kissed with dew . . . Slender hips that beckon-- No, no, no.” He sighed, envisioning Penelope’s svelte form, the feel of her tiny waist when he lifted her, the enticing sway of that perfect derriere . . . .

  Shaking his head to redirect his wayward thoughts, he acknowledged that he wasn’t a poet. Moments later, the carriage rounded the corner of Berkeley Square.

  He’d arrived early, hoping to have a chat with his father over his growing unease of Arnaud’s possible hold over Bynes. However, it was the Dowager Duchess, sitting on a crème damask settee in the drawing room, who greeted him.

  “Your father has not returned from Whitehall,” she said, accepting the cordial glass of sherry Max poured from a side table holding several decanters and crystal glassware. “I expect him momentarily.”

  After pouring a brandy for himself, Max took a seat next to her. “I saw you talking with Monsieur Arnaud at the ball.” He chuckled. “You looked peeved.”

  “The man is a parasite, and I refuse to subject my friends to his encroaching ways.”

  “It might behoove you to tolerate him, Grandmère,” Max said teasingly. “The French are so very fashion savvy.”

  “Perhaps, but to tolerate that Frenchman? Really, Maxwell, you ask too much.”

  “Do consider, Grandmère, the lovely silk gown you are wearing. The sherry color matches your eyes and complements your porcelain skin, your white, er, alabaster hair. That silk, my dear Grandmère, was smuggled in from France and reeks of hauteur de la mode.”

  “Really, the height of fashion? Well, I was most pleased when my modiste made this,” the Dowager Duchess said, preening, “though I did think it was just brandy and other spirits we smuggled.” After a moment, her white eyebrows shot indignantly. “But that dreadful toadeater had the audacity to make derogatory comments on your attire.”

  “What did he say?” Max said, amused by his grandmother’s umbrage on his behalf.

  “Harumph, that a few people--”

  “More like half the ton,” Max interjected.

  “A few people,” the Dowager reiterated with spirit, “think my grandson a tulip, a pink of the ton--”

  Max’s laughter cut her off. “But isn’t that what was intended from the start of this charade?” he asked.

  “Well yes, but your father is no better, Maxwell,” she said heatedly. “It was his idea, which he seems to have forgotten--”

  “I have not,” bellowed the Duke of Blackmoor as he strode into the drawing room.

  Max held his glass up high in a salute. “Good evening, Father.”

  “Maxwell,” the Duke said. He poured two fingers of brandy into a sniffer, then took a seat across from Max and his grandmother.

  “Look at him, Maxwell,” the Dowager Duchess said chidingly, “he dresses in a uniform every day--”

  “I do not,” the Duke objected.

  Ignoring him, she said, “The same black suit--”

  “I’ve at least ten or more suits, Mother.”

  “And all nearly the same color and fabric,” she said.

  Blackmoor leveled a look at his mother. “There is nothing wrong with the way I dress.”

  “It is boring,” she answered. “Besides, you have taken to criticizing Maxwell’s tastes.”

  Blackmoor brushed her words aside with a wave of his hand. “Look at him,” he sputtered. “Yesterday, he was disguised as a bumblebee. Toady, well what is this, Maxwell? Are you an upside down pumpkin with those putrid brown pantaloon and orange jacket?”

  “You wound me,” Max drawled, pulling on his moss green and brown striped waistcoat.

  “Harumph!” Blackmoor snorted. “All your flamboyant dress and behavior, no doubt, has your mother rolling over in her grave.”

  “Eleanor had the good sense to marry you and produced this darling man--”

  “Darling is right,” Blackmoor cut his mother off again.

  “Lovable, Blackmoor, lovable,” the Dowager Duchess insisted heatedly.

  Before anyone could respond, a discreet cough came from the doorway where Hobbson stood, waiting to announce the Duke’s guests for dinner.

  Chapter 10

  The first hint Penelope had that the evening would prove tedious was when the Countess of Hatton congratulated her on setting a wedding date. “September is a lovely time for a wedding,” Lady Hatton said, appearing genuinely happy for Penelope. “And with the beginning of the Little Season, many of your friends will be in town.”

  Somehow Penelope maintained a smile, despite Victor’s snide grin. She dared not look at Max, for fear he’d come over and offer his felicitations. And if he did, she’d likely burst into tears.

  Dinner was no less an ordeal. With Victor sitting next to her, monopolizing the conversation describing how he spent his day at a horse race just outside the city, she was unable to swallow more than a few spoonfuls of the excellent lobster bisque.

  When he offered his suggestions for their honeymoon, her stomach lurched alarmingly. Only by excusing herself and turning to her other dinner partner was she able to keep her food down.

  Thus, when the ladies retired to the drawing room to await the gentlemen to finish their cigars and port, Penelope’s nerves were beyond frayed. Then, her mother drew her into a discussion of wedding trousseaus with Lady Stanburke and Lady Anne.

  She had to escape. Excusing herself to repair her attire, she brushed aside Lady Anne’s offer to accompany her to the retiring room.

  Once out in the hall, Penelope headed for the library on the first floor, thinking that she might find a moment of solitude there.

  ~~~~~

  Coming out of the dining room, Max spotted Penelope just as she rounded the curve of the stairs. He knew the other gentlemen would be leaving the dining room soon, so he quickly hurried down the hall and met her at the bottom of the stairs. “Lady Pen” he said, reaching for her hand and tucking it in the crook of his arm. He noticed the small frown that creased her brow and asked, “You look sad. Is everything all right?”

  She shook her head. “No, just a . . . a small headache.”

  Max didn’t believe her, but he had more important things to discuss. “I need to speak with you, if you don’t mind?” Before she could object, he led her toward the library, opened the door, and ducked his head in. When he saw it was empty, he tugged her elbow, ushering her in, and closed the door.

  “Max, shouldn’t you leave that open?” she asked pointedly.

  “I don’t want us disturbed,” he said, turning her to face him. She glanced down, hiding her beautiful blue eyes from him, and frowned. Using his thumb, he lifted her chin and held it until her eyes met his, then used his thumb to gently smooth her forehead. “Pen, have you given any thought to breaking off your engagement?"

  She shook her head, stepped away, and turned from him. "I cannot do that, Max. Victor and I have been engaged since I turned fifteen. Our fathers wanted our families joined."

  "But not any more.” Max walked around to face her. “Your father is not happy with the way Victor gambles. Besides that, Victor doesn't love you. He is marryin
g you for your dowry. Don’t you see that?"

  "You don't understand, Max."

  "Perhaps I understand more than you think."

  "I doubt that is possible. You have known me for only a few short weeks. I am nothing more than one of your fancy flights." She let out a heavy sigh. “Why, you probably choose to be seen with me because of my penchant for soft, muted colors that complement your bold style.”

  "You wrong me, Pen. My feelings may not be as strong or as enduring as true love, but I find you most endearing, more so than your prosy Sir Galahad of a fiancée."

  "Now you are being unfair,” she said challengingly before she smiled and tried for levity. “Besides, who professes to be a poet?”

  Max groaned. “I’ve still not written that ode.” He gently laid his hands on her shoulders. “Pen, I know your heart isn’t involved.”

  ~~~~~

  Penelope closed her eyes to ward off tears. She’d come downstairs hoping to give her frazzled nerves a reprieve before dealing with Victor again. Now, she was alone with the one man who made her pulse race. Surely, he heard her heart pounding in her chest. When she felt his arms slipping down hers and going around her, her eyes flew open.

  “Tell me you love him, Pen?” he whispered, drawing her to him.

  She put up her hands and pushed against his rock hard chest to stop the embrace and remembered the hard muscles hidden under his lacy cravats and double-breasted jackets she’d felt on other occasions. "You are quite a paradox, Max. You are not the effeminate dandy you strive so hard to make others believe."

  It was as if she’d struck a chord, for he immediately dropped his arms, took a step back and withdrew his perfumed hanky from inside his sleeve, whipping it about airily. "La, you forget, my lady, ‘tis all in the way others perceive one."

  "How do you wish others to see you?" Was it her imagination, or was he trying to distract her.

  "Why, for exactly what is before their eyes," he answered too quickly. "I have nothing to hide."

  "I think that is not true, my lord.” She crossed her arms and studied him, remembering how everyone had commented on the change that had come over him in the two years he’d been gone. “I believe it is your intent to deceive."

  "Just why would you make such a preposterous accusation?"

  Though his drawl expressed his typical ennui, Penelope sensed her answer meant a great deal more than he wanted her to know. "It is a feeling I have."

  "See, you do care for me," he said, dropping the affected speech and stepping closer to her.

  Seeing desire darkening in his sherry-colored eyes, she felt breathless as her pulse began to race once more, and for a moment she was flummoxed.

  But then reality hit home. He did not love her. She wasn’t his type. "You are ridiculous, playing these games,” she chided. “Please excuse me as I must return to the others."

  ~~~~~

  Thinking to stop her, Max reached out to Penelope, then dropped his arms as she exited the room. Frustrated beyond belief, he hadn’t said what he wanted, hadn’t expressed his feelings, or even gotten Penelope to admit she didn’t want to marry Victor. “Pen, wait,” Max called out, determined to get her to listen to reason.

  He’d taken three long strides when he heard a dainty cough behind him. Whirling around, he saw the Dowager Duchess rising up out of a wing chair stationed by a window, facing toward the back garden where lanterns lit the gravel walkways.

  "My, that was most enlightening," the Dowager Duchess said with a mischievous twinkle in her faded blue eyes.

  Max slowly walked toward the window, leaned on the back of the wingchair, and smiled. “Got an ear full, did you, Grandmère?”

  His grandmother chuckled. "You always were a cagey one, Maxwell."

  "You really should have spoken up."

  She leveled a look at him and shook her head. "Why? You would never give me the truth of the matter if I had asked. Besides, your conversation was not only informative but entertaining as well.”

  Max shook his head and laughed. “Grandmère, you are incorrigible.”

  “Sort of like you,” she said saucily, “acting outlandishly to keep others off balance so they do not know the real you."

  “You wound me,” Max said gravely, striking a fist to his chest. "Whatever do you mean, dear Grandmère?"

  “A word to the wise, my boy, you’d best level with Lady Penelope for she is no fool.” She accepted Max’s arm to rise from the chair and winked at him. "I may be old, Maxwell, but I am far from infirm." Then she toddled out the door.

  ~~~~~

  When Penelope returned to the drawing room, Victor came over and, possessively taking her arm, drew her toward a window enclosure. “Where have you been?” His tone was sullen.

  Before she could answer, the door opened and she turned her head to see Max enter.

  “Don’t bother answering,” Victor growled under his breath as his hand gripped her arm like a tourniquet.

  “You are hurting me,” she said under her breath.

  His lips curled in a surly smile as he loosened his grip. “We’ll talk about this later. For now, join Madame Arnaud and talk with her. It would behoove you to develop a friendship with her.”

  “Very well,” she answered crispy. She was in no mood to do his bidding but recognized the foolishness of arguing with him publicly. Looking around, she saw Claudine Arnaud sitting on a settee with her mother. “Do you intend to tell me what to talk about?” she asked.

  Victor sneered at her. “Don’t be snide.”

  “I wasn’t,” she said. “It is just that you tell me everything else I should do.”

  “If you must know, I’m indebted to Arnaud and feel this is one way to make him happy.”

  “How much do you owe him?” she asked. Max’s words about Victor wanting her dowry flashed in her mind.

  “You don’t need to know,” he said, turning to move away.

  She placed one hand on his arm to stay him. “If I am to be your wife--”

  “Then learn to do as you’re told,” he growled, cutting her off. Turning his back to her, he walked toward Lord Lenwood.

  As Penelope slowly made her way over to the settee, her eyes met Max’s where he stood next to Pierre Arnaud, of course, and Lord Stanburke. His expression, however, spoke volumes. Hating the pity she saw in his eyes, Penelope quickly averted her gaze, only to find Victor glaring at her. He’d obviously seen Max watching her.

  Sitting in an armchair across from the Frenchwoman, Penelope made a promise to herself. As Victor’s wife, she would never cower, never cry, never let him see how much she disliked him.

  ~~~~~

  Mid-morning, Max made his way down St. James Street to White’s to meet Edric Kingston for breakfast. Last night, after following Penelope to the drawing room, he’d witnessed Victor browbeating Penelope. It had taken all of his self-restraint to keep from spilling Bynes’s claret or outright challenging the mawworm. But he sensed Penelope would not thank him for his efforts and had done nothing. Since then, Max hadn’t been able to get her melancholy countenance out of his mind.

  After proffering his curly beaver tophat to the footman, Max entered White’s main room and spotted Edric already seated at a table, tucking into a plate of eggs and kippers.

  Edric raised one eyebrow and asked around a mouthful of eggs, “Why the brown study?”

  Taking a chair across from his friend, Max signaled a footman to fill a plate for him. “Can’t get Bynes’s insufferable behavior toward Penelope out of my mind.”

  Edric nodded. “Man’s a filthy rotter.” Laying aside his fork and knife, he gave Max a sapient eye. “She ain’t your fiancée. Nothing you can do about it.” When Max made no comment, he said, “Planning to change your bachelor status, are you?”

  Max chewed a mouthful of eggs thoughtfully while trying to decide how much to divulge to his good friend. “Immediately after I arrived home from the continent, Blackmoor summoned me to W
hitehall and asked if I was up to ferreting out a turncoat leaking information to Arnaud.”

  “That’s when you asked for my help,” Edric added.

  Max nodded. “Lenwood was there. He asked if I’d befriend Penelope, maybe talk her into looking around. He’s hoping she’ll break the engagement.”

  A light of understanding lit Edric’s eyes. “That’s why you’ve been clinging to her skirts. But why doesn’t Lenwood step in and do it himself?”

  “He’s discussed it with Penelope, but Lady Lenwood favors the match and fears a scandal if Penelope cries off.” Max gave a rueful smile. “Problem is, my regard for Penelope has only increased with time.”

  A low whistle escaped Edric as he leaned in and said, “You’re going to step into the parson’s mousetrap?”

  Max shook his head. “Can’t until she cries off.”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  “It’s not just Penelope. Remember, the mother’s pushing the match.”

  “Not planning on heading to Greta Green, are you?” Edric asked with his eyebrows almost disappearing in his light brown hair.

  Max shook his head, but before he could reply, a footman delivered a note to their table. Scanning it, Max carefully folded it. “Blackmoor,” he said, answering Edric’s silent inquiry. “He wants to see me at Whitehall.”

  “He’s probably going to wring a peal over your head for that outlandish outfit you wore last night,” Edric said, laughing. “Wherever did you get that dreadful orange jacket? It put me in mind of a bloody pumpkin.”

  ~~~~~

  Penelope considered skipping breakfast but thought better of it. Her mother would surely come check on her, then hover over her, forcing her to drink one of Cook’s horrible remedies for ague. No, it would be easier to plaster a smile on her face.

  “You look tired, Penelope,” Lord Lenwood said after she took her place at the table. “Too many late nights?”

  “You do look tired, dear,” Lady Lenwood seconded. “Are you feeling well? I could send for a posset.”

  “No, please, I feel fine,” Penelope quickly answered.

  “Perhaps you should stay in tonight. I will write a note making your excuses to Lady Lowthrope. Though, I am sure Victor will be sorry to miss seeing you,” Lady Lenwood added with a sly smile.