It did not bode well for her future.
She retrieved the book and carried it upstairs. She should select something suitable to wear, since Lionel would be arriving soon for dinner. He had yet to propose, and the ball to announce their betrothal was tomorrow evening. Even now, servants bustled about the house polishing and sweeping and scrubbing, preparing for something she dreaded.
Unless—
What if, instead of fighting the warring in her chest, she listened to it?
She loved Emmett. Stopping halfway up the staircase, hand pressed against the wild beating of her heart, she admitted it to herself.
She’d tried dismissing her attraction, tried avoiding him, and she’d prayed to view Lionel differently, although God had answered that prayer. She now felt compassion for him, since he bore the heavy weight of a responsibility he couldn’t afford. Still, sympathy for Lionel wasn’t the same as being in love with him.
Penny gripped the banister. What if she said no to her parents, to Lionel?
“There you are.” Mother peered over the landing above. “You’ve failed to select a gown for tonight, so I’ve chosen for you.”
Penny climbed the rest of the stairs and set the book on her bureau. Mother—and the maid who curtsied and dashed from the room—had been busy. An ecru silk gown trimmed with pink rosettes lay across her bed, alongside white gloves and stockings. Beside the ensemble lay her ball gown for tomorrow. Something bright and glittering rested on the bodice.
“Your pink rubies.” Penny’s hand went to her mouth. Mother prized this necklace above all others.
“I should say they’re worthy of the future Countess of Hawton, wouldn’t you?”
She’d wanted Mother’s approval for so long. Now she had it, symbolized in a necklace. But she shook her head. “I cannot wear them.”
“Don’t be a goose, Penny. It’s just for the evening. You can’t hurt them.”
“That’s not it.” Tears stung Penny’s eyes. “I do not wish to marry Lionel.”
There. She’d said it. Her breathing eased, as if her corset had loosened, but the matter wasn’t over yet. God, help me.
Mother blinked. “Your nerves are overset. You’re fatigued.”
“I’m sorry. I know you worked hard for this—”
“I have, and this is the gratitude you show?” Mother stared at a spot on the wall, as if she couldn’t bear to look at Penny. “What brings this on, hmm? You still don’t love him?”
“No.” Penny’s swallow grated her throat. “This is a business deal.”
“To your advantage. You’re getting a title.”
But not love. “I’m in love with Emmett.”
For a moment, it looked as if Mother might throw something. Then she took a deep breath and shut her eyes. “You and Emmett have discussed your feelings, then? You think this is romantic, the two of you against the world, breaking his brother’s heart?”
“I do not know how he feels about me, but it doesn’t matter. It isn’t fair to Lionel, marrying him when I love his brother.”
“That spark flooding your veins? It isn’t love. It’s fickle attraction and rebellion.”
Penny had thought so, too. But not anymore. “I’ve tried to ignore it, Mother. Tried to get past it.”
“And done a shoddy job.”
“I care for Viola, enough that I thought it a good enough reason to marry her father, but Lionel and I do not suit. I’ve tried to better know him, but he seems as unaffected by me as I am by him. I should free us both before we make a mistake.”
Mother’s look was pitying. “Rejecting him will not free you, Penny. Your shortsighted decision will shackle you in ways you cannot imagine. Emmett wouldn’t marry you even if he wanted to, because of the damage it would cause in his family—as if your father and I would allow it, with him being a teacher or whatever he is.”
The hair at Penny’s nape stood on end. “He has an honorable profession, Mother—”
“He has no money, which would be well and good if he was somebody, but he isn’t.” Mother rubbed her temples, as if the conversation ached. “And if you do not marry Lionel, you’ll bear a reputation in England and America as a finicky female who thinks she’s too good for nobility, and who will have you then?”
“I need not marry.” Penny had money of her own from her grandmother—enough to get a start. And she could find work as a teacher, perhaps. Serve children the way Miss Brice did at the Home for Friendless Girls.
Mother rolled her eyes. “Make a pariah of yourself? You have the opportunity to do as I did, to marry into a better family. One that will show those sticklers in New York that we’re as good as they are. Better, because you’re marrying nobility. The Astors will be so envious.”
The Astors, members of the “List of 400” elite of New York society, were among those who’d snubbed Mother over the years because her father was a cotton broker. Father might have had money when she married him, inherited banking interests he’d multiplied tenfold, but his money was newer than theirs.
Mother wouldn’t be ignored, however. When the New York Academy of Music refused to admit the Beales into its circles, Mother helped form the Metropolitan Opera, alongside Alva Vanderbilt. When one harridan announced Mother would never dine at her New York table, Mother managed to book passage on the same transatlantic voyage and arrange to be seated at the woman’s table, all for the irony of it.
Mother refused to take no for an answer—then or now. But Penny had to keep trying. “I don’t care a whit what the Astors think. But I do care about Lionel and how he might feel, knowing I care for his brother.”
Mother’s hands flew in the air. “You will never utter a word about Emmett to him. So Lionel hasn’t given you the attention you crave, but pish-posh! He thinks enough of you to give you his title. I’d say that’s worth two million dollars.”
Two million dollars? Penny’s jaw dropped. So that was the sum her parents offered to someone to marry her. Lionel accepted two million to put up with her for the rest of his life.
A great sum of money that Mother seemed to believe Penny would be flattered by, but actually made her feel as if she were worth nothing at all.
Her glance landed then on her Bible, lying on her nightstand. No, she wasn’t worthless. She was priceless to God.
She had to trust Him. “Marriage shouldn’t be about money, Mother—”
“Should it be about feelings? Yours and Emmett’s and Lionel’s? What about ours, your father’s and mine?” Mother’s features settled into a tired look that made her look older than her middle years. “All your father ever wanted was your security. Yet you would hurt him? You know he isn’t well.”
Penny’s veins iced. “You mean the heart palpitations?”
“It’s far more than palpitations. He didn’t want you to know, but there’s a problem with an artery to his brain.” Mother tapped the side of her neck. “The physician made it clear Edwin is not to engage in any physical activity whatsoever.”
“No exercise?” It made sense now, his watching from the veranda while she played croquet.
“Or worry. Anxiety is not good for him, Penny. When he moves too fast or experiences strain, he could faint … or worse.”
Panic clawed Penny’s throat. “Is he dying?”
“We are not certain, but it is imperative he is kept calm.”
She sank onto the corner of her bed. So this was it? She had to marry Lionel or risk causing her father anxiety, which could lead to his death?
Emotions warred in her chest. Disbelief, guilt, anger, fear for Father. And her feelings for Emmett, crying out not to be ignored.
But she must, or Father could die.
The answer seemed clear now. Her feelings were a trifle compared to Father’s life. With God’s help, she must choose to forget Emmett. She’d just determined to trust Him. This was how she would start that journey. She nodded, but tears slipped down her cheeks.
Mother stepped closer—enough to touch Penny, b
ut her fingers caressed the rubies instead. “You will come to love Lionel. You already care about Viola. A year from now, you may have a baby of your own. You’ll forget Emmett.”
“He’s Lionel’s brother. I cannot disremember someone I see every Christmas, regardless of whether or not I am—or was once—in love with him.” A bleak prospect indeed.
But she mustn’t forget Viola. She’d be the best mother to her she could be.
“I’ll send a maid to clean you up. Oh, and I invited Alma and Mrs. Shore to dine with us, as well.”
The presence of Alma and her mother would stave off any unpleasant histrionics Penny might consider throwing, as well. Penny’s mother had planned well.
“I will be ready, Mother.”
Mother smiled from the threshold. “That’s a good girl. Your father will be so pleased. Should we try on the rubies before I leave?”
Pretty as they were, they were heavy against Penny’s throat, a weighty reminder that she was not free to choose for herself. Except when it came to trusting God.
Right now, that felt very hard to do. But it was her only option, so she took it with both hands.
Emmett’s supper tasted like chalk, although the platters on the dining room table looked delicious: bright vegetables, a standing rib roast, potatoes whipped and piped the shapes of swans, and ribbons of jellies created a palette of color and artistry. A far cry from the suppers he sat down to at Oxford, or the modest concoctions he managed at his cottage.
Another reminder that Penny deserved much more than he could provide.
That didn’t ease the ache in his gullet, however. He loved Penny. So much that he had no choice but to avoid her for the rest of his life, if need be, so he didn’t do something foolish and declare himself, jeopardizing her future happiness.
Even if it meant keeping his distance from Viola and Lionel, too.
A quick glance revealed Lionel hadn’t eaten much, either. Nor had Alma or Penny, whose gaze met his at long last and then darted away.
So she was avoiding him, too.
After supper, Lionel cleared his throat before anyone could be seated. “Perhaps I might borrow Penny for a moment?”
Emmett’s hands fisted. Was Lionel proposing? He was supposed to do it tomorrow, publicly at the ball, but why else would he seek privacy with Penny tonight?
“Certainly.” Mr. Beale nodded. “The fire is still lit in the library.”
Emmett had no option but to watch his brother escort Penny out.
The Beales and Mrs. Shore sat near the hearth, but Alma wandered to study an oil painting of a horse. Emmett joined her and was about to make a comment on the painting when she sniffed.
Her face mottled and her eyes were suspiciously bright.
Emmett withdrew his linen handkerchief. “Alma?”
With hasty motions, she swiped her tears and crumpled the hankie, as if determined her mother wouldn’t notice. “Lio—Lord Hawton is proposing, isn’t he? I’m happy for Penny.”
And miserable for herself. Understanding dawned. “You love Lionel. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”
“You mustn’t tell a soul.” Alma’s blue eyes blazed. “He’s not done a thing to encourage me. It’s all my foolishness. I fought it, but here I am.”
“The heart can be a disobedient thing, can’t it?” He should know. “I have struggled in vain against my own heart.”
She sighed. “I wondered, but the past two days Penny and Lionel have spent more time together and she hasn’t looked at you once, so I thought I’d been wrong.”
He bent down toward her, as if they shared a joke. But a sorry one. “Now we know one another’s secrets.”
“Unrequited love. Lio—Lord Hawton thinks of me as a friend.”
Which was a world more than he seemed to think of Penny. Lord, should Alma and I speak up?
Where had that prayer come from? Still, it saturated his bones, easing the ache. Honor, duty, contracts all fell beneath the desire to tell the truth.
“What if we told them how we feel? Now, as it says in the wedding service: speak now or forever hold your peace. I’ll hold my peace, forever and always, once they’re married, but if we talk to them, they’ll be informed before they wed. And then they’d understand why we find it too painful to visit them.”
“But Lionel is proposing, isn’t he?”
“He isn’t supposed to until the ball.”
She blinked. “So there’s time to stop them? Could we?”
“We could. Whether or not we should is debatable.”
Alma looked up at him, her eyes free of tears but full of determination. “Do you think we should?”
He was about to nod when Farrow, the butler, paused inside the door, his gaze on Emmett. “A gentleman to see you, Mr. Retford.”
Mrs. Beale’s brows rose. It was an extraordinary occurrence, for a guest to be hunted down like this. Unless—
“Did he give his name?”
“Mr. Whitacre, sir. He says it’s most urgent.”
With a quick nod to his hosts and Alma, Emmett hastened from the parlor. Whitacre paced the foyer, a look of relief smoothing his features when Emmett drew near.
“Apologies, old chap.” His smile was tight, and his gaze on Farrow.
Emmett understood his meaning. He nodded at the butler. “Thank you, Farrow.”
When the butler retreated and left them alone, Whitacre’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m sailing back tonight. Another anarchist attack, and it’s definite they want items and property important to the Crown. I need the map.”
“I’ve made several renderings.” Emmett tipped his head toward the hall, leading the way to Mr. Beale’s office. The sketchbook was where he had left it, on the end table by the paintings of Lord and Lady Dunwood. Emmett flipped it open to one of the enlarged quadrants and pointed to a curve. “I think this is Sutton Bridge.”
“I’ll make a note of it for the fellows who get this.”
Emmett handed over the book. “Godspeed, then.”
“You seem in as much a hurry as I am.”
“You’ve no idea.” What were Lionel and Penny doing, anyway, if Lionel wasn’t proposing?
“Then I’ll thank you for your service to the Crown. The prince will be well pleased with your efforts, and I sent a telegram to London tonight inquiring about that position for you.” Whitacre nodded.
To Emmett’s surprise, Alma waited in the foyer, shredding his handkerchief in her trembling fingers. Once Whitacre let himself out, she took Emmett’s hand in her soggy one. “Come on.”
The library door was wide open. Their pace quickened.
“Alma, dear.” The feminine voice halted their steps. Mrs. Beale followed after them, her mouth turned down. “I never dreamed you’d be so selfish as to interrupt Penny’s special moment.”
Emmett’s molars ground together. Clearly Mrs. Beale had been watching in case he and Alma got any ideas.
“No one interrupted anything.” Penny’s voice was flat. She and Lionel stood in the doorway, not touching. “We were getting better acquainted, that’s all.”
She glanced at Emmett, almost a pleading look, but there was more in it. Confusion, perhaps. Lionel hadn’t proposed, and she didn’t know about the plan to surprise her at the ball. Maybe she wondered what was taking Lionel so long.
But Mrs. Beale grinned, a triumphant look. She took Penny’s arm, preventing her from speaking to Emmett or Alma.
“Take heart,” Emmett whispered to Alma. “There is still time. The Hawton emerald isn’t on Penny’s finger yet.”
And if God was willing and Lionel agreed, the emerald never would be.
Chapter 6
An hour before the ball, Penny stood before her looking glass. Her Worth ball gown was a confection of pink and snowy silk. Her dark hair swept into a fashionable pompadour held in place with diamond-tipped pins, and Mother’s pink rubies twinkled on her throat. If Penny’s cheeks were pale or her lips drawn, well, it was to be expected that
a lady suffered nerves the night her betrothal would be announced.
God would give her strength.
Penny was waiting in the foyer when Lionel, Emmett, and Viola arrived, dressed in exquisite evening clothes. She hadn’t seen any of them since last night, although the gentlemen had called today while Penny was out on one of a half-dozen errands for Mother.
“You look lovely.” Lionel kissed her hand and then moved on to greet Mother before she could thank him.
“You really do,” Emmett agreed.
“Thank you.”
She started to do it again, that state of looking into Emmett’s eyes and forgetting who else was in the room.
At least, until Amelie’s porcelain hand patted Penny’s arm. Viola stared up at her. “Miss Partridge says I am to thank you for inviting me to stay the night and watch the ball.”
Penny hugged her. “I enjoyed peeking when my parents hosted parties. Come, let me show you and Miss Partridge the best vantage.”
Emmett was smiling at her, making her knees—and her resolve—weak. But she had to be stronger than that.
With Miss Partridge in tow, she and Viola ascended the stairs. They rounded the corner and Penny pointed. “There is your bedchamber, and here, around this corner, the hall has tiny openings. Windows without glass that overlook the ballroom. See?”
Viola was just the right height to rest her elbows on the ledge. “Will they see me?”
“If they look up, yes.”
“It is fancy.”
It was. Mother had ordered the mirrored walls bedecked with flowers and greenery. Bright green smilax leaves and darker ivy dripped from the chandeliers, and white bouquets filled a dozen gold jardinieres. Behind a gilt screen, musicians tuned their instruments. “You can watch the guests arrive and see some dancing before bedtime.”
“Amelie, too.” Viola lifted her into Penny’s face.
“Viola!” Alma rushed down the hall, a vision in pale blue satin. Clark followed her bearing a small trunk. “Look what I brought for Amelie.”
“A wardrobe!” Viola rushed into Alma’s arms as Clark opened the trunk for their inspection. Satin ball gowns. A red cloak. A nightdress with matching cap. All perfect and sewn with care.
The American Heiress Brides Collection Page 19