“You have given up on yourself. You consider yourself a spinster.”
“I am a spinster.”
“You are still in your twenties. Perhaps you never found a husband because you never even looked for one. You were too busy finding husbands for your sisters and hiding beneath frilly lace caps.”
Penelope unconsciously felt her head to ensure her lace cap was in place. “Are you more concerned with my wardrobe, my marital status, or keeping me dependent on you by robbing me of the living which would have given me my independence?”
“What a thing to say!”
“You just wish to keep me because I am the only companion who has stayed with you for more than a week!” accused Penelope, and at once she was shocked by her own words.
“And you are just angry because I am forcing you to join society, instead of hiding behind plain muslin gowns and sensible shoes.”
Madame Leclair cleared her throat. “Your tea, Your Grace, it will be brought up shortly. Miss Rose, this is for you.” The French maid handed Penelope a sealed missive. “With your permission I shall retire to the servants’ hall for tea.”
“Yes, yes.” The dowager gave her a wave. When the maid was gone, the dowager gave Penelope a critical glare. “It is time you stopped making matches for everyone else. It is time for you to seek your own husband.”
Eight
Harriet decided to check on her grandfather before dressing for dinner. He may have been a relation she only met recently, and he may have been conspiring against her to try to get her married, but he was still family.
She walked upstairs to another wing of bedrooms for the gentlemen and found her grandfather asleep. She sat beside him for a while, watching. His breathing was congested, but steady and even. A quick hand to his forehead assured her that he was not febrile.
She had wanted to talk to him about calling off the matchmaker, but she would not wake him for anything. Sleeping and ill, he did not look the formidable foe he had appeared when they first met. The years of his life lined his face and it suddenly became important that he make a full recovery, if only so they could argue over his intrusion into her life.
She tucked the blanket around him. Despite the difficult circumstances that brought her to the British Isles, she was glad to have met her grandfather, and she acknowledged that his interest in a matchmaker most likely came from concern for her well-being. Perhaps she should be touched that he wished her to stay on this side of the Atlantic.
“You do better at winning arguments when you are not conscious,” she whispered to her grandfather. “Good night.”
In the hallway, she encountered a group of gentlemen who were returning to dress for dinner. She had met them earlier at tea, where none had shown the slightest interest in making her acquaintance. She moved past them but was recognized.
“I say, Miss Redgrave, is it?” said one handsome gentleman. “I met you briefly but we had not a chance to talk. I hope we can remedy that at dinner.”
“Oh yes,” said another man. “I also would enjoy becoming better acquainted.”
“That would be nice.” Harriet was a bit confused but flattered. Perhaps she had misjudged society. Perhaps they were not as unfriendly as they initially appeared.
“Do you play cards, Miss Redgrave?” asked another man. Several men interjected their opinions on which card game was the most enjoyable to play with young ladies, but while they were talking, Harriet could overhear another conversation.
A man further down the hall asked another in a low tone, “What is this sudden fascination with the American?”
“She’s dowered at fifty thousand pounds,” answered another man. “Just had it from my valet. It’s all the talk in the servant’s hall.”
They were after her money. Her fortune, not a sudden impulse toward friendliness, was behind these overtures. “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Harriet firmly. “I shall not keep you.”
She strode off in a determined manner, not caring where she went, as long as it was away from those men. She wandered about and found herself back on the main floor. She needed to clear her head and calm down a bit before meeting whatever new maid had been assigned to her, and who was probably gossiping about her fortune at this moment. If only she could focus on her experiments and leave all this nonsense behind.
Harriet passed an open door and could see bookcases in the gloom. Perhaps a quick visit to the library would be helpful. It would be empty at this time of day since most people would be dressing.
She whisked into the library, shutting the door behind her. The room was mostly dark, lit only by a single candle, and thankfully no one appeared to be inside. She leaned her head back against the door, closed her eyes, and took in a deep breath. She loved the smell of books.
“Good evening.”
Harriet jumped with a small shriek and put one hand on her heart and the other on the doorknob. She could make a quick escape if she had to. “Who’s there?”
“Sorry if I gave ye a fright.” Lord Thornton stepped out of the shadows toward the light of a single candle. “I stepped into the library to collect some papers from my desk.” He held up a stack of letters.
Harriet sighed in relief. “I am sorry to invade your privacy. I had no idea there was anyone here.”
“Are ye lost?”
“No, I simply needed to escape for a moment.”
Thornton frowned. “Is someone bothering ye, Miss Redgrave?”
“Yes! Lots of someones.” Harriet walked further into the room and sank onto a leather couch.
“Can I be of assistance? I am most willing to be at yer service, as I offered earlier.” Thornton sat beside her but at a respectable distance. “Who has disturbed ye?”
“Men!”
Thornton leaned back, his eyebrows raised. “All of us?”
“Well, not all at once perhaps, but men in general have been a pox to me.”
“I deeply regret being a pox to anyone. Please tell me what injury ye have to report so I may appropriately apologize for the misdeeds of my brethren.”
Harriet smiled. The Scotsman before her was apparently made of sterner stuff than most Londoners she had met, given that he received her unusual proclamation without censure. “First of all, my grandfather has hired a matchmaker to tie me down and hitch me up to some gentleman with a title.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“No, just a man with a title. Doesn’t matter if he is eighty years old or lives on a diet of whiskey and beer. If he has a title, I’m up for bids.”
The corner of Lord Thornton’s mouth twitched up. “If I meet any elderly drunken lechers with a title, I shall let ye know.”
“Much appreciated.” She kept her tone flat but could not keep from smiling.
“But of what else have ye to accuse the entire population of men?”
Harriet paused. The room was dark and Thornton was more understanding than most. She had felt quite alone after Nellie left. She missed having a person with whom to share her secrets. Thornton was listening. And here in the dark, she was tempted to tell him everything.
“Do you know how difficult it is to be dreadfully rich?” The words were from her lips before she realized just how much she sounded like a spoiled petulant child.
“Nay, I have not had that curse.”
“I am sorry, I must sound horrid. The trouble comes from people wanting to make that money their own. If I wed, my husband will instantly become a rich man, and I will lose any scrap of independence. He gets the gold, and I get a tyrant. For every decision in life, I would have to look to him.”
“So ye have no interest in marrying.”
“None whatsoever. I cannot see how it does a woman any good.”
Thornton thought a moment. “Children?”
“I suppose that is the only thing a woman cannot do without some assistance from a man. Though I find it quite inequitable that women are required to do the lion’s share of the work.”
“Verra tru
e, I fear.”
“Yes, yes, it is. And these men, they are worse than vultures. At least a vulture waits for its prey to die first. These men are actively trying to hasten my demise.”
“I am not sure I follow.”
“Men will stop at nothing to gain my hand or, more importantly, my money in marriage. I have been hounded by men who lack any sort of moral compass who have tried to compromise me into forcing a wedding.”
“Ah, the old ‘compromise the heiress so she’ll be forced to marry me’ trick.” Thornton shrugged but his eyes gleamed. “Standard procedure for a gentleman down on his luck.”
“It becomes tedious to always have men flattering me to my face but insulting me behind my back. They come on sweet as sugar trying to get me to run away with them. I’ve even had a few who tried to kidnap me.”
“Abduction?”
“I awoke once in the middle of the night to see two men climbing in my window. I screamed and they grabbed me.”
Thornton frowned, the amused glint in his eye gone. “That is going too far. What did ye do?”
“I fought them until my father burst in. My father made his fortune as a privateer you know, so he is handy in a fight.”
“Good to know.” The smile returned to Thornton’s eye.
“But what of you? I confess I know little of social conventions, but are you not ‘on the market’ so to speak?”
Thornton laughed. “I suppose, but I am not at liberty to take a wife at this moment, although my mother may feel differently on that score.”
“But why are you avoiding matrimony?”
“I imagine I shall fall into wedded bliss at some point, but unlike yer false suitors, I coud’na feel comfortable marrying a lass for financial gain.”
“Then you are a different sort of man than I have met before.”
“I am pleased to hear it.”
“But why? Forgive me, I know I’m blunt, but why not marry an heiress? I have it on good authority that it is the fond practice of many a gentleman who has run afoul of his vowels.”
Thornton’s eyebrows raised. “Afoul of his vowels?”
Harriet winced. “Sorry. IOUs. I’ve been told not to speak such. My father was a sea captain, you understand. He would take me with him on board when the ship was docked. I grew up playing on the decks. It was fun, but I fear I picked up some language that is rather colorful.”
“Yer secret is safe. As for me, my family’s debts are mine to pay. I will never marry a heiress because neither of us would ever know whether I had wed for affection or for more material gains. It does not seem like a strong foundation for a lifetime together.”
Harriet was impressed. “I wholeheartedly agree. I wish more men were like you.”
Lord Thornton’s silver eyes danced in the candlelight. He was made from sturdy stock with black hair, square shoulders, and solid features. His nose, brow, and jawline were not prominent but definitely masculine. His features were not extraordinary, and while he might recede into the background around the current dandies who dressed with more flash, in the candlelight, she was struck by the fact that he was a handsome man.
A man with whom she was sitting in a near dark room, alone. Which, despite being raised in an unconventional household in many ways, she knew not even her father would approve. Especially not her father.
Her heart skittered a bit faster and she was suddenly very aware just how little space separated them. They were together on the same couch. She could lean forward and touch him.
Touch him. She swallowed on a dry throat. What was wrong with her?
“Good thing you have sworn off marrying an heiress.” Harriet giggled in a nervous fashion she found irritating in other people.
“Avoid them at all costs. I should fear for myself now, except that ye have sworn off marriage in general, so I have nothing to fear.” His tone made the statement almost a question. His eyes met hers for too long. “I should escort ye back.” He stood.
“Yes!” Harriet jumped up too. “No! I shall walk myself back, no need to trouble yourself.”
“If ye have any difficulty, know that I can be called upon to assist. Day or night,” he added in a way that made her heart pound.
“Yes, well I shall give that some thought.” Probably more than she should. She backed away from him like he was a dangerous beast. “Good evening then.” She tripped over a side table, which went down with a bang. She almost went down too but caught herself and quickly righted the table.
Harriet looked up slowly. “If you ever think of this conversation, can you forget that part?”
A slow smile spread on his face. “Never happened. Ye are grace itself.”
Harriet stifled a laugh. “Don’t stretch the truth too far. Your imagination will rebel against the patently absurd.”
“Good eve, Grace.”
“Good eve, my lord.”
Nine
It was not every day Penelope received a summons from a duke to have a clandestine meeting. But that was exactly what the Duke of Marchford had done. The short note said to meet him in the blue parlor before dinner. The blue parlor, which was used exclusively for breakfasts, would be isolated at this time of the evening. Nothing could be clearer. The Duke of Marchford wanted to speak to her alone.
She had to dress, naturally. Her options were limited. Nothing the dowager had packed for her seemed appropriate. The gowns were all things other people would wear, gowns her sisters would wear. She sat heavily on the bed with a sudden realization. The dowager, wrong as she was, was actually right.
Penelope had given up. Why should her sisters, some older, some younger, all wear gowns of the latest fashion while she was relegated to their rejects and more sensible, unattractive options?
When had she given up on marriage for herself? Was it her first season? Was it even before that time? Her sisters, whose welfare had consumed her, were now all married and well cared for. So when was it time for Penelope to take a chance on the marriage mart?
She wished to say never. It was easier not to. Easier not to care. Easier to remain in her old clothes. Easier to remain…
Invisible.
She turned the word around in her mind. Obscurity was exactly what she wanted. She wanted to remain invisible. People who could not be seen could not be criticized. They could not fail, for they never tried. They could never lose, for they never played the game. They were safe. And they were cowards.
Penelope Rose was many things but never a coward. She went back to her closet and picked not the dress she wished to wear, but a gown one of her younger sisters would choose. She picked the gown of the most gossamer fabric over a silk underdress that was so light it practically floated off the ground. Most shocking of all was its color. Pink. A soft rose pink with a deeper rose-colored ribbon to form a high waistline, and a low-cut neckline revealing more of her bosom than had ever before seen the light of day.
She called for a maid to help with the enclosures, which were in the back and impossible to do herself unless she had detachable arms. To her surprise, Madame Leclair came herself. She helped Penelope into her gown as if being dressed by the duchess’s own lady’s maid was commonplace.
“You will allow me to fix your hair,” said Leclair.
It was not a request. Conscious of the honor being bestowed upon her, Penelope could only agree and watch in horror as Madame stuck the curling iron into the fire.
“Do not concern yourself. I have not ever left a permanent scar.”
It was reassurance—or possibly a warning not to move about or complain. When Leclair was done, Penelope stared back at the image in the glass, unsure who the woman was. She was unrecognizable to herself. Her plain brown hair looked anything but ordinary, piled high and falling down in ringlets, framing her face and cascading down her back. In her hair were little jeweled pins, which picked up the light and sparkled.
The dress clung to her in places no other dress had ever clung. The underdress was a darker rose with soft pink
gauze over it. The gown hugged her body and caressed her curves. Madame had insisted on a different corset than she was accustomed to wearing. This one lifted parts of her to new heights, such that her cleavage blossomed out of the gown in a suggestive manner. The effect was soft and sensual and, dare she say it? Arousing.
“I cannot be seen looking like this,” she muttered.
“Of course you can,” came the dowager’s voice from behind her.
Penelope turned to the dowager, who was smiling at her. “This gown is not proper.”
“Hang proper. You look lovely. Wear it while you can, my dear. Your breasts won’t always cooperate so nicely.”
Penelope could not help but put a hand over her chest. “Your Grace! I fear you have only confirmed my fear that this is not a gown that should ever see the light of day.”
“I agree with you. What you are wearing is an evening gown. Most definitely a gown for the night. Now you need only one thing to complete your look.” The dowager opened a blue velvet box and showed the contents to Penelope.
“Your pearls?” asked Penelope.
“They were my mother’s. Come, let me see them. I did not work tirelessly at choosing these gowns for you so you could go to dinner half-dressed.” The dowager put the pearls around Penelope’s neck. In the mirror, the girl before Penelope smiled and sparkled. She was beautiful. And beautiful was not something she had ever felt before.
“What do you think?” whispered the dowager as if afraid she might break the spell by speaking too loudly.
Penelope turned the elder woman and gave her an uncharacteristic hug. “Thank you,” breathed Penelope. “You were right. I was hiding behind my practical clothes.”
“Ugly clothes,” muttered Madame.
“As I was saying, I would never have thought to change my wardrobe, and while it may be some time getting accustomed to this new look, I do think it is time to be brave.”
“Good for you.” The dowager nodded approvingly. “May this be the beginning of a fashionable change for you. Especially if you would like to accompany me to the opera.”
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