A Winter Wedding (2 page)

Penelope Rose stared at the door where the Duke of Marchford had left. Had he just…? It wasn’t possible that… Had he just asked her to marry him? The Duke of Marchford, the biggest matrimonial prize in all of Britain, and consequently the whole world, had just entered her private bedchamber and proposed marriage.

Marriage!

Penelope put a hand to her chest to try to stop her heart from beating at such a rapid clip. She must be sensible. Was that not the highest praise he could offer her, after all? He was only in jest; it was not a true proposal. How utterly awkward and foolish she would have appeared had she accepted like a ninny, only to have him have to explain it was all in fun.

Thank heaven she hadn’t done that.

But what if she had? And what if he had agreed? She could be married. Her, Penelope Rose, the confirmed old maid—the one ignored by every other suitor who passed her by to get to her more attractive sisters—could get married at last. And to a duke no less!

She gloried in the fantasy: Being announced at tonight’s ball as the fiancée of the Duke of Marchford. Putting the newspaper clipping announcing her engagement next to the clippings she kept for each one of her four sisters. Standing up beside him in St. George’s, saying their marriage vows. Reveling in the look of envy from every girl who ever ignored her as a nothing companion. Perhaps that last thought was beneath her, but she was indulging in fantasy and could not help herself.

She thought that might be the best part, but her imagination continued onward. She and Marchford—
James
she would call him now—arriving home. He would carry her to his bedroom—
their
bedroom. He would slowly unfasten her gown…

“Hello, miss!” The maid entered the room, carrying her new blue gown. “Got it all pressed and ready. Are you all right, miss?”

Penelope jumped up and fanned herself with her hands. The room was unbearably hot and she feared her maid might guess she had been lusting after the master of the house, the duke himself! “I am fine.”

“You look all red in the face.”

“It’s nothing. I…I was standing too close tothe fire.”

“But you weren’t nowhere near the fire, miss.”

“I’m fine!” Penelope cursed Marchford. It was all his fault for putting treacherous thoughts in her head. First he mocked her by proposing marriage in fun, and now she was supposed to find him a wife. Fie on him!

“Now you look right mad, miss,” said the overly observant maid.

“Thank you for your observations as to my countenance,” said Penelope crossly.

“Oh no, I done said too much. I am always opening my mouth and out pops the first thing I think. No good, it is. They say I’m not ready to wait on any of the real ladies until I learn to keep my mouth—oh!” The maid put her hand over her mouth, realizing what she just said.

Penelope sighed. Since she was only a companion, she was a training subject for a young maid who was not ready for “real ladies.”

“I’m so sorry, miss. I didn’t mean it like that. I can go get another maid if you wish.” She turned to leave, but Pen called her back, struggling to remember the young maid’s name.

“Abigail is it?”

“Yes, fancy that. Me named Abigail wanting to be an abigail.” She giggled. “I’m afraid I’m not too good at it.”

“I appreciate your candor. We will get on quite well, you and I.” There was no point in getting the young maid in trouble. “But I won’t be wearing the blue gown. One of my old ones will do.”

Penelope could not bear to have Marchford think she was putting on a new gown for his enticement. He had pretty girls falling at his feet, and she would rather wear sackcloth than be numbered as one of them.

“But this is the one Her Grace bought for you. And it’s mighty pretty,” objected Abigail.

“Yes, it is. But I will wear one of my old gowns tonight.” Penelope was firm. The Dowager Duchess of Marchford was desirous of seeing her more elegantly attired and had bought her a new wardrobe, with Penelope’s share of the proceeds from their Madame X matchmaking business. Using their combined talents, they had created a lucrative business creating matches for society’s elite under the pseudonym of Madame X. It had allowed them to remain in London despite Marchford cutting off funds to try to force his grandmother to retire to the Dower House in the country.

Abigail’s face fell, but Penelope refused to relent and was dressed in a lavender gown of her mother’s that had faded into something of a gray. Penelope resisted all attempts to dress her hair and instead twisted it back herself into the usual knot. It was not attractive, which was entirely the point. One could never accuse her of putting on airs or trying to seduce the duke.

The Duke of Marchford was waiting for the ladies in the drawing room to leave for the ball and rose when Penelope entered. Despite her best intentions, she caught her breath when he approached.

If ever there was an image of the perfection of man, the Duke of Marchford personified it. He was tall, broad in the shoulders, and trim in the waist, which was perfectly accentuated by the superb cut of his double-breasted bright-blue frock coat and formfitting slate-gray trousers. His features were dark and chiseled, with a long nose and a square jaw, but not so brooding as to be out of fashion. Add dark brown hair and mysterious gray-green eyes, and he was every young lady’s dream beau. Despite considerable effort, Penelope had given up the hope of finding fault with his appearance.

In contrast, Penelope Rose knew very well she was undeniably plain. The only brunette sister in a family of blond beauties, Penelope watched as first her older sisters then her younger sisters all found husbands. Pretty could make up for a lack of dowry, but poor, plain sisters? They became companions.

As the companion to the Dowager Duchess of Marchford, Penelope held very little status to the members of the
haut
ton
and was accordingly ignored. She was not a servant but was hardly a member of their set in society. She hovered somewhere between shabby gentry and honored servant, and, as such, held no place in either world.

“Miss Rose.” Marchford acknowledged her with a nod of his head. “You are looking…” He paused as if trying to find the right words. “You appear quite yourself tonight. Very good of you.”

Good of her? “Yes, quite. You are looking very well.” She stopped before she admitted how utterly handsome he was.

Marchford regarded her with an interest that made heat slither up the back of her neck. They had lived under the same roof for almost a year, but she could not remember him gazing at her with such intensity. She wondered if something about her was out of place, and she smoothed a nervous hand over her hair to ensure everything was pulled back tight.

Marchford cleared his throat as if trying to change the subject, even though he had not said a word. “Please, sit. I am sure my grandmother will be down shortly.”

Penelope perched on the edge of a chair, ready to take flight if the need arose. Marchford also sat, stood up again, walked aimlessly around the room, then sat down again in the same chair.

“I do not wish to be married,” he blurted.

Penelope stared at him.

“I mean…that is to say…” Marchford stammered, as if surprised himself that he had spoken out loud. “I have no inclination toward the married state. It all seems a bother to me, but I shall have no peace until I do.”

“Ah, the burden of being young, titled, and rich,” said Penelope without mercy.

Marchford scowled at her. “You would not care to be chased about for nothing more than your money and your name.”

“I will consider myself fortunate, then, never to have been chased at all.” Penelope did not bother to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

She expected a stinging retort, but it never came. Instead, Marchford gave her such a look as she had never seen before. It was quite disconcerting.

“Perhaps someday you will be chased and you can tell me your opinion on the matter.” Marchford’s tone was soft and low.

Penelope’s jaw dropped, and she struggled to find something to say. “I…I wonder what is keeping Her Grace.”

“My grandmother moves in her own time and does what she will.”

A twinge of fear had Penelope calling the butler to bring her coat. If anything she was overly warm, but she knew the gown she wore would bring offense to Her Grace, and she had tangled enough with the aristocratic Marchfords for one day.

“Oh, Penelope. What have you done to your hair?” Antonia Lockton, Dowager Duchess of Marchford, swept into the room, elegantly attired in an azure-blue silk gown, which perfectly matched the sparkling blue of her eyes. Her white hair was ornately coiffed and bejeweled in an older style, which befitted her advanced years.

“Is it out of place?” asked Pen, once again smoothing her hair back to the harsh bun.

“Could you not have dressed it up a bit?” asked the dowager. “You would not know it to look at it now, James, but Penelope has the loveliest hair. It is so long and thick and—”

“Enough!” roared Marchford, surprising both ladies. He cleared his throat. “I’m sure Miss Rose’s hair is fine indeed, but that is utterly irrelevant, and besides, we are late.” He stalked out of the room, calling for the carriage to be brought around.

The dowager’s eyebrows elevated considerably up her forehead then slowly fell back down into a knowing look that made Penelope squirm. “I see,” she said, looking between Penelope and the retreating form of the Duke of Marchford. “I see.”

After a relatively short carriage ride, they arrived at the home of Mr. William Grant, one of Marchford’s closest friends. Marchford handed both of them out of the carriage, Penelope unusually conscious of how his gloved fingers closed around her hand as he helped her out.

He escorted them into the house for the Grant ball, his grandmother on one arm and Penelope on the other. Heads turned when they arrived, many interested in the arrival of the duke. It was not unusual, but the attention irritated Penelope, possibly because she was still chewing on his “utterly irrelevant” comment regarding her hair.

They relinquished their wraps to the butler, bringing a gasp from the dowager. “Penelope Rose,” chastised Antonia. “What are you wearing?”

“A gown.
My
gown,” Penelope clarified. She raised her chin in defiance, despite the fact that she had intentionally hidden the gown under her coat so the dowager would not discover the insubordination before it was too late to make her change her raiment.

“Should have had the maids burn them,” the dowager muttered. “James, talk some sense into her.”

“She looks fine,” said Marchford absently. A weaker, more lackluster defense one could hardly imagine.

“What nonsense!” Antonia rapped her cane with a crack on the marble floor. “The gown is perfectly hideous and you know it.”

“Yes, of course, it is horrid,” said Marchford in an aloof manner. “But if Miss Rose finds it sufficient, who are we to quibble? You should not go about changing things that are better left as they are. The gown is perfectly good enough for Miss Rose.”

Penelope stifled a gasp. If this was his attempt at support, she hoped to never experience his censure. Of all the dreadful things one could say, she could not imagine anything more crushing.

“How can you be so beastly—oh look, here is Lord Langley.” Antonia’s tone changed instantly with the arrival of her former beau. Antonia and Lord Langley had shared a romance in their youth and had only recently begun to speak to one another again. From the look of Langley’s wide smile and quick step, their friendship was indeed rekindled.

“Ready to take them all at whist, my sweet?” asked Langley, offering his arm to Antonia.

“I’m off to the card room,” said Antonia, and she left them without a second look.

“I hope you have given some thought to finding me a bride as soon as may be,” Marchford whispered to Penelope as he led her into the ballroom.

“Oh yes,” said Penelope, keeping her tone even. “I have some lovely ladies in mind for you.”

He sighed audibly. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

“I will ensure that they are ‘perfectly good enough’ for you.” She gave him a vicious smile, but he was looking ahead and did not see. Before the night was out, he would pay dearly for that comment. Oh yes, that son of a duke would pay.

Marchford led them into the festively decorated ballroom awash with the colored silks of the ladies’ gowns and the well-tailored coats of the men. Hundreds of candles twinkled in the drawing room, boldly embellished with sprigs of holly and bright red bows. It was perhaps a little provincial for London society, which viewed Christmas as a quaint tradition of the common populace. But Penelope, herself raised in the country, loved it. Having spent three refined Christmastides in London after her parents died, she had missed the annual festivities.

Though it was proper for a lady to be escorted into the ballroom, Penelope noted that Marchford failed to release her hand once they were inside and instead covered her gloved hand with his protectively. She knew it was an oversight—he was not attending to her in the least—but the continued contact warmed her straight down to her slippered toes. Her unwanted, inappropriate, and utterly inconvenient response to him was clearly his fault.

The Duke of Marchford pressed forward into the room, taking her along with him. All heads turned when he passed, but his aloof manner kept all but his intimates and the outrageously bold from approaching. It was December in London, so society would have typically been limited, but Parliament had been required to open session early. The crowded ballroom revealed the season was also getting an early start.

“Where are we going?” Pen whispered.

“Card room. Or better yet billiards. Only safe place.”

“Coward,” she hissed.

“They are looking at me like a prized goose, shot and plucked, and hanging by its neck in the shop window.”

She smiled at the analogy. Served him right for being so handsome, and amusing, and blasted good company. The ladies in the ballroom had noted his movement from one side of the room to the other, and began to drift toward him in ever shrinking orbits until they fell willingly into the gravitational pull of the unmarried duke.

“It is your own fault for remaining a bachelor,” chastised Penelope in a low voice.
And
for
being
undeniably
attractive
, she mentally added.

“No, that is entirely your fault,” he returned in a seductive undertone.

His reference to his mock proposal sent tingles down her spine, and she wrenched her hand away from his arm to prevent herself from falling into his arms and declaring that she would marry him within the hour. Curse him!

Taking advantage of an unprotected duke, a lady wearing a gown so sheer Penelope did a double take before averting her eyes slid up to Marchford and giggled something in his ear. He acknowledged her with a tight smile but turned to Pen with haunted eyes.
Help!
he mouthed to her. Women circled like buzzards around carrion.

It was dangerous to stand between a marriage-minded miss and her ultimate prize. Pen was met with glares from determined maidens who saw her as interfering in their plans to corral the duke into conversation, marriage, and bed, in any order. One lady elbowed her. Another trod on her foot, trying to vie for Marchford’s attention.

Penelope considered abandoning him to his fate, but she could not stomach the thought of leaving these women in command of the ultimate prize. Besides, what if his horror were to turn to interest? She was filled with an emotion unfamiliar to her, but it was definitely not jealousy. No, not that at all.

“Your Grace, please recall you promised to lead in Lady Devine’s niece.” Penelope’s pronouncement was met with glares from the ladies and a look of relief from Marchford.

“Yes, of course. You all will excuse me.” Marchford gave a slight nod of the head and detangled himself from their clutches.

“Here is my first matrimonial suggestion,” said Pen in an undertone as they picked their way through the guests back to the entryway. “Frances is the niece of Lord Admiral and Lady Devine, a nicer family you could not hope to find. Frances will make her debut this season and is expected to do very well. You could save everyone a good deal of fuss and bother by making an offer before she needed to complete the season.”

“Quite a business for you, this Madame X,” observed Marchford coolly.

“Indeed,” replied Pen without apology.

“Though I do thank you for extricating me from that situation.” His eyes warmed and he inclined his head to her.

“Glad to be of assistance,” said Pen lightly. Her conscience pricked her momentarily, for she knew he would not thank her for the young lady she was about to connect him to; yet one look at his infuriatingly handsome face was enough to set her back on her devious course.

They reached the entryway and were relatively alone as they waited for the Devine family. “Forgive my curiosity,” continued Penelope. She had tried to resist asking but could not contain herself any longer. “You hardly are in need of a matchmaker. Why not find your own bride?”

“No!” Marchford was so emphatic it startled Penelope. “I do not want a romance, only a bride.” Gone was the amusement from his eyes. He was serious in his aversion to love. But why?

Penelope reached out to touch his hand but caught herself in time. Lord Admiral Devine and his family arrived at that moment, distracting him from her awkward gesture. Marchford was naturally acquainted with Admiral Devine and his wife, and the introduction to Frances was quickly made. Frances was quite pretty and quite young, maybe fifteen at best, and her gown was the pinkest pink Pen had ever seen.

Penelope was shamelessly delighted. Marchford less so.

“May I have the honor of leading you into the ballroom?” asked Marchford politely.

Frances giggled and clapped her hands. She stepped away momentarily to give her wrap to one of the footmen.

“I fear I am robbing the nursery of its brightest ornament,” Marchford hissed in Pen’s ear.

Pen stifled a laugh.

“Since I will be occupied for the near future in unavoidable conversation, do keep your eye on Jonathan, that footman.”

“Why?” asked Penelope.

“Something shady about his footwear. Do not forget the only reason I returned to London at all is to discover the spymaster.”

Marchford’s request was a serious one. He had been engaged in flushing out French spies from society for the past several years, both abroad and at home. The fact that he trusted Penelope with such work made a happy thrill run down her spine.

“Which one is he?” she asked, keeping herself from giggling and clapping her hands in excitement in the manner of a certain youthful debutante.

“He is taking the child’s wrap now.”

Frances returned and Marchford led her into the ballroom with the look of a long-suffering saint. Penelope refused to feel guilty.

Penelope loitered for a few minutes, watching the footman take coats as guests arrived. He was not doing anything of any particular suspicion. Soon, however, he handed over his duties to another footman and disappeared through a side door, which Pen guessed led to the servants’ passages.

Penelope followed her quarry down a servants’ stairwell at a discreet distance. No member of society could do the same. That was the nice thing about being a companion; one could go almost anywhere and nobody would notice. Or if it wasn’t nice, at least it was helpful.

The footman, an attractive man of at least six feet tall, walked down the corridor with a swagger of confidence he would not have dared show in the drawing rooms upstairs. He entered the kitchen and Pen followed, the heat warming her face even before she entered the room.

He selected a tray that held three decanters of hard spirits and began to refill them. It was winter, and the cold put the guests in mind to drink.

Penelope found the harried cook to give the impression she had some business below stairs. “My mistress, the Duchess of Marchford, requests tea to aid her digestion,” Penelope said to the cook. “I have brought her special blend.” Pen reached into her reticule and handed a pouch of tea to the cook.

“Yes, miss,” said the cook without a second look at Penelope.

Penelope busied herself with the teacups while watching the footman out of the corner of her eye. He filled two of the decanters but not the third. The only odd thing she noted was one bottle was labeled “Whiskey” and two were “Brandy.” Perhaps he was offering two types of brandy?

He headed back upstairs with his tray. She decided to test his disposition and turned quickly to step out in front of him, causing him to nearly lose his balance.

“Watch it, you careless, little…” He stopped short when he realized she was not a member of the kitchen staff, but the look of venom he bestowed upon her revealed that beneath the cheerful disposition beat a calculating heart. He knew just how much he could get away with. As a guest, he could not verbally berate her, but as a lowly companion, he could certainly attempt to make her feel her place with a demeaning look.

“So sorry,” said Penelope.

“I’m sure you are,” he said with all impudence. He turned and swaggered his way back up the stairs. He straightened his shoulders when he reached the ballroom door and entered the ballroom the very picture of poise. She watched him until her own tray became heavy, and she went in search of the dowager.

The regal Duchess of Marchford was playing whist and, by the devious glint in her eye, winning most atrociously. Her partner, Lord Langley, was smiling in a genial sort of way. Penelope placed the tea beside the dowager, who glared at it as if Penelope had offered her hemlock.

“And what is that?” asked the dowager.

Penelope knew she would not be pleased, but she needed to keep up the act. Working with the duke for the better part of nine months had taught her as much. “Your tea, Your Grace. I know how you like tea in the evenings.”

“At home.” The dowager’s voice was like ice.

“Yes, of course,” said Penelope. “I will ask a footman to take away the tray.”

“And Sir Gareth is speaking to the wrong chit. Fix it,” demanded the dowager with a wave of her hand. Marchford was not the only client of Madame X that evening, though Penelope was more inclined to offer actual help when it came to her other clients.

Penelope followed the dowager’s line of sight and noted Sir Gareth speaking with a young lady, which unbeknownst to him was not the one she intended him to marry. Sir Gareth moved away from the object of his attention, presumably to acquire refreshments, and Penelope intercepted.

“Good evening, Sir Gareth,” said Penelope. “I see you have made the acquaintance of Miss Reeves.”

“Yes, charming girl.” He gave an interested smile.

“Quite. I do not think I have ever seen a girl quite so beautiful. And so much admired. I do not envy her future husband.” Since Miss Reeves had the moral compass of a serpent, Penelope felt the interference was justified.

“Why is that?” Sir Gareth was startled at the comment.

“Why, with a bride as young and beautiful as she, one would always have the need to guard the roost.”

“I see. Yes, you have a point.” From Gareth’s tone, it was clear her shaft had hit home. He had recently been appointed to an important post overseas and was facing extended trips abroad.

“Ah, I see Lady Jane across the way. I have been looking for her, poor dear,” said Penelope, thinking quickly to set her plan in motion.

“Has something happened to Janie?” Sir Gareth coughed and corrected himself. “Lady Jane.”

Penelope smiled. Sir Gareth and Lady Jane had been friends since childhood. “It is not common knowledge, since she certainly does not wish for a scandal, but Lady Jane is no longer engaged.”

“Truly?” Gareth sounded hopeful, a good sign.

“Yes, but I must ask for your confidence. I understand the groom was found wanting.” Since the man had lost his fortune at cards and slept with half of London, Penelope considered him very wanting indeed. Lady Jane had called off the engagement but feared societal retribution.

“Indeed, the man was utterly unworthy of her,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Quite. Still the whole affair has been lowering. She has been remembering happier times. She speaks of you a great deal when she talks of her childhood.”

“Does she speak of me?” Gareth turned to her and gave Pen his full attention.

Penelope smiled. “Quite positively.”

“How kind,” said Gareth, gazing in the direction of Lady Jane. The music started again and brought Gareth back to his senses. “Oh, I am engaged to dance with Miss Reeves.” And with that he walked away.

Penelope sighed. The matters of the heart were most difficult to manage.

Which reminded her, she needed to find the duke. He was nowhere in sight, a sure sign he had run away, and Pen had an idea where.

She walked down an empty corridor to Grant’s study. She heard voices behind the closed door, knocked, received silence, so she opened the door herself. “If you are attempting to hide from your company, you should lower your voice,” she chastised.

“Miss Rose!” Marchford stood at her entrance. “You abandoned me with an infant!”

Grant laughed and beckoned her inside, shutting the door behind her. “Marchford was regaling me with horror stories of the life of a bachelor.” Grant was a remarkably handsome man, perfectly attired in a coat of dark burgundy superfine, with the blond curly hair and blue eyes of a Nordic god. When the
ton
looked to fashion, they looked to him.

“Was it so terribly bad?” Penelope asked innocently, trying to hide a smile.

Marchford stepped closer, his eyes a mixture of amusement and outrage. “I see you are enjoying my discomfort. I thought you were supposed to be of help, but you left me when I was most needful.”

“I was following the footman as requested.” Penelope had to turn away from those light gray eyes before she could be drawn once more under his spell. A change of subject was needed, and she knew she could speak openly to only a few—the spy hunters of London. Mr. Grant, though resistant at times, was one of them.

“Ah, all cloak and dagger, mystery and intrigue,” Grant accused Marchford. “You cannot go anywhere without running afoul of a traitor or two. I begin to rethink our acquaintance.”