A Winter Wedding (21 page)

Darington began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, and Penelope could easily picture him walking the decks, the very picture of a sea captain. “I understand my sister has come to you to request a marriage partner for me, as I have for her. Since I am apparently, in the mind of my relations, in need of a spouse, and since you may find yourself in need of the same, I suggest an arrangement of mutual satisfaction.” Here he glanced at her to gauge her reaction, which could only be confusion.

“I beg your pardon, could you clarify what sort of arrangement—”

“Marriage,” he blurted, as if the very word itself might burn his tongue if it lingered in his mouth.

“You are proposing marriage?” Penelope was dumbfounded.

“Yes.” He nodded. “A partnership between you and me.”

“You cannot possibly be proposing marriage to me.”

“Why not?” It was his turn to look confused. “You are a sensible lady. A practical choice. You know I am not good with conversing with members of the opposite sex. Marrying you would be…”

“Efficient?” Penelope supplied.

“Yes.” He looked pleased. “Quite so.”

“Forgive me, Lord Darington, but are you quite sure you are not proposing marriage to avoid awkward conversation?”

“People have been married for less worthy causes. You are a reasonable, intelligent person. There is no other lady I have yet met that I would consider taking as a wife.”

It was a compliment, and Penelope felt it to its full measure. The fact that she was so praised, and by an earl no less, was not lost on her. Of course, it was another marriage of convenience, but Darington was a good catch. Her answer was never in question, but she breathed deep, savoring the moment she had thought she would never live to experience.

“I thank you but—”

He held up his hand to stop her, taking a step closer. He was an attractive man, she must admit, in his own dark and brooding manner. “I do not ask for an answer now. I only propose this to you as a potential option for your current distress.”

“Lord Darington, I am honored by your proposal more than I can say, but I cannot feel easy in marrying you for practicality’s sake, and not because you have found true love.” Besides, if she wanted a marriage of convenience, she could simply marry the duke.

“I never expected the fickle course of human emotion would play a part in choosing a marriage partner,” said Darington coolly. He stepped closer still, looking down at her with his black eyes. “I never expected to fall in love. But perhaps your heart has already been touched.”

Penelope turned away; he was too close to the truth. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Marchford is a good man.” He bowed without another word and quit the room.

She stared after him. The man saw too much. But Marchford—what did he see?

Penelope’s brain was an unhappy tumble of thoughts and emotions. Who would have guessed that she would receive offers from both a duke and an earl? It was preposterous. Only trouble was neither party had claimed any affection for her in particular, but rather saw her as an efficient means to achieving their own goals. It was always nice to be useful, but she would not marry simply to be obliging.

Returning to the ballroom without attending to her surroundings, she jumped at the sound of a woman’s voice, realizing she forgot to put on her mask.

“I see you have finally made the papers, Miss Rose. You are to be congratulated, such a coup to have secured the proposal.” The Comtesse de Marseille slid next to her. Though appropriately masked, Penelope knew that aristocratic tone with a slight hint of the French accent of her birth.

The comtesse linked arms with her—it was less an expression of friendship and more to prevent Penelope from running away. So trapped, Pen had little choice other than to listen politely to what the older matron would say. Pen prepared for the onslaught. The comtesse had a tongue as sharp as any sword.

“Thank you,” said Penelope. She had never spoken words so insincerely in all her life. She glanced around but found she was very much alone in the corridor with the comtesse. No easy escape.

“I confess I had not thought you had it in you to secure such an alliance.” The comtesse’s perfume wafted around them in a pleasant cloud. Penelope knew the comtesse never complimented without barbs, and she steeled herself for them, but she did have to admit, the comtesse smelled nice.

“It was as much a surprise to me as to anyone,” said Penelope in all honesty, not expecting such a denial to be believed.

“Was it?” asked the comtesse slyly. She stopped before entering the ballroom. The light, happy voices, and the bright sounds of a country reel were just steps away, but the comtesse held on to Penelope’s elbow with a firm grip Pen did not expect from an elderly lady.

“The question is, do you truly wish to marry a duke? Someone so far above your own station?” The friendly tone of the comtesse never wavered, but the attack was launched.

Penelope’s blood turned to ice at the sound of the comtesse’s voice dripping with honey-dipped spite. “My sisters are expecting my return,” said Penelope, desirous only of leaving the venomous comtesse behind.

“Your sisters, they are very pretty, no? They all made good matches, quite good. What an embarrassment it would be for them to have a sister so unequally yoked. You must know the talk surrounding your remarkable accomplishment has turned rather nasty. No one of any stature will admit you into their house. You would be considered as repugnant as any social climber.”

“I had no intention—” Penelope was nettled into responding. It was naturally a losing battle.

“I believe you.”

Penelope paused, waiting for the insult that never came. “You do?”

“Of course. Anyone with any sense can see that you are no social climber.”

Penelope stared at the comtesse. Was she taking her side?

“I like you, Penelope Rose. You have more intelligence to you than the average chit. That is why I have come to offer you a solution for the current problem of your sisters.”

“What about my sisters?” asked Penelope, wary of the comtesse.

“Your sisters, they are very kind. They will stand by you, no? But society, I fear, is so very cruel, and they will take their share in your disgrace. Their invitations will dwindle. Their husbands’ careers will falter. Marital harmony will turn to discord. They will argue amongst themselves as to who must house you and how to minimize the damage to the reputations of themselves and their own children.”

The trouble with the comtesse is that she knew how to fashion the truth into a spear and skewer you on the end of it. Penelope wished she could dismiss her speech as the pessimistic ramblings of a bitter old woman, but there was always veracity in her words. Penelope’s sisters would be tarnished if they chose to stand by her.

“I wonder that you are even speaking to me, considering your low opinion of me,” said Penelope coolly.

“Ah, but I have a very high opinion of you, my dear. Many a lovely thing has set her cap on getting a proposal from Marchford, but he has avoided all the traps with remarkable ease. I know you are no brash light-skirt, but still you have gotten him to propose. I know not what your secrets may be—oh, you can keep them. I care not—but I have come to offer you another solution.”

Penelope was sure she would not care for this solution, but she was also certain there was no escape until the comtesse had said her piece, so she nodded for the comtesse to continue.

“There are people who marry and people who do not, or choose not. It does not, however, mean that such ladies must live solitary lives, serving as poor companions, always taking care to the comforts of others. No, some ladies choose to live their lives in utter comfort.”

“I doubt very much I am such a woman.” Was she actually suggesting Penelope become some man’s mistress? Preposterous!

“I can help you,” soothed the comtesse. “I have been known to help women such as yourself, who find themselves in impossible situations. I provide an alternative to isolation or scorn.”

“I doubt very much becoming a…a…”

“Courtesan,” supplied the comtesse with a slippery smile.

“Yes,
that
, would help raise my respectability in anyone’s eyes.”

She smiled sympathetically. “It is a strange world, my dear. Courtesans are accepted in the highest levels of society, where perceived social climbers are not.”

Much to Penelope’s dismay, a short reflection proved the comtesse to be correct. She knew of such women, though she held no acquaintance with any; that would be utterly inappropriate considering her situation. There was another level of society, a level that did not attend debutante balls as she did, and in that level such women were held in high regard.

“Such a change in occupation would in no way assist my sisters.”

“They would have to disown you, of course, but then they would be clear of you. I would suggest you retreat to the Continent for a while, leave London to reduce the talk. It can all be done very neatly if you would employ my assistance.”

Penelope became suspicious. “And how much would such assistance cost me?”

The comtesse graced her with a wide smile. “You are a shrewd little thing, aren’t you? Now, my dear, don’t bristle so. I meant it as a compliment. My services are a gift to you, and in return, you may repay me by doing small favors now and then if I should ask.”

“What sort of favors?”

“Nothing of a vile nature, you can rest assured. Oh, now, do not blush.” The comtesse laughed at her. “Ah, but you are a green one. You act as if you are a maiden still.”

“Please allow me to disabuse you of several false notions you have about me,” began Penelope, rising to her own defense.

“Must away,” said the comtesse, releasing her arm at last and floating gracefully out into the ballroom. “Think on what I have said.”

Penelope glared after her. Odious woman! But with a small sigh, she realized much of what she had said was the plain, hard truth. Many considered her a fallen woman. She stepped into the ballroom and all eyes were upon her. The mask! It had been forgotten. She quickly turned aside and tied it on, but now everyone knew the woman in scarlet was her. Conversations died and heads turned as she passed. It was hardly fair for her to be punished for a sin she had not committed.

At least, not yet.

The whispers around her grew louder, and she was glad she was hidden behind a mask, so the gossips could not see how they made her face red. Sophie was suddenly by her side, coming to her rescue.

“Such a pretty ballroom,” she said cheerfully. “Do you care for the decorations?”

Penelope glanced around, noting them for the first time. The ballroom had been transformed into a winter wonderland with thousands of glittering glass icicles hanging from the chandeliers, with silver ribbons abundant throughout the room. It was a marvelous effect and showed Penelope how distracted she must be with her own sad affairs not to notice such a lovely composition.

“It is quite well done,” said Penelope.

“I shall pass your compliment on to our hostess. I am sure she will appreciate it.”

“I am not certain a compliment from such a social pariah as myself would be welcome from anyone,” muttered Penelope, flicking open her fan to avoid the accusing eyes of society.

“I would appreciate it.” Marchford stood before her, strong and hale and impeccably dressed in a dark green frock coat and silver waistcoat. Even masked, she would know him anywhere.

“I believe my husband is needful of me,” murmured Sophie, and she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Penelope to her fate.

Despite the masks, everyone was watching them, with only the paltriest attempts at hiding their interest. Masked faces peeked over painted fans, heads turned, conversations hushed. What were they to do now?

“Would you care to dance?” asked Marchford.

Penelope was amazed at his simplicity. After all, they were attending a ball.

“I have never seen you dance,” Pen protested.

“I have not danced since before my brother died.” Marchford’s voice was soft and low. “And now I am asking you to dance, Miss Rose.”

Denial was not possible. Marchford had chosen his timing well, for the reel had just ended, and they were beginning another set. They walked out onto the floor with the other couples, as if what they were doing was commonplace. Penelope was uncomfortably aware that people had now dropped any pretense of not noticing and were talking openly, with some even resorting to openmouthed stares and rude pointing.

“Look at me, Penelope,” soothed Marchford. His eyes behind the mask were warm and inviting. “Look only at me.”

So she did. He was ever so handsome and ever so confident. The music began and she did not dare to look away.

“I may have forgotten my way,” he commented as they passed in the dance. “You must instruct me if you will.”

It was nonsense of course. Marchford danced well, and with his confidence, she began to relax and enjoy the moment for what it was. She was dancing with the most eligible prize in Britain. He might not be hers to keep, but he was hers for the dance.

The music swelled and she could not repress a smile. He returned it, and the rest of the disapproving eyes disappeared. All she saw was him. Despite the turmoil around her, she knew this would count as one of her happier moments, something to look back upon when things went horribly wrong, as she was certain they would.

“You are a fine dancer,” said Marchford.

Penelope listened for a tone of surprise, but it was not there. He was Marchford, simply stating a fact. “It is easy with an accomplished partner,” said Penelope with the same tone.

“A compliment.” Now Marchford had a smug tone.

“Take it as you wish, Your Grace.”

“James. You continue to forget to call me James.”

Penelope wished he would be a little less perfect. It would make disliking him easier. “James,” amended Pen.

They separated for a minute in the dance, and Pen longed to be back at his side. It was insanity, the game her emotions were playing on her. “Have you been able to discover anything more aboutour investigations?”

“No, everything is quiet.” He kept his voice low and whispered in her ear when they passed, so only she could hear. It was heady stuff to have a man such as the Duke of Marchford whisper in her ear.

Penelope took a breath and attempted to drag her wandering mind back to its proper place in the conversation. “I was accosted by the comtesse tonight.” She murmured to him. Strange how they could have a private conversation in the middle of a ballroom.

“Determined to spread her poison?”

“What exactly was in the papers?”

Marchford took the opportunity of the dance to float away for a moment.

“Vicious woman. Believe nothing she says,” said James when he returned. Which of course meant the gossip columns had indeed been unkind.

“She made me a curious offer. She warned me of the horrible repercussions of our alliance and encouraged me to consider a life of a…” Penelope could not bring herself to utter the word in the middle of the ballroom, even if she believed herself to be beyond the hearing of others.

A slight stutter in his footing indicated Marchford had understood. “Forgive me if I do not see how that would improve your situation.”

“She offered to assist me in learning the trade.”

“Vile woman!” Marchford said too loudly. “I do apologize, not you, madam.” Marchford gave a bow to the shocked lady to his left, whom he had insulted by forgetting to keep his voice at a low register.

“I doubt she will ever dance near you again,” commented Penelope.

“I shall have to soldier on without her company. But tell me, what gain is it for the comtesse for your change in occupations?”

“I have been puzzling over that as well. She mentioned something about owing her favors.”

“Is that so?” James came slowly came to a stop, impeding the dance.

“James,” hissed Penelope to get him moving again.

“That may be it,” said James with a happy glint to his eye.

“The dance!” said Penelope. All eyes were on her now, fans went up, whispers, laughs—it was getting dreadful.

“Yes, of course,” said James, snapping back to the present and taking Penelope’s hand to join in the dance once more.

“What is it?” she asked once they had begun to dance once more.

“Talk later,” he said. He danced away and back again. “I have not commented yet on your choice of gowns. Allow me to convey my deep appreciation for your modiste.”

“I wish I had worn something less revealing,” muttered Penelope.

“No. Never. You are perfection. Do not drink the poison of others.”

At the end of the dance, he took her arm to lead her off the dance floor, but the musicians stopped and an announcement was made that soon they would mark the end of the year and the beginning of 1811. Footmen arrived carrying trays of champagne, and everyone was encouraged to charge their glasses. Marchford accepted two glasses, giving one to Penelope. People crowded into the ballroom in anticipation, but Penelope wished only to disappear away from so many staring eyes.