The Duke's Quandary (10 page)

“I’m not sure her eyesight is that lacking, rather that she chooses to hide behind them.” Possibly attempting to close the gap in rank, Aunt Phoebe drew herself up, her impressive bosom heaving.

“Since Miss Clayton is sitting right here before us, my lady, let us ask her.” His eyes met Penelope’s in mirth. “Tell me, Miss Clayton. Are you hiding?”

Goodness, how could she answer this when it was her full intention to ask her aunt’s permission to hide in the country? Oh, what a conundrum. If she answered what Drake expected, she would not be able to plead her case today. She looked between her aunt’s scowl and Drake’s amusing expression, and sighed. “No, I do not wish to hide.”

“Excellent. In that case, I see no reason why Miss Clayton can’t enjoy the benefits of her spectacles, do you, Lady Bellinghan?”

Backed into a corner, the woman retreated. “No, of course not. But on the other hand, she cannot be expected to receive offers from gentlemen.”

“Ah, not so.” Drake reached into his pocket and pulled out a shaft of papers. “The reason I wished to see you today, my lady, was to give you the opportunity to view what Lord Monroe has forwarded to me.”

At the reference to her trustee, Penelope sat forward, puzzled.

“Indeed. And what is this all about?” Lady Bellinghan asked.

Tapping the papers against his chin, Drake leaned against the back of his chair, crossing one shiny Hessian boot over his other knee. “It seems Lord Monroe has received an offer for Miss Clayton’s hand, and wishes me to deal with it.”

“What?” Penelope jumped up, barely missing the cup and saucer on the low table in front of her.

“Calm yourself.” Drake touched her hand, tugging so she sat back down. “You need not be concerned.”

“Not concerned?” Her heart was beating so fast, it would most likely jump from her chest and race for the door. Much like she wanted to do herself.

Drake unfolded the papers and directed his comments to Lady Bellinghan. “When Lord Monroe received this offer, he was preparing to travel on the continent. He sent the documents to me, along with a note that he wished me to handle this, since Miss Clayton is residing with my family, and he has no desire to
deal with this nonsense
, as he so politely put it. He also indicated that he wished you to be made aware of this offer, as well.”

Lady Bellinghan lost her previous stiff stance, her aged face aglow. “How wonderful. I’m amazed it happened so quickly. Have you signed the marriage contracts? When is the wedding?” She turned to Penelope. “I’m delighted for you, my dear. We must visit the
modiste
in the morning and have your wedding gown commissioned. Perhaps my health would allow me to arrange for a small reception. . .”

She stopped her prattle when Drake held his hand up. “My lady, Miss Clayton has not been advised of this offer, and has not accepted.” He turned toward Penelope, who fought the black dots dancing in her eyes, heralding her collapse. “Have no fear,” he whispered.

No fear? No fear?
He was sitting here as relaxed as if he discussed an upcoming house party, or a stroll in the park. She glanced at the papers in his hand that would change her entire life and felt a new wave of panic wash over her.

“What do you mean she hasn’t accepted? Did Lord Monroe sign the marriage contracts? Surely you’re not going to leave it up to the gel?” Aunt Phoebe’s eyes moved back and forth between Drake and Penelope.

“Lady Bellinghan, this offer is from a man who attempted to compromise Miss Clayton just last night. I told him to stay far away from her, but apparently he had already made his intentions known last week by contacting Miss Clayton’s trustee, her only male relative.”

“Compromise her? Well, Manchester, was she or wasn’t she compromised? I won’t have scandal at my doorstep.”

Penelope moaned, and Drake cupped her neck with a warm, strong hand. “Lower your head so you don’t swoon.” He eased her head down until her face touched her thighs and the blood slowly returned to her head.

“She was not compromised. And Mr. David Smythe, third son of Viscount Digby, is well known in the
ton
to be seeking a wealthy bride to bring his debts under control so he may continue on with his life of. . .leisure.”

Aunt Phoebe dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Nonsense, many young ladies marry gentlemen who are in need of funds. From what Lord Monroe has confided, my niece can well afford it.”

“I don’t want to marry Mr. Smythe,” Penelope mumbled to her lap.

“Lady Bellinghan, I’m afraid I must decline Mr. Smythe’s offer if Miss Clayton does not desire to marry the man.”

“It should not be her decision. And if she turns down this offer, she’ll never catch a husband!”

“I don’t want a husband.” More muffled words. If Drake didn’t release her head soon, she would smother right here in her skirts, and then no one need be concerned about her marital status. “Your Grace, I cannot breathe.”

“Oh, sorry.” Drake moved his hand. “Are you all right?”

Penelope adjusted her spectacles and inhaled deeply, for which her lungs were grateful. “I’m fine. As long as I don’t have to marry that dunderhead.”

“Young lady, I advise you to consider this offer before you so easily cast it aside.” Aunt Phoebe turned to Drake. “You must speak with her, Manchester, and make her understand she is not the type of girl who will garner a great deal of interest. This might very well be her only offer.”

“Madam, I hardly think the situation is that dire. I’ve spent some time with Miss Clayton and know she presents herself well, is attractive, and intelligent. She is kind and compassionate, and lights up whatever room she enters. Any gentlemen would be honored to be her husband.” His voice grew louder as the words burst forth.

Both Lady Bellinghan and Penelope stared at him in wonder.

Drake ran his finger around the inside of his cravat and cleared his throat. He held out his cup. “May I have more tea, please?”

Chapter Thirteen

Dressed only in her chemise, Penelope stared out the bedroom window and shivered in fear. The presentation to the Queen three days before had been quite frightening, but tonight’s come out ball for her and Mary would definitely do her in.

How she’d managed to curtsy so low, and then walk backward out of the Queen’s presence while wearing the cumbersome old fashioned gown required for each debutante, still amazed her. And the ridiculous ostrich feathers that had kept bobbing in front of her eyes had made the entire procedure almost comical.

But now she faced not just a terrifying monarch, but hundreds of
ton
members. They would watch her. No hiding behind potted plants tonight. She would be front and center with Mary. Why, oh why, hadn’t she followed through on her plans to ask Aunt to send her home?

Stunned by the offer for her hand Drake had so blithely mentioned, and her aunt’s reaction, all thoughts of the reason for her initial request to see Aunt had fled her mind. So here she was, only a couple of hours away from the most terrifying ordeal of her life.

“Miss!” Maguire entered the room. “Are you ill? You’re so pale. Shall I have the duchess summon a doctor?”

“No, no.” Penelope turned. “Just nerves. I will be fine.”

“My Lady Mary is also beside herself with excitement. She is fighting blotches on her arms, but I’m sure her gloves will cover them. Thank goodness the nasty things stayed away from her face.”

Penelope would not correct the woman, since
her
nerves weren’t excitement, but pure terror. She placed her hand on her stomach to stop the fluttering.

“Come, miss, I’ll help you dress, then work on your hair. You want to look your very, very best tonight. The gentlemen will be enthralled with you.”

If that remark was meant to calm her, it had the opposite effect. Penelope closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could do this.

An hour later, she stood in front of her full length mirror and studied the strange young woman before her. The copper highlights in her brown hair caught the light from the lamp on the dresser. Maguire had pulled it back to the crown of her head, leaving curls spilling down to her shoulders. Behind her gold-rimmed spectacles, her green eyes appeared huge and terrified.

She perused her coming-out gown of white lace overlay, split in the middle to reveal the blue silk underneath. The bodice was modest, but lower than anything she had ever dared to wear. A darker blue grosgrain ribbon circled snug beneath her breasts, calling attention to her slim frame. Her mother’s necklace of sapphires and small diamonds, with matching earbobs, sparkled as she moved her head back and forth.

Placing her gloved hands against her stomach, she chided herself for the useless attempt to quell the roiling. She dared not eat a bite of food tonight, or she would truly disgrace herself.

“Penelope, you look absolutely beautiful!” Sybil entered the room practically at a dance. Looking wonderful in a peach gown, she rushed forward and hugged her. “I know this will be a truly remarkable night for you.”

“Do you think so?” Her teeth actually chattered.

“Marion is asking for you,” Abigail said as she seemed to float into the room in a rush of gossamer rose. Then she stopped and took in Penelope’s appearance. “That is a lovely gown. You look exquisite.”

“Thank you.” Penelope barely got the words out, her mouth dry as a bone. How would she ever get through this evening? Tugging once again on her gloves, she took another look at the strange girl in the mirror, and left.

She slowly pushed open Marion’s door. The young widow starred pensively out the window of her bedroom, nothing but shrouded darkness in her view.

“I understand you wished to see me.”

Marion turned, and then gasped as she placed her hands to her mouth. “You look stunning, Penelope. So lovely.” She moved to the settee and took a seat, patting the spot alongside her. “Can you sit for a minute to visit?”

“Of course. I believe we have time before the guests begin to arrive for dinner.”

“Seeing you in your finery reminds me of my own come out ball. That was the night Tristan and I knew we were meant for each other. We went from being good friends to falling in love.” She squeezed Penelope’s hand. “Maybe the same thing will happen for you. Wouldn’t that be incredible?”

“I will be deliriously happy if I’m merely able to refrain from disgracing myself and your family.”

“Nonsense. You will do fine. You’ve had some practice at balls now, so just relax and enjoy your evening. And Mary’s, too, of course.”

“Mother wants us downstairs. The dinner guests have begun to arrive.” Mary stepped into the room. Her gown was spectacular. The ivory silk, overlaid with white lace, provided her with an angelic presence. Dark blond curls cascaded down the back of her head, bouncing as she walked. Her deep amber eyes sparkled with excitement.

At least one of us is thrilled with tonight’s ball.

Marion leapt up and hugged the girls. “Have a wonderful time tonight.”

Penelope clung to Marion’s hand. “I wish you would reconsider and join us. Even for a little while.”

Marion gave a wistful smile. “Thank you. I’m not quite ready for that, yet. A walk in the garden is one thing, but presenting myself to society again. . .” She shook her head. “Maybe. Someday.”

…

Penelope felt as if hours had passed since the receiving line had begun. She rubbed one foot against her leg to ease the pain from standing so long. At least she was free from mishap while she stood with Drake, Her Grace, and Mary, curtsying and bowing. Soon the trickle of expected guests would cease and she would be required to dance. What Mary had mentioned more than once—their first dance—as a wonderful moment in the evening, she viewed with growing dread.

Drake’s best friend, the Earl of Coventry, would partner her in a waltz, while Drake would lead his sister in her first dance. The earl had winked at her as he passed through the line a while ago, assuring her she would be in good hands. His beautiful wife had greeted her warmly and echoed her husband’s sentiment. She liked the earl and his countess, and found them both pleasant and unassuming.

At least if she had to perform this ritual, it was with someone she felt comfortable.

“My dear, don’t you look lovely!” Aunt Phoebe’s voice rose from where she stood in front of Mary. A large emerald twinkled from the front of her turban, a match to her dark green gown. Lady Bellinghan moved from the duchess, and completed a slight curtsy to Drake. Then without preamble, she reached up and plucked Penelope’s spectacles from her face. “You won’t need these, dear.”

Too stunned to retort, she felt heat rise to her face. She glanced quickly around to see how much attention Aunt Phoebe had garnered. From her hazy vision, it seemed the only person who’d noticed what she’d done was Drake, who eyed her with a mixture of sympathy and humor.

He bent to whisper in her ear. “Don’t be troubled. You’ve done this before without your spectacles.”

“That’s true, but I’m sure you remember the results.”

He turned from her as Lady Musgrave spoke with him. From her vantage point, and without the assistance of her spectacles, it appeared the receiving line was coming to an end. Now another type of torture would begin.

She made her last curtsy to an older lord, whose name she didn’t remember, who pinched her cheek.

“Shall we, ladies?” Drake extended his arm to his mother, and the four of them made their way into the ballroom.

She was immediately struck by the number of people who had passed through their line and now gathered in the room. To say it was packed was an understatement. She could barely breathe as she followed Drake through the throng as he headed to the orchestra to have them begin the first dance.

“Miss Clayton.” Coventry bowed before her. “I believe this is my dance?”

She smiled at the charming man, and relaxed a bit. The devilish grin on his face set her at ease even more. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

The orchestra started the number, and Coventry swept her into his arms. After a few stumbling steps, she caught the rhythm and did fine. Actually, the man was such a good dancer, she found herself enjoying the experience. Several times she caught Drake and Mary spinning by, conversing happily.

Mary looked stunning, and Drake, as always, handsome. His dark blue evening tailcoat fit him as if it had been sewn onto his body. His white-on-white embroidered waistcoat, black pantaloons, and thin shoes gave him an elegant bearing that drew every female eye in his direction. The starched white, intricately tied cravat set off his golden skin and deep hazel eyes.

“Miss Clayton it is not well done to eye a gentlemen when you are in the arms of another.” Coventry’s teasing grin had heat rising to her face.

Good heavens, was she watching Drake that carefully? Perhaps every woman in the room had noticed, and was giggling behind fluttering fans. She was truly mortified at being caught. Really it was beyond the pale for her to even cast a glance in his direction. With the many beautiful, graceful, and elegant women surrounding him, why would he have time or notice for a country mouse?

Coventry dipped his head so his eyes met hers. “I don’t know what you’re telling yourself in that pretty head of yours, Miss Clayton, but if it is what I think, you have nothing to be concerned about. You are a refreshingly beautiful young woman. And you can hold your own with any other debutante this Season.”

Yes, Lord Coventry was truly a charmer, even if he did play fast and loose with the truth.

The dance came to a close, and he escorted her back to the duchess. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He bowed and turned on his heel, headed directly toward his lovely wife.

“He’s an engaging man,” Her Grace said as she watched him weave his way through the crowd.

“Yes, his wife is a very fortunate woman.”

“I doubt Lady Coventry would have agreed with you at the beginning.”

She was familiar with the story of how Lord Coventry hadn’t treated Lady Olivia very well when they’d first married. But whatever that had been about, he certainly held her in high regard now. The love on his face when he spoke of his wife warmed her heart. It was at times like that she wondered if such a love could happen to her.

She had always assumed her life would take the path she’d laid out for herself. She’d live alone and work on her science, with maybe a cat or two for company. That’s where her focus needed to be. She chastised herself for neglecting her work. It was best to get her head out of the clouds and finish up the report on her discovery for the Linnean Society.

Deep in thought, she didn’t notice the young man standing before her until he spoke. “Miss Clayton, may I have the pleasure of this dance?”

Freddy Grayson, the youngest son of the Earl of Blackwell had stood up with her at other balls she’d attended. In fact, she thought perhaps he felt as out of place at these affairs as she did. He never spoke when they danced, just went through the motions, returned her to her chaperone, bowed, and left. Almost as if he was fulfilling a duty.

But since she was comfortable with him, it made for a pleasurable dance, and a way for Her Grace to stop fretting about her having partners.

Penelope cast a quick glance at the back of her fan, where she’d written the steps to the quadrille. Confident that she could acquit herself well, she turned and faced Freddy. With his friendly demeanor and surety of steps, they moved through the dance with no problems. Her brief peeks at her closely held fan—drat Aunt Phoebe for pilfering her spectacles—kept her going in the right direction at all times.

Mr. Belton and Miss Grainger moved past them smoothly as they executed the steps. The two other couples in their group were unknown to her, but nevertheless familiar. As the number ended, a gentleman behind her bumped her elbow, causing her fan to fly to the floor. Before she could retrieve it, Mr. Belton bent and picked it up.

“What’s this?” He held the fan up, the scrawled words facing Miss Grainger and the two other young ladies. The three girls raised their fans in unison to cover their smirks as they exchanged glances.

“I’ll take that, thank you.” Penelope snatched the fan from his hand, and waved it furiously in front of her face. “Excuse me, Mr. Grayson. I must get some air.”

“Wait, Miss Clayton, I’ll escort you.” Freddy called to her, but she shook her head and kept going. The crowds were stifling, and she felt as though she couldn’t breathe. But without her spectacles she wasn’t certain she was even headed in the right direction.

“Miss Clayton.” Another man hailed her. She turned her head toward the voice, but continued on, plowing into a footman holding a tray of drinks.

Sticky lemonade splashed on her chest, and ran in rivulets down her bodice. The tray and its glasses crashed to the floor, and conversation in the general area ceased. Mortified, she watched the lemonade trickle down between her breasts.

“I’m so sorry, miss. Please, let me get you something to clean up with.” The red-faced footman glanced back and forth as another footman hurried over with several serviettes in his hand.

“No. Thank you, anyway, but I’m fine.” Penelope backed away, and finally spotting the French doors, moved quickly in that direction.

She burst through the opening, taking deep gulps of the cool night air. Holding her wet skirts away from her body, she ran as far as she could without ending up in the dark garden. She blinked furiously to keep the tears from falling, and rested her fisted hands on the marble balustrade at the end of the terrace. Now the entire
ton
would know what she’d been telling herself for weeks. She did not belong here.

She peeled off her gloves and tried, ineffectively, to wipe some of the sticky liquid off her chest and neck. Her best efforts had not held the tears back, and she swiped at her wet cheeks with annoyance. A warm hand descended on her shoulder, and before turning around, she knew it was Drake. Her chin dropped. How sad that she knew his touch and scent so well. Another reason she didn’t belong. The man was slowly changing her from an analytical scientist to a wishful young lady—who had no right to hope for the things she did.