In short order she found her cousin had proclaimed their relationship, making it sound as though they were closer to being brother and sister. Then it transpired that not only did he know style, but he was well up on the difference in the cut of sleeves and necklines and on various colors and what they might achieve. Indeed, that languid gentleman—who had disappeared when there was work to do before his dinner—now bestirred himself on her behalf with a vengeance. Or so it seemed to her.
“A muted white, assuredly a delicate violet, and a tasteful blue—the twilight tones, I think,” Lord Harford declared in an undertone that carried perfectly well to Penelope’s straining ears.
Twilight tones, indeed.
‘Very feminine, not too low a neckline—perhaps a number with a discreet ruff? I think her look ought to be one of remote gentility, a woman who is feminine and unattainable.”
Twilight tones was quite bad enough, but this? And a high neckline when every gown she had seen dipped to here? ‘Unattainable?” she repeated in softly freezing accents.
“A woman of mystery, my dear. You will set your own style.” He held up his quizzing glass to study her. He spoke softly and gently, and, she noticed, rather privately, as though he didn’t wish the mantua-maker to hear what he said.
She searched his face, studying the well-proportioned planes, his eyes that appeared so black, that firm mouth. Here she turned her gaze away from him. That hastily snatched kiss following his dinner still lingered in her mind.
“You do understand that my prime reason for placing myself in your hands is that I must find a husband as quickly as possible? I trust you to help me. What a pity you would not serve as a husband. It would simplify matters so much, would it not?”
His voice betrayed his pique. “You think I would be so terrible as a mate?”
“I have seen mention of you in the papers, and distinctly received the impression that you are more than a bit of a rake, my lord. And you gamble, else you’d not be in this pickle now. My need is for someone who will marry me and go away. For some peculiar reason, I sense you might not do as I wish.”
“I’d not be a complaisant sort of husband, if that’s what you mean. Any children who bear my name will be my own,” he snapped.
“My lord!” she protested in a shocked voice.
He called down the fates upon his unfortunate tongue, then turned gratefully as Madame Clotilde brought forth a pretty gown of a sunset lavender in a quite acceptable style. If he could but think of Lady Penelope as another sister needing guidance upon entering the world of the ton, he just might cope with this situation.
It ought not be too difficult to launch Penny. She possessed good breeding, an enviable wealth; surely it should be a simple matter to instruct her in the delicacy involved regarding Society’s manners? Any lady intelligent enough to learn the art of cooking ought to comprehend the necessity to guard her tongue. Recalling her presentation at his front door in the morning hours, never mind that it had been fortuitous for him, he was reminded of another thing he must reprove.
“How fortunate your cousin is to have your judgment to assist her. Your sisters surely benefited from your taste, my lord,” Madame Clotilde said in an attractive French accent.
“My mother has always turned to me for advice.” Not to mention the wherewithal to finance that taste. “I shall leave for the nonce, and return to claim you later.”
Deciding she was vastly outnumbered, and that after all, she had chosen her cousin because he was the most elegant person at the Collison ball—not to mention in need of her help—Penelope gracefully gave way to the inevitable.
She watched his departure with envious eyes. He would spend his leisure at his club. She had an inkling her time would be less agreeable.
Hours later, after being poked and pinned, she smiled with grim determination and not a little relief as Lord Harford returned to the mantua-maker’s shop to reclaim her.
Jonathan had decided to give full measure. After all, he had won a considerable sum of money with her help. It was the least he could do for the little cousin from the country. He would offer his impeccable judgment regarding parasols and slippers, bonnets and reticules—for he well knew that little things could make all the difference in one’s impression on the ton.
When they at last returned to the house on Upper Brook Street, Penelope insisted Lord Harford join them for a cup of tea or a glass of something restorative, whatever his preference. The enormous number of parcels was whisked up to Penelope’s room while Mrs. Flint supervised a nice tea, with a bit of lovely sherry for his lordship on the side.
Once settled with the badly needed refreshment in the quiet of the deserted morning room on the ground floor, Penelope surveyed Lord Harford. Muffin wandered into the room, took a sniff of him, and promptly entwined herself about his legs, then jumped up on his lap to settle down.
“Well, really, Muffin,” Penelope said, again rather piqued at her pet.
“Muffin?” Jonathan inquired, relaxing now it seemed that Penny didn’t demand he produce an acceptable candidate for her hand this instant. He failed to understand her rush to marry. Why not enjoy London a bit?
“I thought ‘Marmalade’ too common.”
“I see,” he replied, although he wasn’t at all sure he did. Faintly annoyed that her cat had taken so quickly to a stranger, Penelope turned the limpid blue of her eyes upon her new cousin. “How much time do you think it will take? I should like to return to Fountains before too long. There is much to do there, and I would have this task
