* * * *
The following afternoon Penelope surveyed the misty rain with a sense of unease. She had heard nothing from Lord Harford, although why she ought to, she didn’t know. If he was truly affianced, he would be obliged to dance attendance on his betrothed.
She wondered more than a little about this sudden and secret betrothal. He struck her as the sort of man who would be decisive, unwilling to wait when he wanted something. If he had found his true love, would he not have sought out her parents first, to ascertain that his addresses would be welcome—and who would deny a handsome, titled man such as he—before seeking her hand? She found this all greatly puzzling.
And it angered her as well. His protestations had seemed so real, so honest. She had felt betrayed when Lady Charis revealed the secret betrothal. Although that young miss had better learn to mind her tongue. Nothing irritated Penelope more than a gossipmonger. The ton might thrive on title-tattle, but Penelope felt it did an enormous amount of harm.
A tap on her door brought the maid with a message that Lord Harford awaited her pleasure in the drawing room.
Astonished that this seldom-seen room had been pressed into use, Penelope checked her appearance in the looking glass before leaving the sanctuary of her bedroom. More than ever she felt the need for armor of a sort.
She paused in the doorway, noting that he was pacing back and forth before the empty fireplace. The room was chilly, even on a spring day, for it faced the rear of the house and not a speck of sun had entered to warm it. She shivered, but whether from the chill or the indignation she sensed emanated from Lord Harford, she wasn’t certain.
“Good day, sir.” She spoke softly, almost hesitantly. Would he comment on her orders? She discovered immediately, as he whirled about to confront her.
“Aha! You! I could not believe my eyes this morning at the missive from my man of business. That a woman should pay me . . . for what? Offering a bit of advice? I cannot tell you how angry I am.” He slowly walked toward her, an air of menace about him.
“I always pay my way, sir.” She clenched her hands behind her, advancing into the room with an intrepid step, her chin tilted up in a show of defiance. “But I did not pay for your advice. I merely paid a few bills at Madame Clotilde’s. True, I anticipated expenses involved with the ball. You would not deny me the pleasure of contributing to what is to be, after all, my ball as well as your sister’s? How heartless, sir.”
She came to a halt before him, nose to nose, as it were. His eyes, black as Whitby jet, seemed to shoot sparks of fire at her. Refusing to turn tail, she stood her ground and continued.
“I do not cavil at your taste in selecting appropriate gowns for my come-out, for you know Society better than Mr. Brummell. I do oppose any payment of expenses when I am quite able to care for my own debts.”
He took a step closer. “You were not supposed to know about that.”
She held firm. Tilting her chin up even further, her voice shaking in anger, she snapped back at him, “Just like I was not to know about your betrothal?”
Chapter 6
"My what?” he roared at her, clearly astounded. Those black eyes still snapped with sparks, but of amazement.
“I was informed by a very reliable source that a young lady claims the distinction of being your future wife,” Penelope said in a relatively quiet tone, considering how hurt and angry she was. “I realize I have no right whatsoever to be privy to your decision to wed, but after your recent remarks, I thought you might have given me a clue.”
“Preposterous!” He clasped her arms, staring down into her eyes with a frustrated, bewildered expression that Penelope would have sworn was real. “I do not know what you are talking about, dear cousin.”
Penelope did not care for the sarcastic inflection in his last two words, and she tried to ignore the pressure on her arms, certain that she would end up with nasty bruises.
“I insist upon knowing the perpetrator of this taradiddle. Who told you this utter nonsense?” He gave her a shake that sent her newly short blond curls to dip over her forehead in a most beguiling fashion.
A peculiar feeling of light-headedness overcame Penelope and she attributed it to being clutched in such an abominable manner. “Your sister—after being sworn to silence by the young lady in question, I might add.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” he murmured, clearly disgusted with the news.
“I beg your pardon!” Penelope cried with deep affront. He shook his head, then gave her a rueful look. “Please accept my assurances that I have no intention of being wedded to any young woman now or in the near future. I have not the faintest idea who this young woman might be.”
Had she been told by someone else of this situation, Penelope might have questioned the legitimacy of his defense. Face-to-face, as they most assuredly were, it was quite another matter. “Oddly enough, I believe you."
His hands slid down her arms in what Penelope considered a rather caressing motion, one that brought the most peculiar sensations to her entire being.
“Thank you for that, at least,” he murmured. “I wonder how many others have been the recipient of these girlish confidences.
Remarkably perceptive, Penelope, in her usual sensible custom, inquired, “Is she trying to entrap you into marriage by claiming a betrothal that does not exist, in hopes you will be forced to marry her? What an odious thing to do. Particularly if you have not the least desire to wed her.”
“I had best find my sister and extract what I
