His elegance made Penelope feel rather dull in her proper round gown with its demure lace frill at the neck and sleeves she once thought pretty, with blue ribands gathering the fullness in at several places.
What a pity he was so tempting. The trouble with resisting temptation, she decided, was that it might never come again, hence her warm greeting and melting smile.
Jonathan studied Penelope, not trusting that beguiling smile in the least. He had learned she frequently had surprising tricks up her sleeve.
“I would have a word with you, Penny."
She frowned at his repressive tone of voice, then decided she had best see to it that he was repaid for his efforts on her behalf. “Yes?”
Rather than meet that entrancing gaze, far too direct for a lady, he looked elsewhere and began to slowly pace back and forth before the fireplace.
Penelope wondered what it was about fireplaces that made men want to walk back and forth before them. First, Mr. Oglethorpe; now, Lord Harford.
“About your dress of last evening. What made you lower the neckline?"
Surprised at this topic, she bristled. “I explained to you that I need to find a husband, my lord. Why you thought I might attract a gentleman to my side while looking like a
strayed Quaker is more than I can see. All I did was take
a tuck here and there.”
“By the time you finished, there was scarce a scrap left to the bodice. You displayed an excessive amount of your charms.” He glanced at her, taking note that while her gown had a neck trimmed with a pretty frill, the fabric clung to her superb figure with wicked faithfulness. She disturbed him greatly, and he suspected he would be beating off her suitors with a stick before long. He found the thought positively depressing.
“I fail to see why it bothers you,” she pointed out in what she felt to be justifiable righteousness.
That was the problem. There was no real reason for him to feel like an outraged father over the low cut of her gown. She stood correct in her assessment. Still, he could not like the attention she had drawn last night, nor could he banish from his mind the sight of that exquisite décolletage. Already one chap had sought permission to court her, and he had denied it with great pleasure.
“Ah . . . I shall be required—as your closest male relative—to handle the requests for your hand. It would keep the wrong sort of man away if you gave a more proper impression.”
“You aren’t, you know.” At his startled glance, she continued, “My closest male relative. That is Ernest, Lord Everton. However, I fancy you will deal with the matter better than he would, once the gentlemen know that the maternal side of the family has charge.” She took a step closer, studying him with an expression he found most disconcerting when his eyes tangled with that straightforward gaze of hers.
Penelope took the initiative away from him by turning to the subject on her mind. “You have yet to tell me what sum you lost. I would know, so as to help as I promised.”
Angered by her disquieting effect on him, and frustrated by this peculiar craving he had to pull her into his arms, to know again the touch of that delectable mouth, he rushed into speech. “It is none of your affair, dear cousin.”
Penelope took another step closer, flirting with the desires that teased her, desires she didn’t understand in the least. “Oh, but it is. And I intend to do what I can to see that you are solvent. As my cousin, and benefactor of sorts, it is the very least I can do.” Then, observing he looked rather red in the face, she again changed the subject. “You will go with us to the ball this evening? And the presentation?”
‘Yes, to both,” he replied. He took a step toward her, nearly touching her as she stared at him, her head tilted in a fetching way, those clear blue eyes seeming to see straight through him. A feeling that he had dropped into a well from which he couldn’t get out overcame him. “I will see you later, then.”
He suddenly backed away and hurried toward the door, as though fleeing for his life. The delighted laughter that followed after him was not pleasing in the least to one who had considered himself impervious to an assault on his emotions.
* * * *
That evening Penelope joined Lady Harford and Lady Charis with a lighter heart. She couldn’t have said why, precisely, unless it was the hunch she had that she had bested her elegant cousin. First he had sought to rebuke her for conforming to the fashion of the day, then had insisted she need not repay him. Why, she had always paid her way.
“There he is,” Lady Harford exclaimed as her son wended his way through the crush of people to reach their side.
Penelope turned about to see that Lord Harford indeed approached. Her hand flew up to touch her chest at the alarming flutter within. Why must she always react so to his presence? But then, her hand concealed another modified neckline and she supposed she dreaded his scold.
The four stood conversing a short while before Jonathan reached out to take Penelope by the arm. Excusing them from her mother, he guided her to an alcove not far away.
She gave him her most obstinate look.
“You might very well look like that,” he declared, acting as though he would drop a sack over her head at the first opportunity.
“Wait until you see my presentation gown.”
“I have, and it is most unexceptionable.”
“I know.” She sighed. “Dreary is what it is. I fancied you would approve of it. I shall not touch that neckline, however.” She gave him a saucy look; then her expression altered as she noted that Miss Dunston stared at them from a nearby chair.
“What is it?”
“Miss Dunston,” Penelope whispered. “She stares with curious eyes. What do
