“My dear,” the older lady’s calculating voice whispered in a most confidential manner, “I was thinking you really ought not to wait with announcing your betrothal to dear Ernest. He is utterly beside himself with anxiety over the delay.”
Penelope glanced to where Ernest reclined at the side of the room, looking like a bizarre pumpkin. If anything had upset him recently, it was more likely to be the tardiness of his dinner.
“Dear aunt, I was unaware that there was to be a betrothal, at least between the two of us. Listen carefully to my words, ma’am. I have no desire to marry your son.”
It was likely that Ernest could easily be persuaded to frequent the environs of London, or even the Continent, now that the tables of France were once again available to him. She doubted he was interested in her, or in sharing her life or bed, for that matter. But she could not contemplate being his wife. Not even in name. She hadn’t thought she would have such scruples, but there it was. She wanted something more. The image of Lord Harford as he had queried her about her attitude toward marriage came to mind. She refrained from a sigh.
“Nonsense, my girl. Such missishness is not to be tolerated. Why, marriage to the Earl of Everton is a plum to be desired.” She shook her finger beneath Penelope’s nose.
Penelope longed to inquire why Aunt Winthrop hadn’t sought the hand of a willing young girl for her son. However, she strongly suspected why the union was so desired; Ernest had gone through too much money and his dear mama worried there would not be sufficient to keep him in the style she wished him to adopt. Aunt clearly wanted the entire estate under one control again. Penelope had heard a rumor or two that the family, the Winthrop branch, that is, was furious that the previous Earl of Everton had divided his estate the way he had, bequeathing all the unentailed money and Fountains to Penelope. Apparently they expected her to be endowed with a decent portion, and nothing more, if that. What a pity Aunt Winthrop had not sought out Penelope’s
solicitor. So much of this bother could be done away with. Or could it? Was there a way that Aunt could compel a marriage? Penelope tried to think, furrowing her brow as she continued to ease along the side of the room in Lady Harford’s direction.
“Ah, Penny, I believe this is my dance.”
“How true, Cousin,” Penelope gushed in relief, even though she knew very well that Lord Harford had not sought her earlier to request a dance with her.
Aunt Harford sputtered indignantly at the sound of the pet name conferred on her niece by Lord Harford. ‘Unseemly! In my day . . .”
No more could be heard as Lord Harford led Penelope out on the floor, then partnered her in a gay cotillion. Nothing could be discussed during the dance, for it was an energetic one. When it concluded, she gratefully walked with him to where the refreshments were to be found.
“Lemonade, please,” she replied in answer to his questioning nod at the tables.
“You exchanged words with your aunt before I rescued you from her grasp?” He handed her a glass of surprisingly cool lemonade, then strolled along the room with her on his arm, trying to appear they discussed nothing more than the weather.
“She is most insistent that I wed the toad.” Because of the proximity of other people, Penelope declined to avoid using his name.
“Money problems? I can see no other reason why she would consider allowing another to get close to her darling.”
“I suspect she wants to control the estate as it once was.”
“Ah.” They walked a bit; then he said, “You cannot bear the thought?”
“Odd, is it not? I thought I might be able to marry just anyone, but I find I must draw the line somewhere before him.”
“You might find someone else before she can force the issue."
“But who? Since you will not be so obliging . .
“Dear girl, when and if I wed, I shall do my own proposing.”
Penelope thought he sounded exceedingly huffy and said so. “You make me sound the veriest hoyden, and I have not precisely asked you to wed. I merely said it was an excellent solution.”
“You ought to marry for love, not convenience.”
“There are reasons for eluding the bonds of passion, my lord. ‘Tis greater than mere virtuousness. Passion bursts into flames and burns brightly for the moment, then dims to become the ashes of love. While I admit to desires, I have no wish to be left with naught but ashes. They are but cold comfort indeed. Better not to love at all.”
“You admit to desires?” he said with the faintest of voices, one Penelope strained to hear.
“I suppose I ought not. I fancy it is not proper in the least.” She recalled those most improper kisses. “You see, I’ve not discussed that subject with either Miss Nilsson or Henri.”
At this, Jonathan stopped to stare down at the young woman at his side, clearing his throat.
“Well, and I would never mention it to anyone else, my lord.”
“I wish you could call me Jonathan, Penny.”
“That has nothing to do with the matter at hand.” She gave him a teasing look, dropping her lashes once, then raising them, so her large blue eyes met his gaze. “I wondered if Lord Stephen might do.”
“Stephen?” Jonathan recalled their discussion in the park, when Stephen wagered he could marry Penelope if he so wished. With a flippant attitude such as that, Stephen could easily promise to keep her stipulations, then break them for a lark. He was capable of taking her to bed, only to dash off to
