Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
I t was the day of the ball, and Penelope couldn’t worry over it more. For the first time in ages, Penelope was without her animals, no loyal hound sticking close to her side. It took more effort than she thought, locking the dogs up in her bedroom with Clarissa on the inside with them, hopefully keeping the pack at bay. The last look she gave them all was bittersweet, feeling like she left behind a piece of her soul when the door was tightly shut.
In the carriage ride, Penelope wound her hands together on her lap. Her reddish locks were twisted at the top of her head, pinned with jade accessories so they couldn’t fall over her face. The dress Clarissa picked out for her fit was snuggly, cinching in at the waist and exposing more skin than she would’ve preferred.
Across from her, George was dressed in a neat suit, a tall hat sitting beside him. Ever since their last squabble, George regarded her silently, eyeing her skeptically, as if a dogwould pop out from beneath her dress to tackle him to the floor. Even now, he was grumbling quietly while picking thin cat hair pieces out of his coat.
Raising a gloved hand to her lips, Penelope fought the urge to laugh.
His head shot up when he heard her. “I don’t find this very funny.”
“I’m terribly sorry, your Grace,” she said, giggling slightly. “I suppose that would be my fault.”
“You suppose?”
“It’s just Butternut,” Penelope explained. “She might’ve gotten into your wardrobe.”
With an eye roll, George tried to smack the hair off his clothes. “I don’t think might is the right word.”
Penelope laughed again. “Haven’t you ever met a cat before?”
“What an odd question,” he muttered, shaking his head at her.
“Butternut likes you.”
George rolled his eyes again. “I doubt that.”
“She does,” Penelope argued. “Cats like the smell of their loved ones, just as much as any other living creature. It isn’t surprising that she sought you out in your clothes. I can only assume she tried to nest in them, probably slept a little by the looks of it.”
George shot her a glare. “Very funny. It isn’t nice to lie.”
Her eyebrows raised. “It isn’t a lie, your Grace.”
“That can’t be the real reason,” he said, shaking his head.
“Why can’t it be?” Penelope laughed. “You men are so ridiculous at times. And you have the nerve to complain about women!”
“Be serious.”
Penelope met his gaze, no longer laughing. She held his stare, ignoring how a heated blush threatened to pass over the bridge of her nose the more she watched him. “I am,” she whispered. “Why can’t you just be pleased?”
“Pleased at cat hair all over my clothes?”
She smiled sadly. “Pleased that a cat once so wildshe refused to let any human come near her chose you.”
George blinked, glancing down at the hairs he had gathered in the palm of his hand. He sighed irritably, giving up on picking them out as the carriage rolled to a stop. He breathed deeply, shooting a pointed stare across the carriage.
“Remember,” he said, “to play your part.”
Benedict House was a tall home within the center of the social atmosphere in London’s aristocratic society. All well-off men and women of the Ton found themselves in the luxurious Lady Tollock’s townhouse, one way or another. Penelope recalled her sister’s stories of the mischief that could occur within the illustrious halls as she stepped out of the carriage.
Rows of couples filed into the house, all of them chattering and dressed regally. George slipped Penelope’s hand within the crook of his elbow, securing her position beside him. Adrenaline fueled her every step, pushing her forward with a confidence she didn’t know she could have. Perhaps it was the feeling of the Duke beside her. Not out of power or a rise in station but out of their similarities.
To Penelope, the Duke was as much of an outcast as she was.
“We need to socialize,” George said under his breath as they passed the threshold.
Penelope swallowed, suddenly realizing how dry her throat was. “Right away?” she argued, shaking her head at him. “Why not be settled first?”
He shot her an impatient look. “There are more things important than your insecurities.”
Before she could front any more arguments, George steered them through the crowd, pushing their way past guests with his abnormally broad shoulders. Penelope glanced around, not recognizing anyone within the crowd. It wasn’t like she expected to, but a childish part of her craved some sort of familiarity. If only it were like her early years when her mother attended every ball at her side.
George slowed when they reached a drawing room. The Ton's men and women mingled around artwork and books, some brandishing fans while others sipped brandy.
“Ah,” George breathed, straightening his coat. He gave Penelope a side glance. “Round one.”
She gulped. Round one? “Gentlemen,” the Duke greeted as they came up upon them. “How are you faring on this fine evening?”
Two men, both dressed in suits and hats, turned their attention to the Duke, pausing in their conversation. The gentlemanly pair glanced at each other in a curious way, one that made Penelope’s eyes narrow in hesitation. She tugged on the Duke’s arm before they got close enough.
“Let us go to a different room,” she quickly said to him. “This one feels rather crowded.”
The Duke shot her a look before pulling her along, turning back to his charming self.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” the man on the left said, a curled mustache resting on his upper lip, “But you are the Duke of Yeats, aren’t you?”
“You caught me red-handed!” The Duke smiled widely, extending a hand towards him to shake. “How do you do?”
The man’s gaze flicked down to the Duke’s hand. As his lip twitched into a frown, he reached, and shook his hand. “Your Grace, might I present Lord Carnelian, Viscount of Tilbury.”
“Your Grace,” Lord Carnelian said, bowing his head rather quickly before the Duke could offer a handshake.
“And I,” the other gentleman held his hand to his chest, “Am Lord Twist, Earl of Wolverton.”
The Duke chuckled. “I appreciate the introductions. My recent time in the Americas has left me… somewhat uninformed about my good neighbors and peers.” Turning, he slippedhis arm around Penelope’s waist, bringing her closer to them. “Are you gentlemen familiar with my wife?”
Feeling the rush of heat swarm to her face, Penelope kept her gaze locked on the wall, giving them men a curtsey that slumped into an awkward step.
“Why, yes,” Lord Canelian said, his face lighting up in amusement, “The last Caney daughter, finally wed. How spectacular!” He paused, giving his companion an odd look again. “I’m sure Lord Caney is quite pleased.”
Penelope gave him a placid smile. “I’m sure he is.”
The Duke’s hand tightened on her side for a moment before pulling away, his lip twitching into a frown. “Gentlemen, if you have a moment or two to spare, I’d like to discuss something rather thrilling with you. You see, when I was -”
“You know, your Grace,” Lord Twist interjected eagerly, “We were talking the other day about your adventures in the New World. What sort of ruffians did you encounter?”
The Duke’s eyebrows shot up. “Ruffians, you say? Well, I wouldn’t call any of the fine folk I met ruffians.”
“Is it truly as scandalous as the merchants claim it to be?”
“Scandalous can be used to describe anywhere if you look hard enough,” the Duke replied in a snarky way, though the gentlemen were too preoccupied with their own thoughts and opinions to care much.
Lord Carnelian was nodding his head. “I knew of a Baron who went to the New World, seeking treasures beyond what any of us here in sorry old England could imagine.” He leaned forward to the Duke, waving his brandy in the air. “Can you guess what the Baron came back with, your Grace?”
“I couldn’t possibly.”
“Diseases and a bastard child!”
Both of the gentlemen laughed, the noise carrying on within the chatter all around them. Penelope gazed up at the Duke. He lost his patience rather quickly, his lips pressed together in a firm line. As the Lords quieted down, turning their attention back to the Duke, he raised his hand politely.
“The Duchess and I will continue our tour through Benedict House,” he said, the snarkiness gone from his charming coo. “Perhaps we can continue our discussion later?”
Lord Carnelian nodded eagerly. “We’ll need to hear those stories, your Grace!”
Tucking Penelope’s arm around his own, the Duke steered them out the other door of the drawing room, and back into the noisy halls.
“And that was only round one?” Penelope asked in their tense silence.
The Duke sighed. “If there is one thing I have never missed about London, it is the Ton, and their frivolously foolish society.”
Penelope found herself entranced, staring at the side of his face. He was certainly a hard thing to understand, but bits of it began to grow clearer by the second. The ball was proving one thing: the Duke used Penelope’s name as a cushion before trying to propose his stud farm ideas to an unsuspecting aristocrat.
They reentered another ballroom within Benedict House, this one with an ornate water feature in the center. Servants walked through crowds with trays of drinks, raising them high above the Ton’s heads as to not dare to spill a drop.
“Over here,” the Duke said under his breath. “Round two, darling. I hope you’re up to it.”
Penelope followed his gaze, forcing herself to swallow her anxiety when she noticed the group of handsome couples mingling, all around the same age as her. At any other occasion, it would be her worst nightmare, the exact group she’d do anything to avoid when attending society’s balls alongside her mother.
The Duke wasn’t slowing his pace as he approached them. “Good evening, all,” he greeted in a loud, booming voice.
Attention snapped towards him. A few looked aghast, as though they could really hear the tinge of an American accent on the edge of his voice. Others were merely intrigued, their faces tinted with disdain.
“Your Grace,” one of the men said, giving him a curt nod. “How is it to be back on solid ground? Yeats Manor still a gorgeous heaven in the summer?”
“The Manor is being refurbished during the season,” the Duke replied. “I haven’t had the chance to take my,” he tugged Penelope forward, “New wife for a visit yet.”
Eyes latched onto her.
“My, my,” a Lady said, one gloved hand against her rows of pearls, “If it isn’t Lady Caney!” She paused, and shook her hand. “Begging your pardon! It’s your Grace now, isn’t it?”
Penelope swallowed, the sound of the title foreign against her ears. “How do you do?”
“Your Grace,” a different Lord called out, “I heard a rumor that you had plans to conduct some new business now that you have returned.”
The Duke breathed in deeply, obviously eager to talk about his stud farm. “Well, I am glad that you mentioned it. I certainly do have new business ventures that London will be quite excited to see, if I do say so myself.”
The gentlemen shook his head, almost giving the Duke a look of pity. “Trade, your Grace? I would never want to disappoint the Duke of Yeats, but I can’t see too many artistocratic men sponsoring any business you might be seeking to conduct.”
“While I appreciate your concern, my plight goes further than sponsorships. If you’d allow me to -”
“Your Grace,” one of the women called out, “Tell us of the New World. How distasteful were they?”
The Duke frowned. “My Lady, I would not call an American distasteful in any scenario you present to me.”
“They aren’t the most civilized, your Grace. We’ve all heard the stories.”
“If you make it a habit to call hard-working men and women uncivilized,” the Duke said with a growing edge to his words, “Then be my guest.”
“You see, your Grace,” the gentleman from before piped up as the woman gaped, “What sort of Englishman would hold himself in the way you do now?” Stepping closer to lower his voice, as if he had any eagerness to shield the Duke’s reputation, the Lord said, “Do you even consider yourself to be English anymore?”
Their talk continued on without much more of the Duke’s involvement. Instead, he listened to them make more comments about the New World and its inhabitants, earning a few laughs here and there. Penelope tried her best not to stare at the Duke, though her empathy reachedout to him in a way she never would have imagined. It seemed as though the Ton had already spent their time making up their minds about the Duke before he had even arrived back on English soil.
An older gentlemen who stood off to the side, listening closely, stepped closer to their encircled group. “Your Grace,” he said, voice rugged and scratchy, “Your late father was a great Englishman, one who I had often visited and conducted business with. When he reached the last years of his life, he told me of your return, and I’ll tell you what I told him.”
The Duke faced him, his eyebrows furrowed together. “What was it?”
“Americans have no business holding titles in England.”
There was the slightest change in the atmosphere within their circle. The Lords and Ladys turned their attention eagerly to the Duke, not bothering to hide their curiosity in what might be said next. Penelope glanced around at them all, her patience growing thinner by the moment.The Duke was growing red in the face, obviously moments away from causing a scene—a scene that would break her bargain with him if she allowed it to continue.
Penelope stepped forward. “My Lord,” she said to the older gentleman, “George Houston is as much of an Englishman as you are.”
She heard someone gasp to her left.
The older gentleman eyed her, keeping his air respectful. “I’m sure you know that your husband spent roughly a decade in the New World.”
“Well, yes, my Lord. Not half his life. Not raised, not born. Tell me what makes an Englishman an Englishman, and you’ll see that all you described was George Houston,” Penelope finished, bowing her head to the Lord. “Might we continue on, your Grace?”
The Duke was staring down at her with wide eyes, the corner of his lip slightly perked up. “How about a dance?”
Before Penelope could argue, he kept his grasp tight on her arm, and lead her into the ballroom, where the orchestra began to play. Pairs already glided across the floor, and the Duke easily slipped in alongside them, moving his arm to take a hold of her waist.
Penelope tried to remember her dance lessons while ignoring the butterflies that danced within her stomach at the feeling of the Duke’s hand resting on her hip. She hadn’t danced in years, but if she could stay atop Fiona in a playful mood, she could keep up with her husband perfectly well.
“Your Grace,” she said. “Might I ask you something?”
He glanced down as they spun. “Anything, after what you said back there.”
“Oh, well,” Penelope’s voice drifted, embarrassment threatening to take over before she shook her head, remembering her point. “I have yet to understand why you need the Ton’s involvement in your plans to open a stud farm. Is it…do you need an…endorsement?”
The Duke smirked. “Ask what you mean, darling. You want to know if I need money, right?”
“Yes,” she mumbled.
He laughed lightly. “My plans aren’t as simple as opening a stud farm. I have brought a breed of horses native to the New World to England, and I plan on breeding with them.”
Penelope was unable to hold back her curiosity. “A new breed? How thrilling! Do you have any of them at the townhouse?”
The Duke shot her a stern stare. “Do not treat my steeds like your own mare.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Anyways,” he continued, giving her a hesitant look, “What I really need is a man already in with the races to sell my horses. I’d never regret the time I spent in the Americas, but…but it did dampen any sort of business relationships I might’ve had access to if I stayed in London.” He shrugged. “Nevertheless, we push on. That is my plight.”
Penelope felt her embarrassment fade away as she grew excited. “Only that?”
“Don’t patronize me. I know it might sound silly, but -”
“Heavens, no, it isn’t silly!” Penelope grinned as she looked up at him. “My mare, Fiona, is a retired racehorse. I got her from a caretaker at one of London’s tracks. I used to visit quite often so that he might check up on his old favorite.”
The Duke’s eyes narrowed.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Penelope eagerly asked. “You do have an in.” Sheepishly, she raised her shoulders, pulling her gaze away from him. “Well… you have me.”
He was incredibly silent for longer than she expected him to be. Timidly, Penelope raised her head, and watched his smile grew from ear to ear. Suddenly, without any warning, the Duke placed either hand on her hips, holding tight and lifting her in the air, spinning her around while the music carried on all around them.
As the air left her chest, Penelope gripped onto his shoulders, feeling the wind whip through her hair and ruffle her chest. She laughed as she spun, the world becoming a mesh of colors. When he lowered her, returning to the position to continue dancing, moving with grander strides, Penelope found herself unable to take the smile off her face, too.
“Darling,” the Duke finally said, “I believe we’ve got work to do.”