Chapter 3
“Icannot fathom why you insist upon attending when you so clearly wish to be anywhere else.”
Penelope glanced up from her needlework to find her mother observing her from across the drawing room, one elegant brow arched in mild exasperation.
The afternoon light streaming through the windows caught the silver threading through Mrs. Hartwell’s dark hair, and Penelope felt a familiar pang of affection mixed with frustration.
“Caroline invited me,” she replied, her needle piercing the linen with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. “It would be terribly rude to refuse.”
“Caroline invites you to dine every fortnight. You do not typically regard it as some Herculean trial.” Her mother set aside her own embroidery, fixing Penelope with that disconcerting maternal gaze that seemed capable of extracting confessions even from stone. “What has changed?”
That frustrating man has changed Penelope thought darkly. Though she could not say it with certainty, she was certain that he saw her as some plaything.
“Nothing has changed,” she said aloud, keeping her attention firmly on the rose she was attempting to stitch. The petals were coming out rather lopsided, but she refused to acknowledge it. “I am merely fatigued from last evening’s ball.”
It was not entirely untrue. The Bancroft ball had been exhausting in ways that had nothing to do with dancing. She could still feel the weight of his eyes following her across the ballroom, could still hear that infuriating drawl as he’d—
She stabbed her finger with the needle.
“Botheration,” she muttered, pressing her thumb against the small bead of blood welling on her fingertip.
Mrs. Hartwell rose with a rustle of skirts, retrieving her handkerchief and crossing to her daughter. “Here. And do stop massacring that poor fabric.”
Penelope accepted the handkerchief with a sigh of defeat, watching as her mother examined the mangled embroidery with thinly veiled dismay.
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Hartwell suggested delicately, “you might consider retiring early this evening. Caroline will understand if you are unwell.”
The temptation was nearly overwhelming. To plead a headache, to remain safely ensconced in her own chambers, far from her sister’s dining room and the inevitable presence of—
No.
Penelope straightened her shoulders, that stubborn pride her father often lamented rising to the fore. She would not be driven from her own sister’s table by a rake who’d done nothing more offensive than tease her. She was being ridiculous. Worse, she was being a coward.
“I am perfectly well, Mama,” she said firmly, setting aside the ruined needlework. “Merely distracted. It shall pass.”
Her mother’s expression suggested she remained unconvinced, but she returned to her seat without further comment. They passed the remainder of the afternoon in companionable silence, though Penelope’s thoughts refused to settle.
It was only as her maid was dressing her for dinner—a becoming gown of pale blue silk that Penelope had not consciously selected but somehow found herself wearing—that she allowed herself to acknowledge the truth lurking beneath her unease.
She did not wish to see the Duke of Blackmere because the wretched man unsettled her in ways she could neither explain nor control.
And that, more than anything, was utterly intolerable.
Still, she knew she had little choice and far too soon the day was drawing to a close and she had to find her way to her sister’s home, a heart full of doubts about her choice to attend after all.
Caroline’s townhouse glowed with welcoming warmth as Penelope’s carriage drew to a halt before the elegant facade.
Her brother-in-law maintained excellent taste in all things—a fact Caroline never tired of mentioning.
The windows blazed with candlelight, and Penelope could hear the murmur of conversation even before the footman handed her down.
Her eldest sister appeared in the entrance hall almost immediately, her face alight with pleasure.
“Penelope! How wonderful. I was beginning to fear you might cry off.” Caroline embraced her warmly, then drew back to examine her with the sort of critical eye only an older sister could manage. “You look rather pale. Are you quite well?”
“Entirely well,” Penelope assured her, removing her pelisse and handing it to the waiting servant.
“Merely tired from last evening’s festivities.”
“Ah, yes. Hyacinth mentioned the Bancroft ball was quite the crush.” Caroline linked their arms, guiding her toward the drawing room.
“She seemed most animated about something involving you and the Duke of Blackmere near the refreshment table. I confess, I did not entirely follow her account—you know how excitable she becomes—but she seemed to think it terribly significant.”
Penelope shifted uneasily. “There was nothing significant about it. His Grace merely indulged in his customary attempts to provoke me.”
“Customary?” Caroline’s eyes gleamed with interest. “How often does he—”
“Caroline, please.” Penelope kept her voice low as they approached the drawing room. “I have no wish to discuss the Duke’s tedious behavior. Is everyone already assembled?”
Her sister’s expression shifted into a knowing look, but she mercifully allowed the subject to drop. “Nearly everyone. William’s… friend arrived early, as he often does. I believe they are discussing some business matter or other.”
The casual mention of William’s rakish friend sent an unwelcome jolt through Penelope’s chest. She had known, of course. Had steeled herself for this exact moment. Yet somehow her body seemed determined to betray her composure.
They entered the drawing room, and Penelope’s gaze found him immediately.
The Duke stood near the fireplace, one shoulder propped against the mantelpiece.
He wore evening dress with his usual careless perfection—dark coat fitted precisely across his broad shoulders, cravat arranged with just enough disorder to appear rakish rather than unkempt.
Candlelight caught in his dark hair, and his eyes that had haunted her thoughts all day were fixed upon William, who gestured animatedly while making some point.
Except the Duke was not truly listening.
Penelope could see it in the tension bracketing his mouth, the faint line between his brows, the way his fingers drummed against his wine glass in an irregular pattern. He looked... wrong. Like a violin string wound too tightly, vibrating with an energy that had nowhere to go.
As though sensing her scrutiny, his gaze lifted.
Their eyes met across the drawing room, and Penelope felt the impact of it like a physical thing—a sudden breathlessness, a flutter beneath her ribs that she refused to name.
She waited for the familiar glint of amusement, the half-smile that always preceded some outrageous comment designed to make her blush.
It did not come.
Instead, the Duke’s expression remained curiously blank, his gaze sliding away from hers so quickly she might have imagined the connection entirely. He turned back to William, murmuring something that made her brother-in-law laugh, but the sound felt hollow in her ears.
“Penelope?”
She startled, realizing Caroline had been speaking.
“Forgive me. I was wool-gathering.”
“So I observed.” Her sister’s tone carried a note of amusement. “I was saying that dinner shall be served momentarily. Shall I introduce you to Lady Hammond? She has been quite eager to make your acquaintance.”
Penelope allowed herself to be drawn into conversation with the other guests, smiling and nodding at appropriate intervals whilst her attention remained treacherously divided.
She could not stop herself from watching him—noting the way he avoided meeting her eyes even when circumstance brought them into proximity, the manner in which he positioned himself at the far end of the room whenever she drew near.
It was... unsettling.
This was what she had wanted, was it not? For him to cease his teasing, to leave her in peace, to treat her with the same polite indifference he showed every other unmarried lady of the ton.
So why did his sudden distance bother her?
The thought was absurd. She had no claim upon the Duke’s attention, no right to feel slighted by its absence. And yet the peculiar ache beneath her breastbone suggested otherwise.
When dinner was announced, Penelope found herself seated between a pleasant but rather tedious baronet and Caroline’s dear friend, Mrs. Russell. The Duke had been placed at the far end of the table—a deliberate arrangement, she suspected, given Caroline’s pointed glances throughout the meal.
He barely spoke.
This in itself was remarkable. The Duke of Blackmere was legendary for his wit, his ability to dominate any conversation with charm and clever repartee. Yet tonight he sat in near silence, responding to questions with monosyllabic courtesy whilst his food remained largely untouched.
No one else seemed to notice. William regaled the table with an amusing anecdote about Parliament, Lady Hammond flirted outrageously with the gentleman on her left, and the conversation flowed around the Duke’s unusual quietness like water around stone.
But Penelope noticed.
She watched the way his jaw tightened when Mrs. Russell asked after his recent travels.
Observed how his fingers gripped his wine glass with unnecessary force when Lady Hammond made some coy remark about his reputation.
Noted the shadows beneath his eyes that suggested sleep had been as elusive for him as it had been for her.
Something was wrong.
She could feel the certainty of it in her chest, heavy and insistent. Whatever distance he had placed between them, whatever had changed since last evening’s ball—it was not deliberate cruelty or calculated indifference.
He was troubled.
And despite every rational argument to the contrary, despite the voice in her head insisting she should remain uninvolved, Penelope found she could not simply ignore it.