Chapter 5 #2
“This is preposterous,” her father said at length. “Absolutely preposterous. Unknown women leaving babies on doorsteps, midnight visits, marriage proposals—what manner of Gothic novel have we stumbled into?”
“I understand your skepticism, sir.” Alastair shifted his weight . “Nevertheless, the facts remain unchanged. Your daughter’s reputation has been compromised. Mine, whilst already somewhat tarnished, will not improve matters. The only way to contain this scandal is through immediate marriage.”
“No.”
The word left her lips even before she’d properly decided to speak. Three pairs of eyes turned toward her with varying degrees of surprise.
“No?” her father echoed.
“I cannot—” She stopped, tried again. “Your Grace, I appreciate the gesture, but I cannot allow you to sacrifice yourself for a situation that was as much my fault as yours. I chose to come to your residence. I made that decision knowing it was improper. You should not be forced into marriage because of my poor judgment.”
Alastair lifted a brow and the corner of his mouth turned slightly upward.
“Miss Hartwell, with all due respect, you are not forcing me into anything. I am making you an offer because it is the right thing to do. Because your reputation has been destroyed on my account, and I will not stand by and watch you become a social pariah for trying to help a child who needs protection.”
“But you don’t want to marry me.” The truth of it burned her throat. “You don’t want to marry anyone. The entire Ton speaks about your questionable decisions. Marriage is the last thing you desire.”
He closed his eyes with a sigh. “What I want is irrelevant. What matters is ensuring that you and the child are protected. Marriage accomplishes both objectives.”
“How wonderfully pragmatic,” her father muttered.
“Indeed, sir. I am proposing a practical solution to a difficult situation. Miss Hartwell’s reputation can be saved if we marry quickly and present a united front.
The child will have the protection of my name and title.
Your daughter will become a duchess instead of a social outcast. These are not small considerations. ”
Penelope stared at him, this man she barely knew, this notorious rake who somehow found
himself offering marriage like a business transaction. Everything in her rebelled against the idea—the sheer wrongness of being forced into matrimony, the knowledge that he was sacrificing his precious freedom, the terrible certainty that they would both end up miserable.
But then she thought of the baby. That tiny, helpless creature whose mother had trusted them both. The child who would be sent to an orphanage if she refused this offer, condemned to a life of poverty and neglect because Penelope had put her own feelings above its welfare.
“What baby?” her mother asked suddenly, her voice cutting through Penelope’s spiraling thoughts. “Whose baby? Where did it come from?”
“We don’t know, Mama.” Penelope forced herself to meet her mother’s eyes. “The mother left a letter saying she trusted us to care for her child. That’s all. We don’t know who she is or why she chose us.”
“But it’s not your baby.” Her mother’s gaze moved between Penelope and Alastair with uncomfortable intensity. “You are not using my daughter to…”
“No, Mrs Hartwell.” Alastair’s voice remained perfectly steady.
“I am not using your daughter, and the child is not mine. We are simply two people who have been unexpectedly entrusted with an infant’s welfare, and who now find ourselves facing the consequences of trying to handle that situation with insufficient discretion. ”
Her father made a sound that might have been a laugh or possibly the beginning of an apoplexy.
“This is madness. Complete madness. Unknown babies, scandal sheets, marriage proposals—I cannot even begin to—”
“Robert.” Her mother’s voice cut through his rising agitation. “What would you have them do?”
“I would have—” He stopped. Drew a breath. “I would have my daughter not visit rakehells at midnight, for a start. But since that horse has apparently bolted, I suppose we must deal with reality rather than preference.”
He turned to Alastair with an expression of such profound displeasure that Penelope wanted to sink through the floor.
“If you marry my daughter,” her father said slowly, “you will treat her with respect and kindness. You will not continue your previous habits with opera dancers and widows of questionable virtue. You will be a proper husband in every sense that matters, regardless of whatever private arrangements you may make between yourselves. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
“Abundantly, sir.”
“Good.” Her father’s jaw worked as though he were physically restraining further comments.
“Penelope. What do you want?”
It was a difficult question, one far more than she had expected.
What did she want? She wanted to wake up yesterday morning, before any of this had begun.
She wanted Marianne to appear and explain everything.
She wanted the baby to have a loving family and a secure future and parents who actually chose each other.
She wanted not to feel like she was standing at the edge of a cliff, about to step off into darkness.
But wanting and having were two entirely different things.
“I want to do what’s right for the child,” she said quietly. “That matters more than my personal preferences.”
Her mother moved to sit beside her, taking Penelope’s cold hands in her own warm ones.
“Dearest. This is a decision that will affect the rest of your life. You need to be certain.”
“I am certain.” The lie tasted bitter. “I am certain that refusing would condemn an innocent baby to a terrible fate. I am certain that my reputation is already destroyed, and marriage to the Duke is the only way to salvage anything. I am certain that I have very few choices, and this is the least terrible option available.”
“What a glowing endorsement,” Alastair murmured, so quietly she almost missed it.
Her mother squeezed her hands gently. “And you, Your Grace? You are truly prepared to marry my daughter? To take on responsibility for both her and this mysterious child?”
Alastair’s gaze found Penelope’s across the room. For a moment, something passed between them—an acknowledgment of the absurdity, she thought. He saw it too.
“I promise you, Mrs Hartwell, that I will do everything in my power to ensure your daughter is protected and provided for. She will have my name, my title, my fortune. She will want for nothing.”
“Except love,” her father muttered.
“Except that.” Alastair’s voice remained steady, but Penelope caught the faintest edge beneath it.
“I make no promises regarding sentiment or affection. This will be a marriage of convenience, nothing more. But Miss Hartwell will be treated with respect and kindness, as your husband requested. She will never have cause to regret accepting my offer on those grounds.”
A marriage of convenience. Nothing more.
The words should have brought relief—at least he wasn’t pretending this was anything other than a practical arrangement. At least they both understood what they were entering into.
Instead, for some reason, it hurt.
“Then it’s decided.” Her mother’s voice had taken on that brisk, practical tone she employed when organizing household matters or planning dinner parties. “We shall need to move quickly. The special licence, the arrangements—how soon can the wedding take place?”
“Three days,” Alastair said. “Four at most. I have friends who can expedite the process.”
Three days. Four at most. In less than a week, she would be married to London’s most notorious rake, guardian to a baby whose mother she couldn’t identify, and thrust into a life she had never imagined for herself.
The room felt suddenly too small, too warm. Penelope stood abruptly, needing space, needing air, needing anything other than her mother’s concerned expression and her father’s suppressed fury and Alastair’s blank face.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she managed, “I need to—I should—”
She fled before anyone could respond, practically running from the morning room and up the stairs to her bedchamber. Once inside, she locked the door and pressed her back against it, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
This was happening. This was truly happening.
In three days, she would become the Duchess of Blackmere and her entire life would change irrevocably.
In three days—
A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts. “Miss?” Annie’s voice filtered through the door.
“Are you all right?”
No. She was very far from all right.
“I’m fine,” she called back, the lie automatic. “I just need a moment.”
But moments wouldn’t help. Hours wouldn’t help. Nothing would help except perhaps divine intervention, neither of which seemed particularly forthcoming.
Penelope crossed to her window, staring out at the London street below. Life continued as normal out there—carriages passing, pedestrians walking, the world spinning on as though nothing had changed.
But everything had changed. Everything.
Penelope pressed her forehead against the cool glass, trying to steady her breathing, trying to find some measure of calm in the chaos consuming her thoughts.
Below her window, a familiar figure emerged from her family’s townhouse—tall, dark-haired, moving with the casual confidence of a man who had just sealed a bargain.
The Duke of Blackmere. Her future husband.
Penelope watched him climb into his carriage and disappear into the London traffic, taking with him any possibility of the quiet, simple life she had once imagined for herself.
And in its place? An uncertain future bound to a man who had promised her everything except the one thing she suddenly, desperately realized she wanted.
The truth was, she didn’t even know what that was yet.
But she had three days to figure it out.