A Rogue by Any Other Name (3 page)

“Anything.” Bourne stood and carefully straightened his coat. “If a wife comes with it, so be it.”

The door slammed shut after him.

Chase toasted the sound and spoke to the empty room. “Felicitations.”

Chapter Two

Dear M—

You absolutely must come home. It’s dreadfully boring without you; neither Victoria nor Valerie makes for a sound lakeside companion.

Are you very sure that you must attend school? My governess seems fairly intelligent. I’m sure she can teach you anything you need know.

Yrs—P

Needham Manor, September 1813

* * *

Dear P—

I’m afraid you’re in for dreadful boredom until Christmas. If it is any consolation, I don’t even have access to a lake. May I suggest teaching the twins to fish?

I’m sure I must attend school . . . your governess is not fond of me.

—M

Eton College, September 1813

Late January 1831

Surrey

Lady Penelope Marbury, being highborn and well-bred, knew that she should be very grateful indeed when, on a frigid January afternoon well into her twenty-eighth year, she received her fifth (and likely final) proposal of marriage.

She knew that half of London would think her not entirely out of bounds if she were to join The Honorable Mr. Thomas Alles on one knee and thank him and her maker for the very kind and exceedingly generous offer. After all, the gentleman in question was handsome, friendly, and had all his teeth and a full head of hair—a rare combination of traits for a not-so-young woman with a broken engagement and only a handful of suitors in her past.

She also knew that her father, who had no doubt blessed the match at some point prior to this moment—as she stared down at the top of Thomas’s well-appointed head—liked him. The Marquess of Needham and Dolby had liked “That Tommy Alles” since the day, twenty-some-odd years ago, when the boy had rolled up his sleeves, hunkered down in the stables of her childhood home, and assisted in the whelping of one of the marquess’s favorite hunting dogs.

From that day on, Tommy was a good lad.

The kind of lad that Penelope had always thought her father would have liked for his own son. If, of course, he’d had a son, instead of five daughters.

And then there was the fact that Tommy would someday be a viscount—a wealthy one, at that. As Penelope’s mother was no doubt saying from her place beyond the drawing-room door, where she was no doubt watching the scene unfold in quiet desperation:

Beggars cannot be choosers, Penelope.

Penelope knew all this.

Which was why, when she met the warm brown gaze of this boy-turned-man she’d known all her life, this dear friend, she realized that this was absolutely the most generous offer of marriage she would ever receive, and she should say yes. Resoundingly.

Except she didn’t.

Instead, she said, “Why?”

The silence that followed the words was punctuated by a dramatic “What does she think she is
doing
?” from beyond the drawing-room door, and Tommy’s gaze filled with amusement and not a little bit of surprise as he came to his feet.

“Why not?” he replied, companionably, adding after a moment, “We’ve been friends for an age; we enjoy each other’s company; I’ve need of a wife; you’ve need of a husband.”

As reasons for marrying went, they weren’t terrible ones. Nevertheless, “I’ve been out for nine years, Tommy. You’ve had all that time to offer for me.”

Tommy had the grace to look chagrined before he smiled, looking not a small bit like a Water Dog. “That’s true. And I haven’t a good excuse for waiting except . . . well, I’m happy to say I’ve come to my senses, Pen.”

She smiled back at him. “Nonsense. You’ll never come to your senses. Why me, Tommy?” she pressed. “Why now, Tommy?”

When he laughed at the question, it wasn’t his great, booming, friendly laugh. It was a nervous laugh. The one he always laughed when he did not wish to answer the question. “It’s time to settle down,” he said, before cocking his head to one side, smiling broadly, and continuing, “Come on, Pen. Let’s make a go of it, shall we?”

Penelope had received four previous offers of marriage and imagined countless other proposals in a myriad of fashions, from the glorious, dramatic interruption of a ball to the private, wonderful proposal in a secluded gazebo in the middle of a Surrey summer. She’d imagined professions of love and undying passion, profusions of her favorite flower (the peony), blankets spread lovingly across a field of wild daisies, the crisp taste of champagne on her tongue as all of London raised their glasses to her happiness. The feel of her fiancé’s arms around her as she tossed herself into his embrace and sighed,
Yes . . . Yes!

They were all fantasy—each more unlikely than the last—she knew. After all, a twenty-eight-year-old spinster was not exactly fighting off suitors.

But surely she was not out of line to hope for something more than,
Let’s make a go of it, shall we?

She let out a little sigh, not wanting to upset Tommy, who was very clearly doing his best. But they’d been friends for an age, and Penelope wasn’t about to introduce lies to their friendship now. “You’re taking pity on me, aren’t you?”

His eyes went wide. “What? No! Why would you say such a thing?”

She smiled. “Because it’s true. You pity your poor, spinster friend. And you’re willing to sacrifice your own happiness to be certain that I marry.”

He gave her an exasperated look—the kind of look that only one very dear friend could give another—and he lifted her hands in his, kissing her knuckles. “Nonsense. It’s time I marry, Pen. You’re a good friend.” He paused, chagrin flashing in a friendly way that made it impossible to be annoyed with him. “I’ve made a hash of it, haven’t I?”

She couldn’t help herself. She smiled. “A bit of one, yes. You’re supposed to profess undying love.”

He looked skeptical. “Hand to brow and all that?”

The smile became a grin. “Precisely. And perhaps write me a sonnet.”

“
O, fair Lady Penelop-e . . . Do please consider marrying me?
”

She laughed. Tommy always made her laugh. It was a good quality, that. “A shabby attempt indeed, my lord.”

He feigned a grimace. “I don’t suppose I could breed you a new kind of dog? Name it the Lady P?”

“Romantic indeed,” she said, “but it would take rather a long time, don’t you think?”

There was a pause as they enjoyed each other’s company before he said, suddenly very serious, “Please, Pen. Let me protect you.”

It was an odd thing to say, but he’d failed at all the other parts of the marriage proposal process, so she did not linger on the words.

Instead, she considered the offer. Seriously.

He was her oldest friend. One of them, at least.

The one who hadn’t left her.

He made her laugh, and she was very, very fond of him. He was the only man who hadn’t utterly deserted her after her disastrous broken engagement. Surely that alone recommended him.

She should say yes.

Say it, Penelope.

She should become Lady Thomas Alles, twenty-eight years old and rescued, in the nick of time, from an eternity of spinsterhood.

Say it: Yes, Tommy. I’ll marry you. How lovely of you to ask.

She
should
.

But she didn’t.

* * *

Dear M—

My governess is not fond of
eels
. Surely she’s cultured enough to see that simply because you arrived bearing one does not make you a bad person. Loathe the sin, not the sinner.

Yrs—P

post script—Tommy was home for a visit last week, and we went fishing. He is officially my favorite friend.

Needham Manor, September 1813

* * *

Dear P—

That sounds suspiciously like a sermon from Vicar Compton. You’ve been paying attention in church. I’m disappointed.

—M

post script—He is not.

Eton College, September 1813

The sound of the great oak door closing behind Thomas was still echoing through the entryway of Needham Manor when Penelope’s mother appeared on the first-floor landing, one flight up from where Penelope stood.

“Penelope! What have you done?” Lady Needham came tearing down the wide central staircase of the house, followed by Penelope’s sisters, Olivia and Philippa, and three of her father’s hunting dogs.

Penelope took a deep breath and turned to face her mother. “It’s been a quiet day, really,” she said, casually, heading for the dining room, knowing her mother would follow. “I did write a letter to cousin Catherine; did you know she continues to suffer from that terrible cold she developed before Christmas?”

Pippa chuckled. Lady Needham did not.

“I don’t care a bit about your cousin Catherine!” the marchioness said, the pitch of her voice rising in tune with her anxiety.

“That’s rather unkind; no one likes a cold.” Penelope pushed open the door to the dining room to discover her father already seated at the table, still wearing his hunting clothes, quietly reading the
Post
as he waited for the feminine contingent of the household. “Good evening, Father. Did you have a good day?”

“Deuced cold out there,” the Marquess of Needham and Dolby said, not looking up from his newspaper. “I find I’m ready for supper. Something warm.”

Penelope thought perhaps her father wasn’t at all ready for what was to come during this particular meal, but instead, she pushed a waiting beagle from her chair and assumed her appointed seat, to the left of the marquess, and across from her sisters, both wide-eyed and curious about what was to come next. She feigned innocence, unfolding her napkin.

“Penelope!” Lady Needham stood just inside the door to the dining room, stick straight, her hands clenched in little fists, confusing the footmen, frozen in uncertainty, wondering if dinner should be served or not. “Thomas
proposed
!”

“Yes. I was present for that bit,” Penelope said.

This time, Pippa lifted her water goblet to hide her smirk.

“Needham!” Lady Needham decided she required additional support. “Thomas proposed to Penelope!”

Lord Needham lowered his paper. “Did he? I always liked that Tommy Alles.” Turning his attention to his eldest daughter, he said, “All right, Penelope?”

Penelope took a deep breath. “Not precisely, Father.”

“She did not accept!” The pitch at which her mother spoke was appropriate only for the most heartbreaking of mourning or a Greek chorus. Though it apparently had the additional purpose of setting dogs to barking.

After she and the dogs had completed their wails, Lady Needham approached the table, her skin terribly mottled, as though she had walked through a patch of itching ivy. “Penelope! Marriage proposals from wealthy, eligible young men do not blossom on trees!”

Particularly not in January, I wouldn’t think
. Penelope knew better than to say what she was thinking.

When a footman came forward to serve the soup that was to begin their evening meal, Lady Needham collapsed into her chair, and said, “Take it away! Who can eat at a time like this?”

“I am quite hungry, actually,” Olivia pointed out, and Penelope swallowed back a smile.

“Needham!”

The marquess sighed and turned to Penelope. “You refused him?”

“Not exactly,” Penelope hedged.

“She did not
accept
him!” Lady Needham cried.

“Why not?”

It was a fair question. Certainly one that everyone at the table would have liked to have answered. Even Penelope.

Except, she did not have an answer. Not a good one. “I wanted to consider the offer.”

“Don’t be daft. Accept the offer,” Lord Needham said, as though it were as easy as that, and waved the footman over for soup.

“Perhaps Penny doesn’t
wish
to accept Tommy’s offer,” Pippa pointed out, and Penelope could have kissed her logical younger sister.

“It’s not about wishing or otherwise,” Lady Needham said. “It’s about selling when one can.”

“What a very charming sentiment,” Penelope said dryly, trying her very best to keep her spirits up.

“Well it’s true, Penelope. And Thomas Alles is the only man in society who appears willing to buy.”

“I do wish we could think of a better metaphor than purchase and sale,” Penelope said. “And, truly, I don’t think he wants to marry me any more than I want to marry him. I think he’s just being kind.”

“He isn’t just being kind,” Lord Needham said, but before Penelope could probe on that particular insight, Lady Needham was speaking again.

“It’s hardly about
wanting
to marry, Penelope. You’re far beyond that. You
must
marry! And Thomas was willing to marry you! You’ve not had a proposal in
four years
! Or had you forgotten that?”

“I had forgotten, Mother. Thank you very much for the reminder.”

Lady Needham lifted her nose. “I gather you mean to be amusing?”

Olivia’s brows rose, as though the very idea of her eldest sister being amusing was unbelievable. Penelope resisted the urge to defend her sense of humor, which she liked to think was very much intact.

Of course she hadn’t forgotten it. Indeed, it was a difficult fact to forget, considering how often her mother reminded her of her marital state. Penelope was surprised that the marchioness did not know the number of days and hours that had passed since the proposal in question.