A Winter Wedding (17 page)

Marchford awoke the next morning to the orderly presence of his valet. A mental review of yesterday’s momentous events was enough to bring a request for breakfast in bed. He was not afraid of Penelope, surely not. But he had heard that absence made the heart grow fonder, and he hoped that by removing himself from her view, she might begin to look more kindly on their present entanglement.

Happy that he had justified his cowardice as an act of kindness, he settled down to enjoy his coffee and toast in peace. He opened the freshly ironed paper and flipped past the commentary on the war (it was going poorly) and civil unrest (also poor goings-on) to the gossip columns.

“Damn!” Marchford slapped the paper shut.

“Is something the matter, Your Grace?” asked his valet.

Yes, indeed. The papers were not reporting his spontaneous proposal to Penelope with benevolence. They were gossip columns after all and made money on selling salacious bits of rumor and half-truth. Everyone knew not to trust the gossip column. And yet…

“Make sure my grandmother sees this.” He handed the paper to his valet. Antonia would know how to best handle the situation. “And also ensure that Miss Rose does not.” No need to upset her further.

He decided to leave for the club. Early. And stay late. Yes, that was a marvelous plan.

***

Marchford did not come to breakfast, and the dowager never came to breakfast, so Penelope ate alone, glaring into her oatmeal and stabbing at her eggs with malicious intent. She had things to say to Marchford. Things she had been practicing all night to say.

After she finished her meal, she casually inquired of the butler the whereabouts of a certain errant duke. The bastard had gone to his club. Coward!

Instead of being able to confront him, she was left with giving the butler a fake smile and retreating to the morning room. Penelope sat with her needlepoint, though her mood made her more inclined to fling it to the wall. She considered what she would say to Antonia, which did not improve her disposition.

She had been the companion to the dowager for almost a year and now Penelope had received an offer most unexpected from the duke. She knew the dowager had vehemently opposed the last duke’s choice in wives. Would the dowager also shun Penelope?

Miles the cat climbed up on her lap, or at least as much of him as could fit on her lap, and batted at her hand until she petted him. She sighed and rested back on the settee. Penelope stabbed her needlepoint again without care and took two stitches before realizing she had chosen an ill place and, with a grumble, pulled out the offending stitches. Miles decided to help with the thread, forcing her to hold up the work out of reach. In the light of the window, Penelope looked at her needlepoint with fresh eyes. The piece had detailed flowers along the border, which, like many samplers, had a verse of scripture to uplift, guide, and inspire.

Trust
in
the
Lord
with
all
thine
heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. Proverbs 3:5

It was a verse she had recalled a few days earlier. She had heard it many times as a child. Her father was particularly concerned about her propensity to organize, direct, and control.
’Tis not for you to be always in control, Penny. God will allow you to be put in circumstances beyond your control if only to help you learn to trust in the Lord, even when there is no hope.

Penelope suddenly became aware of the message of her own work. Was she leaning on God or herself? It was not a difficult question to answer. Of course she was relying on herself. She took a deep breath. What would it mean to actually lean on God?

She did not have a ready answer. She prided herself on her ability to follow the commands of the Bible and live a sensible life. Though, with a sudden flash of insight, she realized the Bible never demanded living a quiet, sensible life, and in truth, the followers of the Bible often had the most remarkable adventures. In contrast, Penelope mostly followed the strictures of society, not the teachings of the Lord.

Trust in the Lord.

How was one do to that?

Miles batted at her again to get her to pet him more. She was lost and all she had for guidance were remembrances of her father, a sampler, and an extra-large cat.

Lord, please help. I need your guidance
. She was not one to pray often, but she recognized she was utterly out of control. She could use some divine intervention, particularly as the dowager entered the room.

“I have no intention of actually marrying the duke!” cried Penelope before Antonia even had a chance to sit down.

“Oh dear.” Antonia stopped. “Did you see the papers? I told the butler to remove them.”

“No, I was told Marchford had taken them all.” Penelope was suspicious. “What is in them?”

“Nothing!” the dowager answered quickly. Too quickly. And Penelope guessed she had been featured in an uncomplimentary manner.

“First time I make the gossip column and I am mocked,” groaned Penelope.

“More like slandered,” muttered the dowager, taking her seat. “Now what is this about you not marrying James?”

“He only asked because he felt trapped. We had been looking for something upstairs, in regards to tracking down foreign agents. I was not trying to do anything untoward.” And yet in her denial, her actions the night before floated back. It might not have been what she intended, but it was certainly what happened.

Antonia waved a hand. “I know you are not the type to chase after my grandson. It is one of the reasons I have kept you. I admit I was…surprised by the proposal.”

“You must think it a gross impertinence. I know you cannot stand grasping social climbers.”

“Indeed I cannot. And I never cast you in that light.” The dowager rapped her ivory handled cane on the floor for emphasis. “Now tell me, why do you refuse my grandson?”

“I do not wish anyone to feel trapped into making an offer of marriage.”

“Admirable. But do you love him?”

The question stilled Penelope. Did she love him? She found she could not meet Antonia’s bright blue eyes. “According to Marchford, love and matters of the heart are unnecessary.”

“James is a nice sort of man, most of the time, but he is still a man. So I am asking you. Do you love him?”

Did she love him?

“My feelings are of no consequence,” said Penelope, staring at the needlework in her hands.

The dowager stood, walked over to the settee, and sat beside her. Her thin, soft hand reached out and clasped Penelope’s hand.

“I love him something awful,” confessed Penelope in a small voice.

“And he does not return this love?” asked the dowager gently.

Penelope shook her head. “So you see why I cannot marry him.”

“There would be few who would let a little thing like love prevent them from marrying a duke.”

“I do not care to wed a duke.”

Antonia squeezed her hand. “I would not be young again if it meant facing heartache. I am finally marrying my love, in spite of anything anyone might say. Do not consider the gossips, my dear. Follow your heart.”

“My heart tells me I would be miserable as his wife.”

“I do not think him immune to any feeling for you,” said the dowager kindly.

“I do not know. But I do know I shall not be happy with a man who cannot express any affection for me.” Penelope knew this with a certainty. She met Antonia’s eyes, and the duchess nodded slowly.

“If that is the case, my dear, you must find another to wed. And quickly.”

“How on earth would—” Penelope was cut off by the sudden appearance of the butler, announcing their first caller.

“Smile,” hissed the dowager at Penelope. “Show no fear and do not speak of your doubts to anyone.”

Penelope pasted on a smile and complied. They had a never-ending series of callers, all wanting to see for themselves the little nothing companion who had captured the most sought-after man in London. When this was over, and the ruse of the engagement dissolved, Penelope would need to leave London, of that she was sure.

***

The home of Mortimer Sprot, in a nondescript part of Town, was small, as was everything in it. The parlor was small; the chairs were small; even the slight repast that was served was small. Apparently, those in service to the Crown were not afforded much in the way of comforts.

Marchford was not exactly certain where to put his legs. They were too large to tuck under the chair, and if he stretched them out, they would extend into the next room.

“It is good of you to visit me, old friend,” said Sprot.

“I have found something of interest,” began Marchford, trying to fold his legs into some sort of dignified position. It was a lost cause.

“I am listening.”

“I discovered that Lord Felton is importing wine from France, in spite of the blockade, and the labels are suspicious. I believe they may be in code.”

The corner of Sprot’s mouth twitched up. “I knew my faith in you was well placed. You have done well; however, Felton has been working for us. The labels are indeed in code, sent from our network of informants in France.”

Marchford’s shoulders slumped. “You might have told me this before I put myself in an awkward position.”

“You must forgive me, my friend. I have learned to only say what is necessary at the time. I did not know Felton had aroused your suspicion. How did you come to suspect him?”

“The glassmaker who made the special decanters was commissioned to make several sets. He sent them to Felton.”

Mortimer Sprot’s brushy eyebrows fell over his sharp eyes. “Curious.”

“I thought so. We found the other set in the home of Mr. Grant, but we supposed it was planted there to be used by the spies to pass messages during house parties. But I cannot think why Felton would be sent a set since he has not entertained in years.”

Mortimer’s frown increased. “Yes, indeed. More to it than meets the eye.”

“That is not all. I discovered we were not the only ones looking for the wine bottle. A young woman, a courtesan of certain popularity, was also looking for the bottle.”

“And did she find it?”

“No, she did not.”

“You are a good man. Thank you. Your information is quite helpful.”

“One other thing.” Marchford shifted position as best he could. He was losing feeling in his right leg. “Lord Felton has a nephew and heir. They are estranged, but the young man was there yesterday, hiding in the servants’ quarters, reportedly there out of curiosity to see his inheritance.”

“Hmmmm. Curious indeed.” The old man shook his head slowly. “And now I have news for you. We have feared that France may be planning some great offensive, and now we have confirmed that they have made invasion plans. Whatever they are planning, it will happen soon. More than that I do not know.”

Marchford left the home of the spymaster more perplexed than when he arrived. He turned his horse in the direction of home, but instead found himself outside the home of William Grant.

“My friend! Congratulations!” Grant greeted him warmly and ushered him into his study, which he used as more of a card room since studying was not his primary interest.

Marchford noted a ledger open on the desk and credited Genie with having a positive influence on her new husband. “And to you as well. I hear your firstborn is coming soon.”

“Ah, yes, the mysteries of life. There are signs that something has begun one day, only to be silenced the next. Apparently, this is part of the process, but I confess I will rest easier when the baby has safely made his arrival.”

“His?”

“Naturally.” Grant offered him a glass of wine, and they settled into chairs before the fire. “So you finally decided on a bride.”

Marchford swirled the wine in his glass. “Perhaps.”

“No, my dear friend, that will not do. What can you mean by ‘perhaps’?”

“I mean that Miss Rose is not inclined to wed.”

Grant stared at him a while and then burst into laughter. “You’ve got no luck. You propose to the only woman in London not prepared to marry you!”

Marchford did not see the humor in the situation whatsoever. “So glad my misfortune serves as amusement for you.”

“Now do not feel sorry for yourself. Why, I have seen many ladies practically fall at your feet for the chance to be your bride. Simply choose one who so desperately wants to be a duchess.”

“I do not want someone who wants to be a duchess. I want someone who wants me.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying.

Grant’s blue eyes flashed in merriment. “Oh, I see now. You wish to fall in love!”

“No! Nothing of the sort!” Denial was pointless with Grant laughing so hard.

“Developed a
tendre
for Miss Rose, have you? What is keeping her from accepting your hand? The gossip columns are full of it.”

“I do not know. Women are daft,” grumbled Marchford and took another large mouthful of wine.

“How did you present your suit?”

Marchford frowned. “I was rather trapped into offering. Afterward, I told her it was a sensible, rational decision.”

“Sounds like you both need the reassurance of mutual affection.”

“Now you are daft.”

“If you do not wish to succumb to the actual expression of dreaded emotions, why not show her your affection?” suggested Grant.

“How so?”

“The usual gifts might be sufficient. Jewelry. Flowers. Of course, we are talking about Miss Rose, so you may wish to choose something unconventional.”

“Yes, indeed.” The first ideas that sprang to Marchford’s mind were unconventional indeed.

“You know the papers are saying that she trapped you into marriage by lifting her skirts.”

“The papers are slanderous and wrong,” Marchford said with frost in his tone that Grant would even bring up the subject.

“Naturally. But you are going to have to be even more charming to overcome such venom.”

Marchford nodded in understanding. Let operation charm offensive begin.

“Mr. Peters,” Marchford greeted the butler the next morning. “This is the twelve days of Christmas, is it not?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Is there not some child’s rhyme about it? Something about giving ridiculous gifts each day?”

Even Peters could not help but have the edge of his mouth twitch up. “Yes, Your Grace. It is a game published in
Mirth
without
Mischief
.”

“You are well informed.”

“My nieces and nephews quite enjoy the game.”

This was a new side of Mr. Peters. Marchford was vaguely aware he had family somewhere, but had never thought of the dour man’s young relatives playing Christmas games. “Well then, can you tell me what day is today and what I am supposed to buy my true love?”

Peters’s eyebrows did raise, but he recovered quickly. “I believe it to be the fourth day, so the gift would be four calling birds.”

“What would Miss Rose want with four birds?”

“I am sure I could not say, Your Grace.”

“And what of tomorrow?”

“The fifth day would be five gold rings.”

“Five rings, I can do that. And what is the next day?”

“Six geese a laying.”

“Six geese. Not sure where we would put them.” Marchford rubbed his jaw. “And the next day?”

“Seven maids a milking.”

“No. Now do be serious. Who wants seven maids and seven cows? Would it not be more sensible to have one or two maids milk all the cows? And where do you expect me to put seven milk cows?”

“I do not think the rhyme was intended to be applied literally, Your Grace.”

“Well. I should hope not. At least the rings make some sense.”

“Miss Rose awaits you in the breakfast room,” said Peters with his remarkable lack of inflection.

Marchford wished to avoid the audience, but he dared ignore her no longer. He had already managed to avoid her entirely yesterday and had a vague awareness that it was not appreciated.

He entered the breakfast room to find Penelope draped in a warm shawl of burgundy brushed wool against the chill of the morning. She barely gave him a second glance as he entered and continued eating. Perhaps he had misjudged her and things were peaceful between them.

He settled his breakfast before himself—eggs, toast, and coffee. Everything just as he liked.

“Every last person in society thinks we are lovers!” accused Penelope just as he took a large sip of coffee. She had the dubious delight of seeing him choke on his drink.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Rose,” he said when he recovered.

“You might as well stop that Miss Rose nonsense and just call me Penelope, or my love, or perhaps my sweet pumpkin.”

“I would never call you that.” He was emphatic.

“The rumor has spread that I have forced your proposal by engaging in behavior most unbecoming a lady.”

“What anyone thinks can hardly be of any relevance.”

“Can it not? You have ruined me!”

“I have done no such thing.” Though in truth, he also was concerned about the vicious rumors.

“Even if I married you, there would be nothing but whispers of how I trapped you. It is intolerable. Now I will be forced not only to leave London but possibly flee to the Continent.”

“You shall stay here with me. Must dash!” Marchford fled the room, his eggs only half-finished. He had much to do.

***

“I have laid out something special for you,” said Penelope’s maid with a twinkle in her eye.

“I am retiring for the night,” said Pen to clarify. It had been another long day of members of society coming to look at the girl who secured an offer of marriage, using the most unconventional means if the rumors were true, from the Duke of Marchford. She felt like an oddity or a sideshow attraction.

She was left to face the never-ending barrage of morbid curiosity while Marchford made himself scarce. It was hardly fair! Fortunately, it was time for bed, which did not include needing any special garment besides a warm nightdress and a thick cap. It was getting quite chill at night.

“Here you go. Lovely is it not?” Abigail, the lady’s-maid-in-training, held up a sheer night rail and a dressing gown made of similar gauzy material.

Pen stared for a moment, speechless. What fool would wear that to bed in December? And yet the maid seemed quite pleased with herself. “It is lovely,” said Penelope slowly. “Wherever did you get it?”

“I talked to Madame Leclair, Her Grace’s lady’s maid, and she was kind enough to give this to me for you. Apparently the duchess bought it years ago and it did not suit her.

“I should say not,” muttered Penelope.

“I have some ideas for your hair as well,” said Abigail. “Please forgive me if this is forward, but I have been studying hard with madame, and I believe I should make a good lady’s maid. I know I have not the experience others might have, and I won’t pretend to be French, but I will say that I will work for you very hard and will seek to improve myself every day.”

The light was beginning to dawn. “You would like to be the lady’s maid for the next Duchess of Marchford.”

“Forgive me, Miss Rose.” Abigail lowered her eyes. “It was an impertinence to suggest it.”

“No, quite right. I like a gal with pluck,” said Penelope, not wanting to hurt the maid’s feelings. Of course, if the maid wished to become the lady’s maid for the next duchess, the last person she should address was Penelope.

Hope shone in the maid’s eyes.

“But of course I am not at liberty to even entertain the thought of hiring a lady’s maid at this time,” tempered Penelope, not wishing to raise false hopes.

“No, of course. I did not wish to suggest, but I do enjoy working for you, Miss Rose.”

Penelope doubted the maid would enjoy her work when she discovered the engagement was a sham, but Pen could do very little about that. She should be leaving for Bath soon anyway. “I simply wish to go to bed. The night rail you have does look pretty, I grant you, but perhaps too lightweight for winter. Something a tad warmer should do.”

Abigail blushed furiously. “I did not think you would be quite concerned with warmth.”

Pen began to wonder if the girl was daft. “A bit chill, do you not think?”

“Oh, you mean in the hallways. I should have thought of that. You could wear a warm wrap until you reach his room. Or…” Abigail blushed again. “I could send word that you would prefer the duke join you in your bedchamber this evening, so you did not catch a chill.”

“You think that I…you believe that His Grace and I…me and the duke,” sputtered Penelope.

Abigail bit her lip in a terrified gesture. “I meant no disrespect. I only thought that… Forgive me, but everyone was saying that…”

“Everyone was saying what?” Pen’s voice was so low it dredged the bottom of her regard for one certain Duke of Marchford. He was going to pay for this. She wasn’t sure how, but there was going to be a reckoning.

Abigail lowered her eyes, her hopes of moving up in the world plummeting. “Forgive me, miss. I spoke out of turn.”

“No, you only informed me that I have apparently become fodder for the servants’ gossip. I suppose I should thank you for letting me know. Thank you. That will be all for tonight.”

The maid left without another word.

Penelope began to pace, wondering how she could make Marchford suffer for giving the world the impression that she had been less than honorable in her procurement of a very highly prized offer of marriage. Clearly to have caught such a man, Penelope must have sweetened the offer. After some time debating strategies, Penelope was no further in devising a suitably devious plan and had worn herself out with the silent raging.

Penelope sighed and decided nothing was being gained by her solitary irritation. It was time to go to bed, as she had planned to do an hour earlier. She attempted to change into a more sensible night rail, but found, much to her growing irritation, that the gown she wore was impossible to remove without some assistance. Her only choice to remove the gown was to call for the maid. The maid she had dismissed.

It was awkward to say the least. She could choose to sleep in her gown, but to be found in the morning in the same dress and have to explain that she was actually stuck in it, was even more distressing. Which led back to calling for the maid, who by this time was most certainly in bed herself and who believed, along with the entire staff, that Pen and Marchford were carrying on some illicit affair.

A fresh wave of righteous anger swept through her, warming her against the cold draft of winter. She grabbed the gauzy night rail and marched out of her room. Before she could think about what she was doing, she found herself at the door of the Duke of Marchford. Anger still churning through her veins, she knocked and, without waiting for a reply, opened the door and stepped inside, slamming the door behind her.

Marchford was sitting comfortably in bed, reading by the light of a lantern. “Miss Rose? Whatever is the matter?”

“This is the matter.” She thrust the gauzy nightdress at him accusingly.

At Marchford’s blank expression, she saw she needed to elaborate. She held it up so he could see the gown—and through the gown, in all its evocative glory. “The maid thought I should wear this to bed tonight.”

Marchford frowned. “Not sensible. Catch a cold.”

“Yes, indeed! But the maid explained she did not think that I would be in need of warmth since you would be performing the office yourself.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Have you not heard? Everyone, even your own servants, thinks we are carrying about a secret liaison.”

“That cannot be—”

“Yes, yes it is. You see what you have done?”

“I shall talk to the staff tomorrow.”

“And tell them what? Can you imagine calling them all to attention before you to announce that you are not carrying about a scandalous sexual relationship with your grandmother’s companion?” Penelope tried to ignore the rush of heat crawling up her neck and spreading to her cheeks. It was the first time she had said the word
sex
in mixed company.

“Yes, well, when you put it that way.”

“And what other way is there to put it?”

Marchford sighed. “I deeply regret if my proposal led others to such wild and unfounded accusations. I had no intention of ever casting any shadow on your reputation, which to my mind remains exemplary.”

Penelope fought against it, but she could feel herself soften at his charitable reply. She knew he had not intended for anyone to jump to such unfortunate conclusions. She was angrier at society, who valued her so cheaply that they decided she must have had to sell her own body to secure a seat at the matrimonial table beside a duke. “I know you did not intend for this to occur,” she mumbled begrudgingly.

“Indeed. And forgive me for pointing this out, but coming to my bedroom late at night would only confirm such rumors. I suggest you return to your room, let us both get a good night’s sleep, and we shall tease out what should be done in the morning.” Marchford was himself, strong and in command, albeit sitting under the bedclothes with a red, wool cap on his head.

“Yes, of course, except for one thing. I am stuck.”

“Stuck? Where?”

“In this gown. I cannot do the enclosures inthe back.”

Marchford looked at her as if she were daft. “So call for a maid.”

“I cannot. I already dismissed her.”

Marchford frowned, clearly ready to debate this conclusion.

“I cannot call back a maid who thinks I am carrying on an illicit affair with you. It would be humiliating. I simply cannot bring myself to do it.” The words were tumbling out of Penelope’s mouth before she could consider them. “Besides, I have decided a new course of action.”

“You have?”

Everything was spinning out of control, and more than anything, she wanted to claim that control back. Sampler or no sampler, she wanted to be the one deciding her fate, even if it meant doing something utterly out of character.

Her words spilled out without thought. “Since everyone already thinks we are sleeping together and since I cannot escape from this gown without your assistance, I propose we actually do what everyone else thinks we have already done.”

Marchford’s eyebrows rose so far they disappeared beneath the red woolen cap. “Exactly what are you suggesting, Miss Rose?”

An excellent question. She did not consider her answer one jot before she blurted, “Everyone thinks we are lovers. So we might as well be lovers.”

“Are you suggesting that we…”

“Yes! Sleep with me!”