Time After Time (110 page)

She doubted it. Uncle Hugh bossed Father around, and he disapproved of almost everything Father did, especially when it had something to do with the “tumbling ladies” Father saw in London. She tried to imagine marrying for duty like her parents had, being wife to a man who was rarely around and having headaches that prompted daily visits with Dr. Walker. Would her husband tease her about not being good at playing hide and seek then abandon her to Nurse, like David had earlier? And David was one of the
good
boys.

“I don’t like boys.”

Father looked horrified. “Listen, missy, you will marry the future Earl of Ravenstone and help me make up for failing to produce a boy. You don’t want your uncle to be the baron, do you? He’s awful. You want to help
me
. I need you to do this.”

She nodded. He’d never needed her for anything before. Perhaps if she agreed, he would stay.

He grinned, all charming once more. “Don’t worry, Penelope. You’d like
this
boy, because he acts like a girl. He’s almost twelve but still can’t stomach shooting pheasants with me and his sire.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “He says chicks need their parents. The boy has strange ideas, just like you.”

Just like me, but better. He made Father listen.
She should write to this boy and ask him how he achieved this feat. “What’s his name?”

“Lucas,” Father answered after a long pause. He took a feather from his pocket. “He suggested I give you this, though I’m not certain why he thought you’d want it.”

Because he wanted her to know she wasn’t alone. She was sure of it. He’d never met her, yet he’d thought of her.

He saved pheasants
. She smiled. “I’ll marry him, Father.”

“Good girl.” He reached out and ruffled her curls.

“I’ll thank him for the feather.”

“Do you know how to spell his name?” Father shook his head and sighed. “We want to make a good impression. Proper girls do not just send missives to strange boys, Penelope. They don’t misspell anything when they do. Wait for him to write to you. If he wants to hear from you, he will let you know. You don’t want to scare him away by being overeager. Trust me, no one likes that. It’s annoying.”

Was that why Father was never around? Because she was overeager and annoying?

“Now, send Nurse back in here,” Father continued. “She’s been naughty not teaching you your letters well enough.” He chuckled. “She shall be spanked.”

Penelope laughed with him, though she wasn’t sure why Father found the thought of spanking Nurse so amusing. She would ask Lucas about it.

She had no doubt he would write to her soon. Maybe he would understand and explain the joke to her. That evening, she placed the pheasant feather on her pillow and began writing to a boy whom Father said was just like her. If Father was right, then she already knew what Lucas would want from her. Letters always took a lot of time and effort, but if she began now, then it wouldn’t take long for her to reply once Lucas’s letter arrived. She would impress him with her skills.

Dear Lucas,

Father likes to spank my nurse …

She paused, remembering how disappointed Father was when she’d misspelled “love.” She continued writing, concentrating on each word until her eyes grew heavy and the letters blurred together. She needed to read the missive again on the morrow, to make sure there were no mistakes. It had to be perfect, and she didn’t have much time.

Because Lucas would write soon
. Perhaps his letter was on its way at this very moment. When she was ready for bed, she reached for the feather and held it close to her cheek.

Chapter One

London, 1824

Lucas Arthur Phillip Drake, fourth Earl of Ravenstone, sat across from his friend and grudgingly accepted the truth: The dead in his family had cunning ways of exacting revenge from beyond the grave. Their ghosts haunted the living, demanding justice. Demanding vengeance.

And in this instance, they demanded a wedding.

The earl fell silent after imparting this information to his friend and stared at the fireplace in moody contemplation, resigned to the untenable situation in which he found himself.

“You’re looking very grim for an eager bridegroom.”

Lucas’s gaze snapped back to his friend, the amiable Anthony Milthorpe, Viscount Westville, who sat opposite Lucas at their table near the grand marble fireplace in the opulently styled room of his gentlemen’s club while they savored the excellent brandy one expected to be served at Brooks’s.

This afternoon, however, he had more than just the communal enjoyment of expensive spirits on his mind. One look at the empty mahogany tables and plush leather chairs confirmed that he’d chosen the best time of day for the meeting. Except for a small group of elegantly attired young gentlemen seated at the other end of the room, it was entirely vacant.

Shifting his gaze back to Westville, Lucas realized his companion was waiting for him to explain why he was so “very grim.” He knew he appeared almost sinister compared to his childhood friend. Fair-haired, tall and lean, Anthony was his exact opposite in looks and temperament. Lucas had inherited his Spanish mother’s dark coloring and his father’s monstrous build.

They did have one thing in common, though,
he thought.
Information
. Anthony was the only person outside of Lucas’s family who knew about the infuriating terms of his father’s will.

He crossed his arms over his broad chest, leaned back in the oversized leather armchair, and sighed before quietly announcing the reason for their meeting and his demeanor. “I’m leaving for the South Lakes tonight to collect the little baggage.”

“Good God, man, that’s no way to refer to a fiancée!”

Leave it to Anthony to be gallant
. What else was Lucas to call a fiancée he had neither proposed to nor even met?

“You’re the expert at charming the ladies.” Lucas stretched his long legs out in front of him and gave Anthony a mocking glance. “What would you have me call someone I’ve been promised to since I was a boy, whom I now need to wed if I don’t want to lose all the lands that go with my earldom?”

Anthony grinned. “Destiny?”

He let out a low, embittered laugh that rumbled from his chest and shook his shoulders. Then he took a healthy swallow of his brandy, refusing to dignify Anthony’s daft suggestion with any reply.

Apparently sensing that Lucas was not in the mood for jests, Anthony cleared his throat and soberly said, “You’re not the only one being forced into this marriage, you know.”

“I’ve given her enough time to cry off.” Lucas gave an indifferent shrug, then added, “In any case, it hardly matters now. I’ve only four years left to meet the terms of Father’s will, and I see no point in delaying the inevitable any longer.”

Especially since a title would be of little use without most of the vast holdings his father had chosen not to entail on Lucas. Everyone who relied on him rightfully expected him to hold on to the properties if he could.

“I still can’t believe your father did it,” Anthony muttered as he splashed more brandy into both their glasses, draining what was left in the decanter. “He was not an unkind man. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Lucas countered. “I have a duty to sire an heir. Considering my mother’s reputation, Father knew it would not be easy to find a willing bride to continue our tainted family line.”
And he’s using me to exact payment from those who abandoned him at his time of need
. “It just irks me to know that Father didn’t think I was capable of finding a bride on my own.”

“Tainted? Ravenstone, we both know your mother
was not
insane,” Anthony grumbled, but his uneasiness at the topic was evident in the way he shifted in his chair.

“No, but even I could not have described Mother as the embodiment of stability,” Lucas said bluntly. He had never been the sort to hide from the
ton
’s opinion of his beautiful, unpredictable mother.

The late Countess of Ravenstone had been an emotional pendulum; constantly swinging from extremely high spirits to deep melancholy during what she called the “agony and bliss” that was her life. Her restless soul lurked in the darkest depths of Lucas’s past, along with the memory of his dead father lying in a pool of blood in the family’s hunting lodge.

Lucas shook his head to dismiss the painful thoughts and decided to return to the business at hand. “I didn’t come here to discuss my mother. Am I to assume your aunt is still willing to live in Ravenstone with Olivia while I’m away?”

Anthony snorted. “Aunt Lucy has talked of naught else. I almost feel sorry for your little sister, you know.” He gave him a mocking look of contrition. “Five minutes with my aunt and her incessant yammering about the latest in her growing collection of ailments will bore little Olivia to tears.”

“Boredom will be a nice change for her,” Lucas drawled as he straightened in his chair. At least he didn’t have to worry about Olivia while he dealt with the unpleasant business of claiming his bride. “With our parents’ demise, her upcoming Season, and my impending marriage, my sister already has enough excitement in her life.”

He gave his friend a serious look. “Will you be able to escort your aunt and Olivia to Ravenstone tonight?” When Anthony nodded in the affirmative, Lucas continued, “Excellent. I appreciate your help. Surrey is not far away, but I don’t like the thought of them travelling without a male escort. If you call in at my townhouse at, say, half past six, you can be back in London before midnight.”

At his friend’s ready agreement, Lucas finished his drink and put his glass down, intending to leave when Anthony’s softly spoken question stopped him.

“Do you even remember the chit’s name?”

He had to suppress an impatient sigh.
Why couldn’t Anthony leave the subject alone?

“Yes. Father’s will doesn’t mention it, but the betrothal contract does. She is Miss Penelope Maitland, the late Baron Maitland’s daughter. Maitland was one of Father’s cronies.” It was the first time he had spoken his betrothed’s name, and he said it slowly, testing the feel of the name on his tongue.

“I didn’t know Maitland had a daughter. Is she pretty?”

“I have no idea.” He stood, suddenly eager to end the conversation. “Maitland died before she was supposed to have her come-out, and the current baron has yet to let her have one.”

Taking his cue, Anthony rose from his chair with a solemn expression and shook hands. “I suppose you’ll be a married man when you next step foot in London. Let me be the first to congratulate you on your pending nuptials.”

Lucas returned the handshake and nodded, his mouth curving into a bleak smile of resignation. Then he strode out of Brooks’s without another word to anyone, oblivious to the wary stares the illustrious club members cast as he passed along the way.

Raging echoes from the grave compelled Lucas to wrestle with fate. And one way or the other, he meant to win.

• • •

Accepting defeat, Penelope Rose Maitland gave in and quickly grabbed a piece of piecrust, furtively dropping it onto the flagstone floor. Her border collie’s grateful sigh made her grin.

“I saw that, Polly! Don’t even try to deny it.” Mari’s angry accusation was uttered in a dark voice that barely rose above the constant din of raucous laughter and conversation pervading The Mucky Duck’s crowded dining hall.

Penelope gave her friend an exasperated look. Sensing that something other than this minor lapse in proper etiquette was behind her friend’s dramatic display, Penelope decided to meet it with an equally convincing portrayal of innocent bewilderment.

“You saw what?” she demanded, leaning back in her chair. “Mari, you’re the one who wanted me to try your newest apple and blackberry pie recipe.”

“That!” Mari shrieked. Her voice rang shrilly, and her delicate nose wrinkled as she pointed at Nelson accusingly. She looked every bit like a duke’s granddaughter. A disinherited one, true, but … “I saw
that
. Polly, why do you always have to share your food with that dog?” Frowning, she added, “I made the pie for you, not him.”

Penelope flinched. It never occurred to her that rewarding one loyal companion would insult another. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to seem unappreciative of your generosity,” she said in genuine contrition before proceeding to explain her actions. “But you know I never eat the crust, and I’m certain Nelson was grateful to taste a bit of your delicious creation.”

“So you liked it?”

“Mari, it was the best pie I have ever tasted.” She meant it, too, and she had tasted many, many pies.

“Thank you,” Mari murmured, visibly flattered. “I shall ask Mama to add the pie to our menu, then. Papa would be pleased.”

Mari’s parents had bought this popular coaching inn located in the tiny village of Bouth in the South Lakes after they’d married, but Penelope was the one who sampled all the new food here. Nothing was added to the menu unless she had pre-approved it as delicious — not because Penelope was a food connoisseur, but because Mari was too concerned about maintaining her slim figure to try any of her exquisite concoctions.

“Mari, your parents owe it to the world to add the pie to your menu. Certainly it deserves a place in that recipe book you intend to write.”

When Mari smiled, Penelope knew both she and Nelson had been forgiven. Gratified, Penelope took another bite of pie.

“I didn’t mean to be harsh, Polly. I’m just worried.” Mari hesitated before asking, “Do you remember the governess position that Mrs. Bexley offered me?”

Penelope nodded. “She asked me about it. Mrs. Bexley said her daughter needed to be taught by the best, so she would only offer the position to a beautiful woman with impeccable manners.”

Mari’s gray eyes twinkled with satisfaction. “I turned it down. I told her there are any number of ‘beautiful’ women with ‘impeccable manners’ in Bouth.” She gave a sly grin. “Then I suggested she ask
you
about it.”