Penelope (23 page)

Lord Poyning
considered himself to be a rake, a ladies man, someone who
understood the very soul of women. He also considered himself
impeccably dressed, and his short sighted valet concurred with this
opinion. Lord Poyning also took care to pin a substantial bunch of
flowers and ribbons onto his coat. At every social gathering he
would pluck a flower and hand it to each lady that he danced with.
One single white rose adorning his button was saved for his
favourite of the night. It was all done very discreetly, leaving
the girls pleased and blushing.

Over the years
Lord Poyning had broken numerous silly hearts. Currently, Penelope
was worrying not about her heart but her poor fingers, which were
being crushed by Lord Poyning’s enthusiastic grip. Her attention
being focused on her mauled fingers, she did not realise how and
when he had danced them out onto the balcony.

The hairs on
the back of her neck stood up as the cool night wind hit her face.
She whipped open her ivory fan and then proceeded to furiously
flutter it.

Lord Poyning
eyed her uneasily and hastily stepped back.

“A woman’s
weapon is a fan,” Penelope muttered to herself, testing the pointed
end of the handle for sharpness.

“Did you say
something?” Lord Poyning asked.

“I said it is a
lovely night,” Penelope replied, the breeze from the fan blowing
the ringlets away from her face.

“Are you warm,
Miss Fairweather?”

“No. In fact, I
am a little cold,” Penelope said, hoping he would take the hint and
lead her inside.

“Perhaps if you
put away your fan, it will help?” Lord Poyning suggested.

She reluctantly
closed the fan.

“Are you
alright, Miss Fairweather?” Lord Poyning asked, stepping closer to
her.

“Yes, yes …”
Penelope said, nervously stepping back.

Smiling he
lurched forward and grabbed her gloved hand. “Miss Fairweather,
have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”

Penelope had
never been called beautiful by anyone before and she wished the
compliment had come from someone else. She had not forgotten Anne.
Anne loved this man and Penelope could not betray her friend. She
wriggled her gloved hand trying to free it from his grasp.

“Anne may be
looking for me,” Penelope hinted.

“Please, Miss
Fairweather, a minute longer? It is such a lovely night …,” he
replied, caressing her knuckles.

“Lord Poyning,
I really think we should return indoors,” Penelope insisted.

She tugged her
hand forcefully. He held on. She then yanked her hand back with all
her might. It worked. Her hand was free, but the glove was not. It
hung limply in the impassioned Lord Poyning’s grasp.

She eyed the
glove and decided to leave it with him. She tucked both her hands
under her armpits to discourage him from trying to make any more
love to her poor fingers. She was now thoroughly annoyed and
worried. Her job was to make him fall in love with Anne and not
herself.

“Miss
Fairweather,” he breathed. “Do not hold yourself back.”

Penelope eyed
his pursed lips in distaste. She had two choices. One, she could
whip out her fan and repeatedly poke him with the pointed end until
he let her go, or two, she could swoon. She decided to go with the
latter option. It was a more civilised way out, and accordingly she
lifted her hand to her forehead, closed her eyes and swayed. When
he refused to take the hint and continued to murmur sweet nothings
in her burning ears, she let her legs go slack. He caught her as
she buckled, and being unable to hold a limp body in his arms for
long, he laid her on the balcony floor.

“What’s the
matter?” the duke’s voice said, somewhere above her head.

A tiny frown
creased her brow before being quickly smoothed out.

“I am not
s-sure. She swooned … Perhaps the heat?” Lord Poyning stuttered. He
quickly tucked Penelope’s glove under her back and stood up.

“It is a cool
night, Lord Poyning,” the duke replied.

“I don’t know …
Women are so delicate. Shall I fetch Lady Radclyff?” Lord Poyning
asked, itching to get away.

“Stay away from
my sister,” the duke said in a controlled manner. He took
Penelope’s wrist and checked her pulse. He noted the missing
glove.

“Perhaps I
could fetch a glass of water?”

“Brandy may
help,” the duke muttered, extracting the missing glove from beneath
Penelope.

Lord Poyning
rapidly exited the scene.

“Darling, I was
waiting for you,” Lady Lydia Snowly pouted. Her eyes fell on Miss
Fairweather lying prostrate on the ground.

“As you can
see, I was detained.”

“I suppose you
can’t leave her like this and let her revive on her own?” Lady
Snowly asked hopefully.

“No.”

“I see. Would
you like me to do something?” Lady Snowly asked, peering down at
Penelope.

“Get Anne and
ask her to bring smelling salts. Miss Martin may have some.”

The duke waited
until Lady Snowly departed before saying to Penelope, “Miss
Fairweather, we are alone now. You can stop this nonsense and get
up.”

Penelope stuck
to her role and continued playing dead.

“I could dump
this glass of wine on your head,” he said conversationally.

Penelope’s eyes
flew open and she looked at his hand. It was empty. She then
recalled her situation and said sleepily, “Where am I?”

The duke raised
a brow and said, “Who am I? What time is it?”

“Eh?”

“That’s what
one says upon waking up from a fainting spell. You forgot the other
two lines.”

“I did swoon,”
Penelope snapped.

“I don’t doubt
it.”

“Well, I think
you do.”

“Do what?”

“Doubt it.”

“Should I have
any reason to doubt it?”

Penelope did
not reply. She moved her head attempting to get up. The duke’s hand
shot out to protect her head from smashing into a clay flower
pot.

He scowled,
“Why were you pretending? Did Lord Poyning try and do something
unsavoury?”

“No,”

“Are you sure?”
he asked, waving the glove in front of her face.

“Yes,” she
said, snatching the glove from him and putting it on.

“I am
surprised, Miss Fairweather. You had an excellent opportunity to
trap a wealthy man and you let it go? He must have done something.
Otherwise why—”

“Your grace,
that is enough. I did swoon and—”

“Or was
swooning a part of your plan to trap him? Was he not playing along?
I wonder if I ruined things by coming along and—”

Penelope
pounced, catching his neck in her small hands.

“Oh, you horrid
man, I wish I could strangle you. I was not trying to trap him.
You—”

A throat
cleared behind them and Penelope turned to find Anne, Lady Snowly
and Lord Poyning staring at her. She gulped and dropped her
hands.

“You all
prevented a murder tonight. Well done. Now, can we return indoors?”
the duke asked blandly. “Ah, the brandy, I think I need it more
than Miss Fairweather here, Lord Poyning. After the whole near
death situation, I am in shock.”

Lord Poyning
handed the glass to the duke and then warily eyeing Penelope edged
back into the ballroom.

“What
happened?” Anne asked, once they were alone.

Penelope dusted
her skirts and smoothed her hair. “I swooned and then attempted to
murder the duke. Shall we return indoors?”

“Yes, of
course. It is a pity you did not finish my brother off. If only we
had arrived a couple of minutes later ....”

***

After a short
conference with Anne, Penelope returned to Miss Martin’s drawing
room with a new plan of action. According to this plan she was
meant to attract Lord Rivers, which would solve two pressing
problems. Firstly, her own hunt for a husband would become more
focussed. Lord Rivers was an excellent catch— wealthy, titled,
young and agreeable. And yet no one saw him as a potential husband.
His disinterest and curt replies disheartened even the most
ambitious mothers of potential brides. And more importantly he did
not make her skin crawl. Secondly, Lord Poyning would finally stop
chasing her. And if Lord Rivers was courting Penelope, then Anne
would get to spend more time with Lord Poyning, for the two friends
seemed attached at the hip.

The plan was
simple enough. The execution was the problem. Her first obstacle
occurred when she tried to strike up a conversation with him. Just
like all her predecessors, she too was having a hard time getting
more than a word out of him. If she pouted prettily, he thought she
was going to cast up her accounts. If she complimented him, he eyed
her suspiciously, and if she used the flirtatious language of fans,
he hastily excused himself.

 She
changed tactics by speaking to him like she would to a cousin or a
friend. This seemed to work more favourably. He had just started
warming up to her when Lady Lydia Snowly suddenly arrived into
their midst like a sparkling icicle that had snapped off the roof
of a dark, dank cave and landed on top of an unsuspecting polar
bear’s head. Penelope was that unfortunate polar bear.

“Lord Rivers,
you are being so kind in keeping our guest entertained. Are you
feeling better, Miss Fairweather?” Lady Snowly did not wait for her
to reply but continued on, “I have been remiss in my duties. By
right I should have seen to Miss Fairweather’s comforts. She hardly
knows anyone here and I—”

“She is not
your guest,” Anne said cutting her short.

“Anne dear, I
am the duke’s fiancée and soon to be his bride. I will be the
Duchess of Blackthorne and by that right I have some obligations to
fulfil. Miss Fairweather happens to be one of them. She is the
duke’s guest so—”

“You are not
the Duchess of Blackthorne yet. I think you should enjoy your
freedom while you have it. Pray, leave Miss Fairweather to me for
the moment. You will have plenty to do when and if you marry
Charles,” Anne replied, her voice dripping sugar.

“Where is
Charles?” Lady Snowly asked, glaring at Anne.

Anne shrugged,
“You should know. He is, after all, your fiancé. I am merely his
sister and he does not feel the need to keep me informed of his
whereabouts.”

Lady Snowly
flung the blood red shawl across her shoulders. Her departing
glance clearly warned that as soon as she became the duchess, the
first person she would pack off to the country would be Anne.

“You can thank
me later for saving you from that … that … arrrgh! I don’t know a
bad enough word that describes her,” Anne said.

“Hush, Lord
Rivers and Lord Poyning will hear you. Remember, you are all
sweetness and light, or at least you are should be in the presence
of men,” Penelope said.

“Madame?”

“Who else will
teach me such things?” Penelope said grinning.

“I wish he
wouldn’t marry her,” Anne said, her face falling.

“I know she is
a little snarly, but if the duke loves her …”

“Snarly,” Anne
chuckled. “Snarly Lydia Snowly. How apt. As for love, it is a match
of convenience. She belongs to the right family, and her father
Lord Snowly has a lot of common business interests with Charles.
Lydia went running to her father the moment she set eyes on
Charles. Her father has never deprived his darling daughter of
anything, so he wrapped my brother up in ribbons and presented him
to her on her birthday. There was a ball thrown on the grand
occasion.”

“I didn’t
realise the duke was willing to marry for convenience.”

“He will only
marry for convenience. Anything but love,” Anne replied, ending the
conversation.

Lord Rivers had
disappeared. Penelope assumed that she had most likely scared him
away. Therefore, with nothing else to occupy her, she spent the
evening dwelling on Anne’s last comment and watching the couples
dance.

Interestingly,
Lydia Snowly was waltzing around in Lord Poyning’s arms, and the
two of them were much closer than what was considered seemly. The
duke and Anne were supporting identical livid expressions as they
watched the couple dance. Anne’s reasons were understandable, but
Penelope did wonder at the duke’s dark looks. Anne had said that
the duke did not love Lady Snowly, but was that true? Was he
suffering a bout of jealousy at seeing Lady Snowly giggle into Lord
Poyning’s shoulder? The thought made her heart lurch painfully.

Anne stirred
her porridge morosely. She looked like the world had come crashing
down around her slightly pointed ears.

The duke glared
at the sun streaming in through the large French windows of the
breakfast room. He occasionally stabbed his eggs and poked at the
sausage.

The dowager and
Penelope eyed the duke’s wounded breakfast plate in distress.

It was suffice
to say that the day had begun rather badly.

Penelope could
not stand the funeral atmosphere any longer. She recalled the old
lady she had seen at Hyde Park the day before. She had been trying
to cheer up her miserable spaniel. The spaniel had perked up and
perhaps so would the duke. The trick was to use the right sort of
tone. She practiced it softly under her breath. She missed the
dowager’s alarmed look and Anne’s brightening expression.

Penelope spoke
loudly in exactly the right sort of voice one uses in such
situations, and before the dowager could warn her, it was out.

“Ickle, duksey.
Ickle, ickle, dukesy. Why are you so saddy? Eh? Who is saddy?
Little dukesy is saddy?”

Stunned silence
met her efforts.

Penelope did
not lose heart. She tried again, “I can see a smile hanging over
your head, your grace.”

The duke
scowled.

“Oops, the
smile fell on top of your head. Can you feel it trickle down to the
tip of your nose? I can see it. There it is now perched on your
upper lip. Oooh, it is slipping down slowly … It has now reached
the middle of your lips … and it is tickling the corners of your
lips and there, there, there, andddd … You smiled!”