Penelope (9 page)

“Stop acting
dim. You came here to seduce me. I am sure you had planned to have
us caught in a compromising position. You had only one night left
in London. Therefore, you were desperate enough to—”

“Seduce you?”
Penelope snapped. “Why you pig headed nincompoop. I planned no such
thing.”

“Nincumpoop?
Mopsqueezer? Where in the world do you learn these … these
fascinating words from? Fishwives?”

“Finnshire is
not a fishing village,” she said through gritted teeth.

“And where do
you get your clothes from?” he continued, as if she had not spoken.
“That is the most hideous nightgown I have ever seen. If you did
plan this, then you did not plan it well. You should have arrived
naked, then perhaps …”

“Listen here, I
am a country girl,” Penelope growled, pointing a finger at him, “a
strong, healthy country girl. You are a duke and no doubt weakened
by the London water. Be careful … I … will not have you … you
tarnishing my good name …”

The duke had
slowly started closing the distance between them. He now caught her
wrist and twisted it behind her back. She grimaced in pain.

“I am holding
you, little sparrow, with one hand. Try and get away now. Let us
test that strength of yours,” he said, glaring down at her.

She squeaked,
her eyes leaping up to meet his. The candle cast shadows on his
face, making his features look sharper and more angular. The
expression in his dark eyes had her shaking uncontrollably.

Frightened, she
squirmed in his grip. He pulled her flush against himself,
tightening his hold.

“You confessed
at dinner tonight that you will go to any lengths to trap a man.
You then arrive in my room in your appalling, mustard hued, high
necked, brown spotted nightgown with a ridiculous tale. Your
intentions are clear. I know your sort, Miss Fairweather, and most
of the time they are beautifully packaged. I like quality and you
are far from it.”

“I … don’t know
what sort of women you are used to, your grace. I am telling you
the truth. Please believe me, I am not like that,” she begged,
tears stinging her eyes.

“You are
desperate to marry, are you not?” he asked softly.

“You are
h-hurting me,” she stammered, avoiding his eyes.

He immediately
loosened his hold but did not let her go. “This is a dangerous game
you play, my dear, and if I ravish you, no one will believe
you.”

Penelope
swallowed nervously, “I thought I was not good enough for you.”

 He
studied her face, his eyes tracing her dark curling hair and the
delicate skin that showed above the neckline. Her squirming made
him tighten his fingers on her wrist.

Something
changed in the air and a queer sort of intensity pervaded the room.
The duke stilled and his eyes darkened.

“Oh, I don’t
know,” he said huskily. “You remind me of dark, violent fairy
tales. A sprite escaped from the page of a book or a pixie with a
hint of madness lurking in big brown eyes. It would be a novel
experience …”

She kept her
eyes pinned on his chest. A faint blush started creeping up her
neck.

“You are
trembling,” he noted absently.

Her eyes
flitted up to his while her chest rose and fell in agitation.

He searched her
eyes and then his expression changed. Dropping her wrist he turned
his back on her.

His voice was
desolate when he said, “I am furious that you tried to trick me,
but I am not going to hurt you. Don’t look at me like that.” He
turned to face her again, his eyes falling on her trembling mouth.
“Someone else may appreciate what you offer, but I am not that man,
Miss Fairweather. Be careful whom you choose in future. Men can be
cruel.”

His head dipped
towards her, his eyes dark, troubled and piercing. “Stay away from
me, country girl. I am the architect, not the fool. I plan and
people follow. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her
face white.

He studied her
face, taking his time. His head dipped lower still, his lips a
heartbeat away from hers.

“Leave,” he
whispered.

She did. She
ran, forgetting the pain in her ankle. She didn’t even recall Lady
Bathsheba until she collapsed on the bed and found the goat
nuzzling her. She put her arms around the goat and wept.

“I want to go
home, Lady Bathsheba, I want to go home,” she sobbed.

***

The duke stared
at the spot where Penelope had recently stood. His hands curled
into a fist as he remembered the feel of her small slim waist.

 He smiled
mockingly. At least Miss Penelope Fairweather would never try and
crawl into his bed again.

Her frightened
face loomed in front of him and for a moment he felt remorse. What
if she had been telling the truth? He banished the thought
immediately. She was a conniving, sly woman and the quicker she
left his home the better for all concerned. A silly country girl
was no match for the Duke of Blackthorne. She would be off to
Finnshire before she knew it.

‘
The
standard decree on the principles of behaviour within the
Blackthorne household’
lay face down on Penelope’s rosewood
bedside table. Rules number 5, 11, 13 and 15 were crossed out.
Penelope had broken them all in one day (A remarkable feat that is
still unmatched to this day).

The sun, which
was missing when one wanted it, was predictably shining bright and
happy this morning. Penelope pulled the satin sheet over her face,
followed by the quilt and finally the pillow. The cheerful sun wove
its way through the very same sheet, quilt and pillow to dance upon
her eyelids.

Meanwhile,
Penelope’s mother, sitting high above the Blackthorne Mansion on
the second cloud on the right, watched her daughter sleep. Her
little girl was growing up. Her darling daughter finally understood
the dangers of lubricating her insides with brandy and wine. A
woozy head and utter mortification were sure to follow. Sighing,
she sipped her own heavenly wine in pleasure, her hand
automatically shooting out to catch a naughty cupid escaping with
her bottle of holy spirit. In heaven one never suffered a sore
head, no matter how much liquid sloshed in your belly. Smiling
tearfully, she adjusted a halo atop a celestial wolfhound and
leaned back on her seat of clouds to watch the day unfold.

Back in the
guestroom of the Blackthorne Mansion, Penelope squeezed her eyes
shut harder, trying desperately to sleep for a touch longer.

The clatter of
cups, someone poking the fire and a cheery tune assaulted her ears
next. She flung the quilt back and glowered at her smiling
maid.

“Good morning,
Miss Pea,” Mary said, her cheeks pink with exercise, her eyes
bright and sporting a jolly expression.

Penelope
wondered if women were hanged. If she murdered her maid, would she
get away with it? If one planned things properly, she mused,
blowing a strand of hair away from her face. Her hair somehow
always took time ceding to gravity. Gravity always won, but the
battle left her looking like a fluffy new mop every morning. She
blearily reached for her cup of tea and sipped in silence.

Mary’s love
affair with the stablehand was progressing satisfactorily. That
morning the stablehand had caught Mary’s hand and given her the
ends of his candle stubs. She explained this entire romantic scene
to Penelope in great detail, stressing the amount of times she had
blushed and how many times he had stammered.

Normally
Penelope would have asked her for more details and relished the
gossip. She would have been happy for her maid and given her some
helpful advice on how best to woo the stablehand.

But today was
not a normal day because tiny little creatures created from a
mixture of brandy and wine had made their way up from Penelope’s
stomach to her head. They now sat playing untuned violins and
strident flutes.

So while Mary
chattered on, Penelope eyed her through bloodshot eyes and
meditated on the number of ways a mistress could kill her lady’s
maid.

Soon things
became even more trying for Penelope because Mary approached her
with a comb. Mary was clever, she mused. A comb running through
tangled hair atop a head that throbbed was an excellent weapon. She
stared at her cup mournfully. Not a drop remained of the scalding
hot tea which could have been a brilliant counter weapon. Irritably
she allowed Mary to attack. It was better to stay passive and
suffer than attempt to win a war bare handed.

So Mary combed,
pulled, tugged and struggled. And as Mary battled the knots in
Penelope’s hair, her sparkling chatter turned into disgruntled
silence, the smile faded from her lips, and soon her good humour
was entirely replaced with a glower.

Nothing annoyed
a lady’s maid more than a nest of wild, disobedient and knotted
hair. Penelope felt revenged and refreshed. She splashed her face,
scrubbed her teeth and wore her new spotted muslin in a more genial
mood.

***

Penelope sat on
an antique chair inspecting her swollen ankle. It was worse; angry
and red. She poked it gingerly and winced in pain. And then a
moment later she poked it again. It was still painful. Mornings in
the Blackthorne Mansion, it seemed, were a time for
self-flagellation.

Penelope
squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to relive the night’s
events. The drunken debacle, the duke’s horrid words and the goat
with the duke’s underthing flashed through her mind in vivid
detail. She did not enjoy reliving these scenes, but past
experience had taught her that recalling the embarrassing memories
soon after the event occurs dampens the cringeworthy feelings a
bit. It is never as bad as you think.

Unfortunately,
recalling the night’s events did not make her feel any better. If
anything, she was cringing all the more.

Penelope forced
herself to breathe. Her cold hands tried to cool her heated cheeks
while her brain tried to figure out the fastest way out of London
without being seen. After entertaining herself with thoughts of
running away with a circus, begging a gin seller to adopt her, and
joining the barmy Finnshire witch in the forest, she arrived at the
obvious conclusion. She would have to bid the dowager goodbye. The
question was what in the world was she supposed to say to her?

She tried to
come up with an answer, but her thoughts refused to behave. They
meandered away from the dowager again and again and landed right on
top of the duke. Her mind flitted from the image of the tumble down
the stairs to the duke’s arms holding her, from the terror he had
induced, to the accusations hurled at her. Why had he looked so
desolate in the end? His voice had been full of self-loathing. Or
was it regret? He was so hard to read.

She shook
herself and touched her ankle. The pain helped her focus. The
rotten man was intelligent enough to hate himself. He was
despicable and it was only right that he should know his own
character. The brute. He did not deserve her sympathy. She was a
goose for trying to see some good in him.

The rude man
had dared to insinuate that she, Miss Penelope Winifred Rose
Spebbington Fairweather, would stoop so low as to seduce him, and
that too on her first day in London. He thought she was a loose
skirt, a doxie, a bawdy basket.

“Arrrgh,”
Penelope growled aloud.

That man needed
to be taught a lesson. Duke or not, someone had to bring him down
to earth. He behaved as if he was King George … or rather God
himself. She scowled. A mad pixie he had called her. Well, he was
the demented one …

A shuffle and a
slight noise distracted her from her gloomy thoughts. The goat sat
on the carpet scratching behind its ear.

She turned an
evil eye on the goat.

“Lady
Bathsheba, you look content. I suppose you have had your breakfast,
whereas I have no idea if anyone will appear with a tray for me. I
will not risk my neck by attempting those winding oak stairs with a
sprained ankle.”

Lady Bathsheba
crossed her two front feet and prepared for a long monologue.
Penelope had been silent for too long, and now she turned to her
favourite audience, one that could not interrupt.

If a goat could
sigh, then Lady Bathsheba did just that.

“I am hungry,
extremely hungry. I suppose I could shove you in the fireplace and
cook you. You deserve it, you know. I would not be in this
predicament but for you.” She warmed to her topic, “Yes, that’s it.
It’s not me, it’s you. You are the crux of this whole mess. Why did
you have to run into the duke’s room of all places? Just because he
called you a goat? There I said it. Goat, goat, goat. You are a
goat. Do what you want to my room and clothes, I don’t care. You
should be running scared, Lady Bathsheba, instead of looking bored.
I mean it, at the moment I don’t see my beloved pet sitting on the
carpet. What I see is a big fat juicy piece of mutton waiting to be
tossed into the fire. And as for the duke, I hope I never see him
again. I suppose he is busy all day doing whatever dukes do, and by
the time he returns, I will be in the carriage on my way to
wherever… Can you believe his arrogance in assuming—”

“Assuming?” the
duke spoke up from the doorway.

Ideally when
Penelope had spotted him, she should have continued sitting on the
chair and waved an imperious hand at him. It was the sort of thing
that a refined lady would do. She should have, but she didn’t.
Instead, she squeaked, and for some extraordinary reason sprang off
her chair, and then raced to the bed and dived under the quilts.
Her wits, it seemed, were scared of the duke. They fled in his
presence.

The duke looked
first at the chair and then at the bed. One eyebrow rose in
question and then dropped back in place.