To Capture a Duke's Heart (2 page)

She sighed a bit wistfully then, for not a day went by that she didn’t think of her dear, sweet mother, just as she thought of her now.  Sadly she had died seven years earlier from a tragic illness, an illness that had ravaged her body and cut her life far too short, leaving Penny and her father behind to mourn her loss.  It had been a devastating blow, for they had both loved her dearly.  And while Miranda Houghton would never be forgotten, time had moved on and both she and her father had been forced to carry on their lives without her. 

As such, it was two years after her mother’s death that her father, in the hope of siring a male heir to inherit his title and to provide a mother figure for her, had ultimately remarried.  And while the woman he’d chosen to become his second wife and the new Countess of Beckford had promptly done her duty, providing him with his heir some ten months later, Maryanne had never assumed the motherly role her father had envisioned for her. In fact, to her own son she had shown and continued to show only the slightest interest and affection, while to Penelope she had exhibited only a thinly-veiled aversion, a dislike that had grown increasingly more evident as the years had gone by.

Initially she hadn’t understood Maryanne’s underlying animosity, but as she’d grown older she’d come to understand what motivated her stepmother’s enmity.  Blonde, beautiful and exceedingly narcissistic, Maryanne was accustomed to being the center of attention, and as such, her stepmother deeply resented the love her husband had felt for his first wife, as well as the love and affection he bestowed upon Penny. 

Unfortunately her feelings of ill will toward
her
had only intensified with the passing of time, taking on an added dimension and becoming ever more palpable as Penny’s youthful countenance had slowly matured to echo her mother’s and her slim, girlish form had blossomed bit by bit into a profusion of womanly curves.  Sadly, her attempts at improving the relationship between her and her stepmother had long proved fruitless, thus she no longer tried.  Instead, she simply avoided Maryanne whenever possible and did her best to ignore her when it wasn’t. 

Alas, one good thing
had
come from Maryanne’s entrance into their lives, however, and that was her brother, Charles.  She’d adored him from the moment he was born and had done her best to make up for his mother’s profound lack of interest, showering him with an abundance of sisterly love and affection.  Now, at four-years-old, Charlie was the spitting image of his mother, having inherited Maryanne’s golden-blonde hair and pale blue eyes; but despite their physical resemblance, her sweet-tempered brother seemed to possess none of his mother’s unflattering character traits.  She couldn’t help but smile just thinking about him, for like their father he had a kind, loving disposition and a remarkably keen intelligence; and though they had only been away from home a short while, she missed him terribly.

Alright, Penny, enough woolgathering
, she silently admonished, forcing her attention back to her reflection in the mirror.   Reaching upward she adjusted the narrow sleeves of her off-the-shoulder gown, pushing the pale-peach satin bands downward another inch.  Never one to focus overmuch on her physical attributes she had to admit that tonight was different; for with the recent arrival of the Duke of Ainsworth and his brothers she couldn’t deny that she wanted to look her best and was immensely thankful that she’d had Anne pack several of her new Parisian gowns into her trunk.  The one she wore now was by far the most beautiful garment she’d ever worn and tailored to perfection, hugging her curves in all of the right places.  And almost as pleasing as the gown itself, there wasn’t a thing Maryanne could do to keep her from wearing it.

Regrettably her stepmother
had
assumed one motherly role upon her arrival into Penny’s life, and that had been the overseeing of her wardrobe. It rankled even now, for under Maryanne’s direction nearly all of her pretty frocks had disappeared from her wardrobe, only to be replaced with simple, drab-colored garments that had become less and less flattering with each passing year.  Unfortunately her father’s utter lack of fashion sense had made the task all too easy for her malevolent stepmother and she shuddered to think that she would likely be wearing one of those ghastly abominations at this very moment if it hadn’t been for her recent trip to Paris to visit her mother’s younger sister, Catherine.

Since her mother’s death Penny had developed a close relationship with her aunt, a bond that had grown increasingly stronger as the years had passed.  Unfortunately, however, she didn’t get to see Catherine nearly as much as she would have liked, for her aunt had married a French marquis four years earlier and now resided in Paris with him and their two young children. 

Not surprisingly, when Catherine had seen the collection of gowns packed within the depths of Penny’s trunks upon her arrival in Paris she’d been aghast, uttering a string of very unladylike exclamations as the hideous garments had been revealed one by one. As such, and to her absolute joy, her aunt had taken her to visit the shop of one of the most celebrated dress designers in Paris the very next day and had proceeded to order her an entire new wardrobe.  Thus, when she had arrived home the following month she’d had three trunks packed full of exquisitely crafted Parisian gowns, including the one she wore now. As she’d expected, Maryanne had been livid when she’d seen them, immediately threatening to dispose of the entire lot, insisting that the elegant, sophisticated designs were far too mature for a girl of her age.  But in an uncharacteristic display of defiance Penny had taken a stand against her stepmother, taking the matter directly to her father.  Fortunately, after a relatively brief discussion, the earl had sided with her, confident that Catherine would not have approved the designs if they were truly unsuitable, as Maryanne had suggested.  And so, much to her stepmother’s consternation the new gowns had been hers to keep.

She stood there now, eyeing the magnificent creation in utter delight, noting with a sense of satisfaction that the fabric’s delicate peach hue was an ideal complement to the auburn tresses her stepmother took such pleasure in disparaging.

When a light knock sounded upon her door a few minutes later, Penny was ready.  Stepping out into the hall she felt a renewed sense of confidence as she met her father’s gaze, for she could see the surprise, as well as the pride and admiration in his eyes as he surveyed her appearance.

“Dearest, you look absolutely breathtaking.”

“Thank you, Papa,” she replied with a warm smile. 

“How is it that the little girl I used to bounce upon my knee has grown into such a beautiful young woman?” he uttered, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“Yes, Penelope is quite the lovely young lady now,” Maryanne acknowledged, though the words were clearly forced.

The earl didn’t seem to notice, however, and smiled proudly.  “Indeed she is,” he agreed. 

“Yes, well, come along, then,” Maryanne urged, effectively shattering the special moment between Penny and her father.  “We wouldn’t want to be late arriving downstairs.”

Standing at her father’s side in the Gilchrist’s crowded drawing room, Penny’s gaze followed the Duke of Ainsworth’s progress as he advanced in their direction.  Entering the room a short while ago she’d spotted him at once where he’d stood conversing with Lord Gilchrist on the far side of the room.  Since then she’d kept a surreptitious eye on his movements as he’d made his way throughout the room, noting with an increasing sense of anticipation as he’d stopped to chat briefly with Lord and Lady Hatton, the Newtons and then the Beckworths, drawing ever closer to where she stood at her father’s side until suddenly he was before her. 

“Good evening, Ainsworth,” her father greeted as the duke approached.

“Beckford,” he responded with a pleasant smile.  “It’s good to see you.”

“And you, Your Grace,” the earl replied affably.  “It’s been too long.  In fact, I believe it’s been several months since I saw you last, at White’s if memory serves.”

The duke nodded.  “Yes, indeed it was.  I remember the evening well, in fact, for Percy Blackwood’s good fortune at the faro table cost me a tidy sum that night.”

The earl chuckled.  “Not even you can win every time, Ainsworth, though you do seem to have the devil’s own luck on the majority of occasions.”

“True,” the duke agreed good-naturedly.

“You know my wife, Lady Beckford, of course,” the earl said then, nodding toward the countess.

“Indeed.  Delightful to see you again, Lady Beckford,” he responded with a polite nod.

“And you, Your Grace,” she replied, the words dripping like syrup from her rouged lips as she rose from her curtsey, eyeing him from beneath the veil of her thick lashes like she might a select cut of meat.

“And this lovely young lady,” the earl said then, smiling proudly as he glanced between Penny and the duke, “is my daughter Penelope.  Penelope, it is my honor to introduce you to His Grace, the Duke of Ainsworth.”

As the duke’s gaze swung in her direction Penny offered a silent prayer that he wouldn’t recognize her as the person who’d been gawking at him through the window upon his arrival, but the hint of recognition reflected upon his expression as they faced one another suggested otherwise. 
Drat!
  “How do you do, Your Grace?” she said, dipping into a flawless curtsey despite the sudden weakness in her knees, for in addition to her utter mortification at having been recognized, it was clear that she had been correct in her earlier assumption; beholding the duke’s striking good looks up close
did
have a much greater effect than from afar, remarkably so.  And though it seemed an impossibility, if there was in fact anything about the man’s face that could be deemed a
natural human
flaw
in even the smallest sense of the word, she certainly couldn’t detect it.

“Lady Penelope, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, the deep, rich timbre of his voice sending an odd little shiver racing along her spine as she rose from her curtsey.

Meeting his gaze, she managed a slight smile.  But then, Heaven help her, he smiled back, the effect utterly dazzling upon her already scattered senses and for a moment she stood spellbound.  Then, realizing that she was gaping at him like a complete ninnyhammer, much as she had been earlier that afternoon as she’d looked down upon him from the upstairs window, she forced her muddled thoughts together and compelled herself to blink. 

Do
get
a hold of yourself, Penny
, she silently commanded, for while the Duke of Ainsworth might be the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes upon, he
was
just a man after all.  Even so, she had to admit that no man had ever had anything even remotely similar to the effect the one standing before her had upon her now; and in truth she was finding it difficult to think straight as the weight of his piercing green eyes remained fastened upon her.  Fortunately, however, she was saved from having to form an intelligible thought or articulate a coherent sentence as her father drew the duke’s attention once again.

“I see that your brothers have accompanied you to Scotland,” he remarked, flicking a glance to where Michael and Rafael Ashcroft stood conversing with the newly-titled Viscount Wexley across the room.  “However did you manage to lure those two rapscallions from the amusements of
Town
?”

The duke grinned.  “It wasn’t easy I assure you,” he acknowledged.  “Truth be told, I had to promise them a stop in Hawick upon our return and a visit to the Earl of McKesson’s stables to view his current selection of thoroughbreds.”

“Ah,” the earl replied with an answering grin.  “An irresistible temptation for any young buck, though I warrant such a visit might well result in a substantial letting of your pockets.”

“Indeed, I have little doubt that it will,” the duke agreed with a chuckle, for the McKesson stables were renowned for producing some of the finest and most expensive stock in the land.

“Excuse me, Your Grace.”

Their conversation disrupted, both men’s eyes turned to their hostess, Lady Gilchrist, standing at the duke’s elbow, an apologetic expression upon her face as she glanced between him and the earl.

“Please pardon the interruption, but the Dowager Duchess of Lyndon is requesting to speak with Your Grace at your earliest convenience,” she said, motioning to the petite, silver-haired matron seated upon a high-backed chair in the far corner of the room.

Catching the duke’s eye, the dowager raised her hand and beckoned, rather imperiously, for him to join her, a clear indication that
at his earliest convenience
was merely a polite euphemism for
straightaway
.

He tipped his head in acknowledgement before turning his attention back to the others.  “Yes, of course,” he replied to Lady Gilchrist.  “If you will excuse me, Beckford,” he continued, before nodding to the ladies.  “Lady Beckford, Lady Penelope.”

“By all means,” the earl replied with an amused expression.  “Lord knows we wouldn’t wish to keep the duchess waiting.”

Crossing the room, Gabriel studied the regal-looking dowager, perched like a queen upon her throne, as she surveyed the crowd around her.  As was her custom she was dressed in black in homage to her late husband who’d made his journey to the great beyond more than a decade earlier.  As was also her custom she was sporting a king’s ransom in jewels with a pair of large, pear-shaped diamonds dangling from her ears, a three-strand diamond and pearl choker wrapped around her throat and a set of matching bracelets circling her gloved wrists.  She was an imposing figure and the undisputed grand dame of the
ton
, reigning supreme over the haute monde as she had for the past forty years, both admired and feared alike by those who moved within the ever-tumultuous machinations of Society. 

“Agatha,” he greeted as he came to a stop beside her chair, knowing full well that he was one of the few people who could get away with calling her by her given name.  “You’re looking lovely as ever this evening.”

She ignored the flattery, waiving a gloved hand dismissively at the compliment.  “Tell me Ainsworth, are the rumors to be believed?”

Gabriel suppressed a grin at the duchess’ straightforward manner, for he was well-aware that she wasn’t one to waste time on pleasantries.  It was one of the reasons he liked her as much as he did.  “Rumors?” he queried with the quirk of one finely arched brow, keeping his expression deliberately blank.

“Come now,” the dowager admonished.  “You know quite well to what, or rather to
whom
, I am referring, for everyone is talking about it.”  She eyed him with a pointed stare.  “
The Penworthy chit
.  Is it true that you’ve spoken with her father?”

“Tis true indeed,” Gabriel affirmed.  “In fact, the marquess and I have conversed on numerous occasions over the years; why anyone would find that an interesting topic of conversation, however, I haven’t the slightest notion.”

“You are being deliberately obtuse, my boy,” she accused with a reproving frown.  “Now tell me straight out, have you offered for the girl or not?”

“So serious, Your Grace.  If I didn’t know better I might wonder if you had a vested interest in the matter.”  He leaned forward, lowering his voice to an exaggerated whisper.  “Or,” he suggested with a teasing smile, “is it that you are secretly disappointed to think I might soon be off the market?”

The duchess uttered a very unladylike snort.  “Impertinent scamp,” she chided, rolling her eyes.  “Now cease your prevaricating and answer the question.”

“Fine,” he relented.  Straightening, he rested his arm casually atop the back of her chair.  “If you must know, the answer is no. I have not offered for her.”  He
was
considering it, however.

Her eyes narrowed.  “But you
are
considering it?” she questioned as if she’d read his very thoughts.

“Perhaps,” he hedged.

“You haven’t
feelings
for the girl, have you?”  She scrutinized his expression, her brown eyes assessing.

“Feelings?”  The question caught him off guard.

She studied him a moment longer, her features visibly relaxing.  “No, I thought not.”

He shrugged indifferently.  “Since when are
feelings
a prerequisite to marriage?”

“Regrettably they are not, for that is the world in which we live,” she replied in a flat, matter of fact tone.  “Nonetheless, Cecelia is not the woman for you.”

“No?”

“No.  She is too much like her mother.  You deserve better.”

Her mother?
  He cocked his head to the side, his expression bemused.  “I thought that you and Lady Elingsford were friends.”

“I tolerate her,” Agatha replied with another dismissive wave of her gloved fingertips, “there’s a difference.”

“Ah.”

“Cecelia’s a pretty little thing, I’ll give you that, but like her mother the gel is an utter peagoose and shallow as a wash bowl.”

Shallow as a washbowl?
  He resisted the urge to chuckle aloud for Agatha was never one to mince words.

“I’ve known you since you were a babe in leading strings, my boy, and I can assure you that despite her impeccable lineage the girl is not worthy of you,” she continued, eyeing him steadily.  “Mark my words, Gabriel.  Make her your duchess and you will regret that decision for years to come, for she will undoubtedly bore you to tears within a fortnight.”  Her expression softened then.  “You, my dear, need a woman who possesses not only an intelligent mind, but an impassioned spirit.  You need a woman who will not only spark, but
hold
your interest, a woman who will challenge and excite you, someone who won’t simply fade into the wallpaper once you’re wed.”

“I see,” he replied thoughtfully.  “Perhaps I should simply drop to bended knee right here and now then, for I can think of no one who demonstrates such qualities more so than you, Your Grace.”  He winked playfully and flashed a rakish grin.  “However, I fear that the rather significant difference in our ages may cause quite a stir amongst the
ton
.”

“Insolent pup,” she scolded, though a smile tugged at the corners of her rouged lips and a laughing twinkle lit her warm brown eyes. “You’re fortunate I’ve such a fondness for you.”

“Indeed I am.”  He spoke with complete sincerity now.  “And all jesting aside, I promise to take your advice into consideration, Your Grace.  You have my word.”

The duchess patted his hand affectionately, nodding in approval.  “You needn’t settle for commonplace, Gabriel, for there
is
a woman out there who’s worthy of you.  You simply need to find her.”

“I vow I shall keep my eyes peeled.”

“Oh and by the by, I saw the way Beckford’s wife was ogling you earlier,” she stated with a derisive sniff. 

Gabriel’s brows drew together in surprise.  “God’s teeth, is there anything that escapes your notice?”

“Very little,” she replied unflappably.  “And you would do well to stay clear of her this weekend, for she is a vile creature and determined, I’ve heard, to add your name to her list of conquests.”

Unfortunately Gabriel was well aware of Maryanne Houghton’s interest, for much to his aggravation and despite his disinclination to
further
their acquaintance, she had been actively pursuing him for months.  He chose his paramours carefully, however, and while extramarital affairs within the
ton
were frequently overlooked once a husband had been provided with his requisite heirs, he’d never felt right about bedding another man’s wife, preferring to keep his liaisons free of such moral entanglements.  Even so, a dalliance with the Countess of Beckford held little appeal, for he couldn’t abide vain, narcissistic women who believed a pretty face could get them anything,
or anyone
, they wanted.  “Trust me,” he replied with a grimace, “you can set your mind at ease in that regard, for I haven’t the slightest intention of becoming one of the countess’
conquests
.”