Page 18 of Midnight Rendezvous (Sins & Sensibilities #4)

CHAPTER 18

T en more days passed in reckless, delicious bliss. By daylight, Penny played the dutiful daughter. She took tea with her mother, attended recitals, and strolled the gardens with her sister. Her conscience teetered constantly between guilt and rebellion. Her heart was caught somewhere in the middle, trapped in a tangled web of duty, longing, and a love that only grew bolder with each night spent in Alexander's arms.

The Duke of Merrick had called on her twice more. Once for a respectable picnic in Kensington Gardens—her mother and sister present, and once again for a curated walk through the Royal Museum. He remembered she had enjoyed it before, and while the gesture was thoughtful, she had not truly wanted to be there. A quiet part of her longed to ask why he chose to court someone so young.

Why her? There were no romantic gestures, stolen glances, or whispered words between them. He had never even tried to steal a kiss. Everything between them felt proper, distant as if affection were something to be scheduled, not felt. When she looked into the duke's pale, assessing eyes, Penny saw no flicker of longing, no heat. Only scrutiny. A measured man weighing the merits of a future duchess.

And yet... he was not cruel. Nor unkind. He could be charming in conversation; on rare occasions, he made her laugh with his carefully told stories. She could see how he might make an agreeable husband—dependable, respected, polite.

But in the nights...

Penny had managed to sneak from her home six more times, every escape more daring than the last. And every time, Alexander waited. Sometimes, with an unexpected adventure. Sometimes, with heated kisses that bruised her mouth and filled her lungs with want. He had taken her to an underground art auction in Seven Dials, where she'd been scandalized—and thrilled—by the beauty and immorality on open display. Another night, they slipped into the velvet-dark corners of a forbidden gambling den. But last night...

Last night had been madness.

A masquerade in Soho Square, tucked into a townhouse dripping with opulence and masked secrets. He had stolen her away to the moonlit garden, pulled her into his lap on a wrought iron bench, and with her silken gown around her hips and his mouth at her throat, she had ridden his cock until they were both hoarse from stifling moans.

As morning sunlight filtered across her bed, Penny sat with a hand pressed to her belly. Heat rushed up her neck as she recalled the way he'd gripped her hips, guiding her down on his cock harder, deeper. Even after a long soak in the bath, she was tender, every movement a reminder of how thoroughly he had claimed her.

Not gently like she was spun glass and made of fine sensibilities.

Not reverently. But like she was his. His equal and his craving. Penny's lips curved in a smile, and she exhaled. Then, she hastily pushed away the diary she had been writing in, half poems, half confessions of her wild, stolen nights, and sat up straighter when a knock sounded at her door.

It creaked open, and Henrietta bustled in, bright-eyed and breathless, curls bouncing. "You'll never believe it!" she said, practically skipping to the bed.

"What?" Penny asked, half-annoyed and half-amused.

Henrietta flung herself onto the mattress beside her. "The duke is here! He's in the drawing room with Papa. He asked for a private audience."

Penny's breath stuttered.

"What do you think it means?" Henrietta continued, already giddy. "Mama is faint with joy. She's having the cook fetch the special lemon cake and tea."

But Penny wasn't listening. Her ears rang. Her chest tightened. Slowly, she rose from the bed and walked toward the window, staring out at the gray sky and manicured gardens below.

It was happening. She had known this would come. Eventually, His Grace would make the offer everyone had been waiting for. Penny closed her eyes, and for a heartbeat, all she could feel was the ghost of Alexander's mouth at her throat, his voice in her ear, his hands on her bare hips.

"Penny?" her sister asked behind her.

"I need a moment," she said faintly, gripping the windowsill.

Because the man downstairs was about to offer her a crown, yet the man she loved had already given her the world.

Penny hurried from her room and down the winding stairs. She saw her mother walking toward her, a pleased smile on her face. Penny froze in the hallway. Her pulse thudded painfully in her throat, and her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the console table, steadying herself. Just beyond the doorway, her future was being arranged with civility and good breeding—entirely devoid of passion, her opinions and wishes.

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks. She brushed them away quickly and looked around to be sure no one saw. Then she turned and fled softly down the hallway, the corridor blurring at the edges. She ducked into the music room, the familiar scent of rosewood and old sheet music pressing around her like a comforting shroud.

Sinking onto the sofa by the window, Penny clasped her hands in her lap and waited. It wasn't long before she heard footsteps approaching, calm and measured. The door opened, and the Duke of Merrick entered. He looked exactly as he always did—composed, refined, and quietly handsome in a way that offered comfort rather than fire. His graying temples lent him distinction, his movements precise and noble.

"Lady Penelope," he said, his voice warm and gentlemanly. "I have just spoken with your father. With his blessing, I come now to seek yours."

She rose on unsteady legs and folded her hands before her. Her smile felt frozen on her lips.

"It would be my great honor," he said formally, "if you would do me the distinction of becoming my duchess."

Her throat closed, but she smiled wider. The correct smile. The practiced one. The one that would reassure her mother and bring relief to her father. She sank into a deep curtsy. "Yes, Your Grace. I would be honored."

He bowed with a pleased smile. "Then I shall speak with your mother and we will see to announcing it appropriately."

And with that, he was gone. The door clicked softly shut behind him. Penny stood there for a moment, trembling, her limbs still locked in place. Then, something cracked inside her. She turned and rushed from the room, skirts whispering along the carpet as she climbed the stairs and burst into her bedchamber. The door barely closed behind her before she flung herself onto the bed, pressing her face into the pillow.

The sobs tore from her chest in silent, violent waves.

Oh, Alexander .

She had said yes. She had done what was expected. And she had never felt so lost and empty in her life.

The paper crinkled in his hand as Alexander stared at the announcement, the script burned into his vision as if seared by flame.

The Duke of Merrick is pleased to announce his upcoming nuptials to Lady Penelope Dodge.

It was done. Official. Final. A low, savage sound curled in his throat as he folded the paper, then gripped it tightly, his knuckles whitened. Loss tore through him, sharp and visceral, hollowing his chest. He blinked hard, but damn it all, his eyes still smarted.

"Hell," he muttered, tossing the crumpled notice onto the low table before him.

From across the room, his good friend, the Duke of Basil, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his eyes narrowed with something suspiciously like pity. "Are you just going to let her go?"

Alexander didn't answer right away. His jaw clenched. He reached for his drink instead and tossed it back, the burn of brandy a poor distraction from the dull throb radiating from somewhere beneath his ribs. "This is what she wants," he said gruffly. "She's made her choice. I have no right to interfere."

Basil's voice lowered. "I know it was her that night. In the pit. Watching you fight. Don't insult me by pretending otherwise."

Alexander's spine went rigid. "What the hell does that matter?"

"She wasn't looking at you like a friend," Basil added. "That was the expression of a woman who loved you. Body and soul."

The words cracked through him like lightning, cleaving him in two. Alexander shoved away from the table, the scrape of his chair loud in the stillness. He didn't speak. Couldn't. His throat felt scraped raw. Instead, he stalked out of the library and down the corridor, ignoring the footman who moved to open a door. He threw open the door to his private exercise chamber and stepped inside, slamming it shut behind him. The room was cool and dim, lit only by the weak light seeping through the curtains. But the heavy boxing bag hung suspended from the ceiling—silent and waiting.

Alexander violently stripped off his coat and waistcoat and rolled his sleeves up past his elbows. His fists clenched as he took his stance, his muscles coiled tight, and his breathing was shallow.

And then he struck.

Again. And again.

The dull, rhythmic thud of his fists echoed through the chamber as he pounded the bag, his knuckles repeatedly slamming into the leather. His body shook with the force of his blows, pain radiating from his bruised ribs, but he welcomed it. He needed it. Alexander struck until sweat dripped down his brow, until his arms trembled with exertion, and his lungs burned.

But still, he kept hitting because it was the only way to drown the image of her—of Penny —in another man's arms. A man who would never see the wildness in her soul the way he had. A man who would never know how she looked with her hair down and eyes glassy from pleasure. A man who would never deserve her. A man who would never grant her the freedom to travel, to experience life beyond what was deemed suitable for proper young ladies—a freedom that felt wild and real.

He hit harder because she was gone. And if he allowed himself to feel all that roared inside him—he might never survive it.