Page 2 of Midnight Rendezvous (Sins & Sensibilities #4)

CHAPTER 2

Dearest Diary,

Another dance, another whisper of impropriety that has been carefully concealed from Mama's and the eyes of society, and another sleepless night of disappointment, wishing I knew what it was like to feel his mouth against mine. The earl did not kiss me, and I wonder if the attention he flatters me with holds more significance for me than himself.

I do not know what has come over me, and I do not know how to defeat these feelings. I should not long for Lord B as I do, yet every time we dance, I feel like I am stepping into a dream I do not wish to wake from. When he looks at me with those storm-gray eyes, I feel he truly sees me in a way no one else ever has. And yet, there is an unspoken distance between us, a line he refuses to cross, though I sometimes think he wishes to.

Is he not a rakehell, as the rumors whisper? Where is that devilish gentleman I met in that tree? I do not know if it is honor that keeps him from pressing his suit, or if I have built castles in the sky of my own desires. What if the earl only sees me as his good friend's sister and nothing more? What if all his attention is mere politeness?

A scandalous part of me aches to be reckless, to tiptoe closer to temptation and see if his lips are as warm as I have imagined. Just once. Just one kiss.

P enny sighed and let the quill slip from her fingers, rolling onto her back as she stared at the canopy above her bed. The soft glow from the candle on her nightstand flickered, casting golden shadows over the light blue walls of her chamber.

She felt like a fool. Since the start of the season, she had danced with The Earl of Bainbridge several times, stolen moments in Hyde Park, lingered too long beneath his heated gaze, and let herself fall under his wicked charm.

He often called upon her brother, and though he never directly approached her during those visits, she always felt the weight of his gaze—intense, searing, an inexplicable invitation to wickedness.

Did he truly harbor the same forbidden yearning that threatened to unravel her whenever he was near? Penny swallowed as she recalled his invitation to use his first name only last night.

Alexander ...

A loud thud shattered the quiet, followed by the unmistakable creak of her chamber door swinging open.

"Penny!"

Henrietta's voice rang with distress as she bounded into the room, the heavy skirts of her pale blue muslin dress swishing around her ankles. Without preamble, she launched herself onto the bed, her golden curls tumbling over her shoulders as she landed beside Penny.

With a startled gasp, Penny snapped her diary shut and shoved it beneath the pillow, her heart hammering. "Good heavens, Henrietta! Must you always enter a room as if highwaymen are pursuing you?"

Her younger sister, always lively and effervescent, did not return her teasing with a laugh. Instead, Henrietta bit her lower lip, worry shadowing her normally bright hazel eyes.

"Why do you appear so out of sorts?"

"I had to speak with you at once," she whispered. "I overheard Mama talking with Aunt Margaret. Mama means to see us both wed before the season is over."

Penny froze, the weight of those words pressing against her chest. "Both of us?"

Henrietta nodded. "Yes!"

"That is nonsensical. You are not out, and you are only seventeen."

"I heard her say it. I was in the corridor just outside the drawing room. She said that with our family's current situation, we must both marry well and soon."

Penny sat up, her body tense. "Our current situation? What does that mean?"

She noted the fright in her sister's gaze and took her hand. "You must have misheard, Henrietta. Surely, Mama does not expect you to make a match this season. Papa would never agree to such foolhardy."

A miserable look crossed Henrietta's delicate features. "I promise I did not mishear. I was so shocked I behaved most improperly and pressed my ear to the door. I...I do not think Mama would consider Sir Anthony, even if he were to seek my hand, and my heart is breaking, Penny."

Tears shimmered in Henrietta's eyes, and she rapidly blinked them away, her vulnerability stark against the usual brightness of her expression. Penny's heart clenched. Her sister was already half in love with their Berkshire neighbor, Sir Anthony Walters—a gentleman only four years her senior. He was charming and kind, his regard evident in how he looked at Henrietta. But Penny knew their mother would never deem him an acceptable match. Not when he lacked the wealth and consequence society demanded of a suitor for a marquess's daughter.

"There is more ."

The knot in Penny's stomach tightened. "Tell me."

Henrietta swallowed, squeezing Penny's fingers. "Mama told our aunt that the Duke of Merrick is prepared to wait an appropriate time before making an offer for you. That the alliance between our families is guaranteed."

Penny jerked as if slapped, her breath catching painfully in her throat. " No ," she murmured, her heart squeezing. "You must be mistaken."

"I wish I were," Henrietta whispered. "But I heard it plainly."

Disbelief and shock warred inside Penny. The Duke of Merrick ? A man old enough to be her father? A man she had shared nothing with—not a smile, whispered conversation, or moment of connection? If not for his frequent political dinner meetings with her father over the years, the duke would be unknown to Penny. Her gaze darted to her pillow, to the diary hidden beneath it. In its pages, she had confessed all her hopes, her heart's longing for the Earl of Bainbridge. And yet, her mother would choose for Penny and decide the man she would marry.

No .

She would not—could not—let this be her fate without a fight. Penny swung her legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the way her nightgown tangled around her ankles. "I must speak with Mama."

Henrietta's eyes widened. " Now ?"

"Yes. Before she sets this plan into motion."

Penny strode to her dressing robe, slipping it over her shoulders with trembling hands as she moved toward the door. Her nightgown whispered against her legs, and her breath came fast and shallow.

Her sister scrambled after her, grabbing her hand. "Be careful, Penny. You know how Mama is when she's made up her mind."

Penny paused. The candlelight caught Henrietta's anxious expression, her brow furrowed, her lower lip caught between her teeth. "I will," she said quietly, though her pulse thundered.

With that, she stepped into the dimly lit hallway, her bare feet soundless on the carpet runner. The mournful strains of the pianoforte drifted from below, echoing down the corridor like a ghost of sorrow, haunting and persistent. Penny gripped the banister as she descended. She knew that melody. Her mother always played it when her heart was heavy.

Penny hastened toward the sound, hesitated at the doorway, opened it gently and slipped inside, leaning against the panel. The room was awash with golden lamplight, and the scent of beeswax and rosewater floated on the air. Lady Clarissa, the Marchioness of Belmont—still uncommonly beautiful at three-and-forty—sat at the gleaming pianoforte in the music room, her posture perfect, her auburn hair pinned with ruthless elegance. Her gown was a silvery gray silk, severe in its lines and without adornment, save for the narrow pearls at her throat and ears. She looked like a portrait brought to life, untouched by time but carved in quiet discontent.

Her mother's hands danced over the keys; each note a lament, each chord a warning. Penny stood silently for what felt like an eternity, her heart aching, until her mother's fingers stilled. Her mother didn't turn.

"Henrietta told you what she rudely eavesdropped," she said, her voice composed, emotionless.

Penny managed a small smile. "She always did inherit your talent for hearing what was never meant to be heard, Mama."

Her mother turned then, regarding her with a cool, assessing gaze. "There was no need for you to come downstairs, my dear. I have already spoken to your papa, and it has been decided."

Dread coiled in her belly. "What has been decided, Mama?"

"The Duke of Merrick will make an offer for your hand after a respectable mourning period. And your father will accept it."

For a moment, Penny couldn't speak, her breath caught painfully in her lungs. Then, pushing away from the door, she stepped forward.

"Mama... did you raise me for nineteen years only to give me to a man older than Papa? A man with three young children whose duchess died barely a month ago. Where is his regard for her memory to be thinking of marriage again so soon?"

"The duke is practical. He understands what his family needs."

Seeing the implacable glint in her mother's eyes, Penny's voice cracked. "Then why did you teach me to dream? To fence, to swim in rivers, to climb trees and imagine the world was vast and full of wonder? Why talk to me about love and the joy of marrying a man who holds your heart? Why let me believe I could ever choose—"

"I also taught you about duty and sacrifice!" her mother snapped.

"Mama—"

"Be silent!" Her mother's tone was cold, her poise unshaken. "I was far too indulgent with you. I missed the adventures of my own childhood, and I wanted you to have what I never could. In that regard, I failed you."

The confession struck like a blow. Penny's heart twisted with pain. "Mama, please —"

"Our family is in dire straits, and we need you." Her mother rose then, smoothing her gown with slow, deliberate precision. She walked to the small walnut desk, plucked a sheaf of parchment from the top drawer, and returned to hand it to Penny.

She looked down. Three names were written in her father's bold script:

The Duke of Merrick

The Marquess of Ambrose

The Earl of Raine

Her mother's voice was calm, almost detached. "Your future husband will be one of these gentlemen. However, the Duke of Merrick advanced your father fifty thousand pounds to save the Berkshire estate. That generosity was given with the understanding that you would eventually become his duchess."

Penny flinched as if struck. "He gave Papa fifty thousand—?"

Her mother inclined her head. "The duke is a man of prestige, wealth, and influence. I could not wish for a more advantageous match."

"You sold me?" The words escaped in a strangled whisper, filled with anguish.

"Do not be melodramatic," her mother snapped. "Marriages have always been transactions between the best families. This is nothing new."

Penny lifted a shaking hand as if to hold off the weight of her mother's words. "Mama, Lord Bainbridge—"

"Is broke ," Lady Clarissa cut in with ruthless precision. "And it is beneath our dignity to speak of money so crassly, but you leave me no choice. I am at fault for not stopping the attention he paid you. I confess, before I learned the truth of our financial standing—and his—I believed Lord Bainbridge might make you a suitable husband. But he has nothing to offer you or this family. And your father would never accept his suit. We will only consider offers from one of the men on that list."

Penny's lips trembled, her throat thick with unshed tears. "Lord Bainbridge has always been so considerate—"

"Do you wish to see your sister ruined?" her mother demanded, her voice dropping to a low, cutting whisper that carried far more weight than a shout. "Or your brother sent away to live on a pittance in the country, scraping by on pride and memory? Is that what your heart desires, Penelope?"

She flinched.

Her mother took a step closer, her posture regal, though her voice trembled with strain. "Henrietta has formed an attachment to Sir Anthony Walters and, in her girlish na?veté, believes I remain blissfully ignorant. That child's only hope of marrying where her heart lies rests entirely on you. If you make a worthy alliance, your father will allow her a measure of choice."

Penny's breath caught painfully in her throat. Her mother's gaze, so often aloof and composed, was now ablaze with a fierce, almost desperate intensity.

"You hold the future of this family in your hands," she continued, her tone softer now but no less unyielding. "Do not be so selfish as to throw it away for a man who can give you nothing but his affection."

Penny felt as if a knife had pierced her chest. She opened her mouth, then closed it, unable to speak through the knot of emotions in her chest. Her mother's gaze, cool and composed, did not waver.

"I care deeply, Mama," Penny whispered, barely able to speak past the ache in her chest.

"You will not speak Lord Bainbridge's name again. Especially not before the duke. Do not disappoint our expectations, young lady."

Penny said nothing. She turned away, her spine rigid, her steps clipped and uneven as she walked from the room, her limbs trembling with the effort to maintain her composure.

She did not stop. She ran down the hallway and up the winding staircase, her slippers silent against the carpeted steps. Her brother rounded the corner from his chamber, dressed in the first state of fashion, a careless rake prepared for an evening of carousing. That the preservation of his inheritance rested upon her shoulders while he moved through life unburdened and untroubled filled her with a bitter, breathless fury.

"Penny, what is wrong?" he asked, frowning.

She did not answer. She swept past him as if she hadn't heard, reached her chamber, and flung open the door. It slammed behind her, muffling the world. With a low, broken sound, she threw herself onto the bed, burying her face into the pillow. Her chest heaved, but no sob escaped—only the silent shaking of her frame and the fierce grip of grief she did not wish to voice.

She clutched the pillow to her chest, breathing in the comforting scent of lavender water on the linen, the faint trace of her own perfume. Her dark hair spilled in tangled waves around her, falling like a curtain as she curled into herself.

To be given to a man she did not want. A life not of her choosing. A duchess to a stranger—widowed, older than Papa, with children who would possibly resent her existence.

But not yet.

Not yet.

If this were to be her fate, then she would steal what moments she could. She would carve her own small corner of joy from the days left to her—no matter how fleeting.

One kiss.

One stolen dance.

One breathless hour in the arms of the man who made her feel alive.

One forever, pressed into the folds of memory.

Even if she could not have a lifetime, she would have something that was only hers.

Just once, before everything changed.