Page 7 of Midnight Rendezvous (Sins & Sensibilities #4)

CHAPTER 7

One year and three months later ...

P enelope stood at the edge of the ballroom, a glass of lemonade clutched in one gloved hand, her mother at her right, and her brother—dutiful for once—at her left. She wore one of her finer gowns tonight, a soft silvery-blue silk that shimmered faintly beneath the chandeliers. The color suited her, or so her modiste had declared. Penny didn't much care. She hadn't cared in a long time.

"Do lift the corners of your mouth, Penelope," her mother murmured, the delicate fan in her hand fluttering with the precision of a general signaling troops. "The Duke of Merrick is expected tonight. He wrote to confirm his attendance."

Penny made a soft sound in her throat. Not quite in agreement. Not quite protest. It was the sort of sound that could mean anything, which was exactly how she intended it.

She had recently celebrated her twentieth birthday and felt older than the years permitted. Not just older—hollow. Tired. Her smiles were practiced now—easy to summon, easier still to tuck away when no one was looking. Her family never noticed her unhappiness because she refused to let them see it. Her father even praised her newfound reserve, declaring she was finally behaving as a proper young lady ought to.

But proper young ladies didn't burn with forbidden memories.

Visions of that wicked night with Alexander drifted through her thoughts like smoke, and she slammed her eyes shut, willing them away. The longing they stirred was too dangerous, too unbearable. She could not allow herself to remember how it had felt to be caged in his embrace—helpless, aching, and alive.

A ripple stirred the crowd like a wave. It preceded him wherever he went, and tonight was no different. The Duke of Merrick had arrived. He was tall, immaculately dressed in a deep forest green coat trimmed in black satin, and wore his silver-touched hair with elegant confidence. The gray at his temples only seemed to heighten his appeal—dignity, wealth, and refinement in a single devastating package.

He made his way toward her, parting the crowd with the same quiet command he always carried. Penny forced her spine straight and lifted her chin.

"Lady Penelope," the duke said smoothly, bowing low over her gloved hand. "May I have the honor of this waltz?"

She inclined her head. "Of course, Your Grace."

He led her onto the floor, his movements polished and sure. The orchestra struck up the waltz, and Penny let herself be swept into the dance. She turned, lifted, glided, every movement perfect.

"Your gown is very becoming," he said, his tone perfectly courteous.

"Thank you," she replied softly.

"It has been some time since I've had the pleasure of your company." A pause. Then he said, "I confess I had not expected to enjoy this season as much as I have. But then, I did not expect to see you again so soon."

"I had heard you were still in mourning," she said carefully, her gaze lingering just above his shoulder. "You have been...very devoted. It's been more than a year."

"Fourteen months," he confirmed. "I took her loss seriously."

Penny softened. "Most men do not. Society only expects six months, if that."

"I have never been a man to follow society's dictates blindly."

She looked up at him. His gaze was sincere. Admirable, really. But her heart... her heart gave no answering flutter. Her skin did not warm. There was no reckless longing, no unbearable need to press closer.

He was everything she should want.

But he was not him. A chill raced over her skin, a ripple like the wind stirring a field of poppies. Her breath caught.

He is here .

Penny didn't need to turn. She didn't need to search. She felt Alexander in the room the way she might feel a storm gathering—electric, inevitable, dark and unrelenting. Her flush deepened, and she fought the urge to look.

Had he seen her?

Would he care?

They had not spoken since that dreadful day when she had broken his heart with words wrapped in ice, even as her own heart bled inside her chest. Since then, not a letter, glance, or whisper.

And yet she could feel him still.

The Duke of Merrick's voice broke through her thoughts. "You've gone quiet."

"My apologies," Penny said swiftly, curving her lips into the smile she had perfected over the past year. "My mother often rebukes me for woolgathering."

The duke studied her with the patient air of a man unused to being disregarded. "You're flushed."

"The ballroom is warm," she said lightly, though her pulse throbbed far too fast for that to be true.

One of his dark brows lifted, and Penny feared he saw through her. She forced her shoulders to remain relaxed, her expression placid.

"Allow me to take you onto the terrace for a bit of fresh air," he said, offering his arm.

Her eyes widened. "Your Grace, that would not be proper—"

He smiled, faintly amused. "The days of a gentleman whisking a young lady outdoors for a stolen moment are not yet behind me, Lady Penelope."

A surprised laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "I..."

"Your mother will chaperone us," he said smoothly, already steering her toward the open terrace doors.

True to his word, her mother followed at a discreet and yet ever-watchful distance, a pleased gleam in her eye. Penny exhaled slowly as the cool night breeze washed over her, soothing her heated skin. The air carried the scent of roses and distant laughter, and for a fleeting moment, she closed her eyes, willing herself to feel something other than dread.

The duke released her arm briefly and returned with a glass of champagne. She murmured a thank you and accepted it, grateful for the distraction.

A sudden burst of feminine laughter drifted from the garden below. Drawn by the sound, Penny stepped closer to the railing and looked down.

A lady stood far too close to a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman partially obscured by the shadows. But Penny would know that posture anywhere. That proud tilt of the chin. The lazy grace that masked restless energy. Even before he glanced up, her heart had already clenched.

Alexander.

As if summoned by her stare, he lifted his head. The flickering garden lights caught in the silver storm of his eyes—still piercing, still unreadable.

But there was no warmth in them.

His gaze swept over her without the faintest trace of recognition. Then slid to the Duke of Merrick beside her. A mocking smile curved his mouth before he turned away, saying something to the lady that made her laugh again.

Penny's breath caught. She gripped the stem of her glass tighter, feeling the edges of her composure splinter.

The indifference in his gaze cut deeper than any wound. He had looked at her as if she were nothing. As if she had never whispered his name. As if he had not once held her as if she belonged to him.

She turned away quickly—and found the duke watching her.

"You know Lord Bainbridge?" he asked, his voice cool and even.

Penny summoned the calmness that had become second nature. "Somewhat," she said, her voice steady. "He is a university friend of my brother's."

The duke's stare sharpened, and something in his expression chilled. She could feel the weight of it, even as he said nothing. His silence was polite, but the undercurrent was unmistakable.

Penny lifted her chin. "If you'll excuse me, Your Grace. I believe I should visit the retiring room."

"Of course." He bowed his head, and she offered a shallow curtsy before stepping away.

Her steps were calm and measured, but inside, she was in disarray. She did not stop until she reached the marble hallway beyond the ballroom. There, out of sight, Penny pressed her hand to her chest.

Dread coiled in her belly.

What have I done ?

And why, after all this time, did a single look from him still unravel everything?

An hour later, Penny dropped her exhausted body onto her bed, the silken coverlet cool against her overheated skin. She groaned softly, burying her face in the embroidered pillow.

Her muscles ached. Her mind spun. Her heart—well, it no longer felt like hers at all.

The latch clicked.

Penny didn't lift her head.

"Don't," she mumbled into the pillow. "Not now."

But it was already too late.

The door opened fully, and the soft sound of slippered feet padding across the carpet followed.

"Penny!" her sister whispered excitedly. "How was it? You met him, didn't you? The Duke? In society?"

Penny turned her face just enough to glare with one eye. "Henrietta," she groaned. "Must we do this tonight?"

Henrietta stood at the foot of the bed, clasping her hands in front of her with a mixture of hope, nerves, and that quiet fear she never dared voice aloud. She was still in her ballgown, her cheeks flushed with youth and innocence and expectation.

Penny stared at her for a long moment—and her heart softened, even as it twisted.

Their mother had told Henrietta more than once over the last year: once Penny was securely married to the Duke of Merrick, Henrietta would be free to follow her heart.

That promise had made her younger sister glow with happiness.

And Penny had wept silently, knowing even her dearest sister, her closest companion, had unknowingly tied her own future to Penny's sacrifice. That truth had pierced deeper than anything else.

But she had lifted her chin and borne it, like everything else.

She managed a soft smile. "It was...a fine meeting."

Henrietta's eyes widened. "Truly?"

"The ball was grand," Penny added gently, pushing herself up to rest against the pillows. "And our dance was thrilling."

Henrietta squealed, spinning in a circle as if Penny had announced a betrothal. "Oh! I knew it would be! He looked so handsome when he came to claim you. And you looked like a duchess already, Penny."

Penny smiled through the ache. She reached for her sister's hand, gave it a squeeze, and said nothing more.

Henrietta sighed dreamily and rushed from the room, no doubt off to scribble in her journal and imagine the wedding flowers.

Left alone, Penny sagged back into the bedding, hugging the pillow to her chest. Her throat tightened.

She would not cry. Not tonight. Not again.

She had chosen this path.

She had made her bargain with pride and silence and a shattered heart.

The candle beside her bed flickered low. She closed her eyes.

But long after sleep claimed her limbs, storm-gray eyes haunted the edges of her dreams—glinting with cold mockery, burning with forgotten heat.

And somewhere, deep inside her soul, something silently fractured all over again.