Page 22

CHAPTER 21

T he wind was so strong it almost knocked the easel over the second time in the last ten minutes. On days like this, Penelope would have spared herself the irritation and done her painting indoors.

But the air in Blackmoore Manor felt heavier these days. Every time His Grace would walk into the dining room or pass her in the hallways, her breath would catch in her throat and seemingly stay there until sufficient distance was put between them once again.

So, Penelope continued to throw herself into her paintings. However, the dowager duchess expressed some concern at how long Penelope locked herself away in her room, so she tried to carry on in the rear gardens of the manor, under the cloudy skies, occasionally being teased and tormented by the wind.

Setting her palette down, Penelope reached for the top of the easel and pushed it deeper into the dirt—with a tad more vexation than she would like to admit even to herself.

“Are you all right, Lady Penelope?” asked a man’s voice, momentarily deepening the frown on Penelope’s face.

“Oh!” her eyebrows relaxed when her eyes landed on the Viscount Gloushire and the footman behind him. “Good day, Lord Gloushire. What a pleasant surprise!”

The gentleman returned her greeting before explaining, “Her Grace mentioned that you would be out here and advised that I join you.” He cleared his throat sheepishly.

Penelope looked past him, squinting her eyes to better focus on the house. Sure enough, she caught sight of Mother and the dowager duchess eagerly waving to her through one of the corridor windows—enthusiastically indicating their approval for this match.

So that’s why they sent a footman to chaperone instead of joining us themselves, she chuckled to herself.

“Please have a seat, Lord Gloushire.” She gestured to the bench to her left. “Would you care for any refreshments? I can send for them right away.”

“The dowager duchess actually said they would already be on the way.” He beamed at her, accepting her offer and dropping himself onto the bench. “Your work looks lovely. May I ask what place this is?”

“Pelshead,” she answered, picking up her palette and brush once again. “At least, this is how I remember it while I was growing up. I’ve been in a more sentimental mood these days,” she confessed.

“I read in a treatise once that such moods are often brought on by one’s desire to escape the present,” remarked her companion. “But it is my sincerest hope that that isn’t the case right now?”

Penelope’s brush hovered over the canvas as she breathily asked, “What if it were?”

“Then I would offer my sympathies and ask if there was anything I could do to help change that,” the viscount replied matter-of-factly.

Penelope gave him a smile of thanks for his compassion.

Marrying me tomorrow would be the best way to change everything, she Thought.

As promised, two maids arrived bearing their refreshments. But to Penelope’s dismay, so did the Duke of Blackmoore.

“Good day, Your Grace!” Lord Gloushire leaped to his feet, extending a polite hand towards the other man. “Awful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

The duke returned his greeting with a firm handshake and an unreadable expression. “Quite right, Lord Gloushire. But pleasant visitors are a bright spot wherever they go,” came his cordial reply. “To what do we owe the pleasure of welcoming you today?”

Without waiting for an invitation, His Grace sat down on the bench and gestured for the viscount to do the same before he answered the former’s question.

“I had some free time today and thought I would make the most of it by speaking to the most wonderful lady in the ton ,” Lord Gloushire answered with a wink.

Penelope rolled her eyes. “You’re so polite that I’m certain you say that to all the women to whom you speak, Lord Gloushire.”

“Preposterous!” the viscount clicked his tongue before jovially bringing a hand down on His Grace’s shoulder. “If anyone’s a smooth-talker to the ladies, it’s the Duke of Blackmoore. Isn’t that right, Your Grace?”

Penelope felt the smile drop from her face at this uncharacteristically backhanded comment.

If he was offended, the duke did an impressive job of concealing it as he calmly retorted, “I don't blame you for assuming as much, Lord Gloushire. But such tactics are unnecessary for those of us who possess natural charm...”

Penelope exhaled in relief.

“...not that you would know what that’s like, of course,” the duke tacked on at the last second, causing the knots in Penelope’s stomach to tighten once again.

She opened her mouth to change the subject, but the viscount was too quick.

“If that were true,” he huffed, “then I wouldn’t have been able to get married in the first place, would I?”

Penelope’s eyes widened in surprise and confusion. “Are you married, Lord Gloushire?”

His gaze snapped to meet hers, his eyebrows shooting upwards as his own words washed over him.

“I was married,” he clarified hastily, brushing away the hair that the wind had pushed into his eyes. “I am... a widower.”

Penelope nodded slowly as she processed this revelation. “Oh... I see, Lord Gloushire. My condolences, I had no idea at-”

“I thought perhaps the dowager duchess may have mentioned it at some point.” The viscount fidgeted with his hands awkwardly. “But even so, I do apologize if I surprised you with this information.”

“No, no,” Penelope waved his remark away awkwardly, “but I suppose it does make more sense that a gentleman as courteous and agreeable as yourself isn’t a bachelor.”

A movement on the edge of her periphery momentarily caught her attention and she found His Grace carefully studying her expression. Perhaps he wondered whether Penelope truly was as unbothered as she appeared.

Did he plan on causing Lord Gloushire to slip up and reveal this prematurely? she wondered.

Almost as though he had heard her thoughts, His Grace rose from the bench and patted the dust off his pants. “Well, I believe I have intruded long enough, I suppose it’s about time I get back to my duties.”

“Already leaving us, Your Grace?” The viscount stood up as well. “Surely the bulk of your activities don't even begin until sundown?”

His Grace exhaled slightly through his nose at the insinuation. But instead of a retort, the duke simply nodded as he offered, “Have a wonderful day, Lord Gloushire. Ah, and you too, Lady Pen.” He added, “I am certain you two have plenty to discuss.”

She shot him a final glare as he walked past, but it did nothing to wipe away his smirk. When the duke-shaped nuisance had finally departed, Penelope offered to pour Lord Gloushire a cup of tea in the hopes of pressing onward and salvaging what she could.

“It appears that you and His Grace are well-acquainted,” she handed the cup and saucer to him, “so I hope that means I do not have to apologize for his conduct?”

“You shouldn’t have to apologize regardless.” The viscount reminded her, “You are neither his sister nor his mother. But indeed, I am well aware of His Grace’s exploits. I do sincerely hope he isn’t burdening you with them.” He flashed her a knowing look.

“We’ve had our differences, but His Grace has been treating me much better than expected,” came Penelope’s honest answer.

Flashes of her late-night lessons with His Grace appeared in her mind’s eye. Not only was she aware of his exploits, but she had directly benefited from them as he shared everything he knew and even orchestrated events to better enable her to speak with their targeted prospects.

“How relieving to hear that His Grace has even a small measure of decency, despite how well he hides it,” joked Lord Gloushire.

Penelope felt the urge to object, to explain that he was actually quite loyal to his friends, family, and even to her.

But she held her tongue in the end.

After all, how could she ever expect to gain control over the strange feelings she harbored for him if she did nothing but praise him?

Almost as though on cue, Lord Gloushire moved to change the subject to more lighthearted matters, including the book he had mentioned the other night when they were at the opera house.

Once again, Penelope found herself sinking into a comfortable—almost bored—back and forth with the gentleman.

As they spoke, the thought crossed her mind that if she somehow did end up marrying him, then she would have to spend the rest of her life holding similar monotonous discussions.

It’ll be fine, she told herself. It will certainly be much more preferable than marrying Uncle Winston.

* * *

“Absolutely not,” Duncan managed to hiss out, despite the whiskey’s sting.

“But why not?” whined Fairhaven, downing the last of his own glass. “You never indulge me!”

Duncan barely managed to push himself upright in his seat as he reached for the bottle and poured his friend another glass. “On the contrary, I believe it is precisely because Harlington and I have indulged you far too much for far too long that you think you can continue to take advantage of us.”

Fairhaven scoffed, but nonetheless tipped his glass towards him in thanks for refilling it. “Then you shouldn’t have a problem indulging me in this as well!”

Duncan let out yet another exasperated sigh. He usually had quite a lot of patience for the nonsense that Fairhaven spouted, but he found himself more short-tempered these days.

The drunken haze hovering just above his eyebrows was a familiar sensation.

What is Lady Penelope doing right now while we’re busy making complete fools of ourselves? he silently asked the glass in his hand. When no answer came, he brought the glass to his lips with one hand while the other reached for a refill.

“I shall do it if you give me something in return,” Duncan offered, feeling a little bit more generous after his most recent swig. He reached a hand out to shake Harlington’s shoulders. “Are you still with us, Harls?”

“Just about,” groaned his dark-haired friend as he lifted his head from the table. “But I’m afraid that my ears stopped working on their own accord about two glasses ago. What are you two arguing about again?”

Duncan gently massaged his eyes. “Fairhaven has made a promise he can’t keep to Lord Thornlowe, and he’s desperately trying to save face.”

“It’s not about saving face!” the other duke protested. “It’s about love! My very future with Lady Beatrice hangs in the balance and you’re refusing to lift so much as a finger to help!”

“I changed my mind slightly, didn’t I?” Duncan grinned. “I said I’d help if you’d do something for me in return.”

Fairhaven scoffed yet again. “In that case, why’d I even bother coming to you ? I could have just asked any other nobleman and received the same apathetic offer.”

“So, you admit, then, that the main reason you came to me for this matter is because you didn't want to repay the favor?” Duncan raised an eyebrow in an attempt to appear stern, but the chuckle that escaped his throat betrayed him shortly thereafter.

“How heavy of a favor is it?” Fairhaven worriedly asked.

“That's what is making this so irritating!” Fairhaven’s drink sloshed in his glass as he frantically waved it around. “Blackmoore simply has to put me in touch with the tradesmen and sailors his family uses down at the Port of Kenstone, and I shall worry about procuring the materials Lord Thornlowe asked for.”

“And in return for this simple request, what would you like, Blackmoore?” prompted Fairhaven.

Duncan opened his mouth but closed it again sheepishly.

“You don’t even know what you want to ask of me yet?” Fairhaven thundered, his hands shooting across the table to grab at Duncan’s collar. “Scoundrel!” he slurred.

“I’m more concerned with the principle of the matter. We've always managed to get away with various carryings-on over the years, but perhaps it’s time to rein it in, so to speak,” he justified in return. “Maybe it’s about time that you—er, all of us—stopped being so thoughtlessly juvenile.”

“Good heavens!” shuddered Harlington. “I never thought I’d live to see you turn into your father, Blackmoore.”

All Duncan could muster was a shrug. “And I never thought I’d live to see Fairhaven concern himself with a lady for longer than two weeks, yet here we are.”

“I told you I loved her, didn’t I?” the red-haired duke piped up angrily.

“Yes, but in my defense, you have also said the very same thing about Lady Augusta, Lady Diana, Lady Sophi-”

“Point taken,” Fairhaven mumbled, taking another swig out of his glass before swishing what little content remained, “but it’s different this time because, well... I have been thinking about having children,” he confessed.

Duncan and Harlington’s jaws practically fell onto the floor at this confession.

“Children?” Harlington exclaimed in disbelief. “When you yourself still act like a child?”

“I only behave that way when I’m around you imbeciles,” their friend defensively huffed. “Otherwise, I am—and have been for some time—quite ready to settle down and start a family.”

Harlington pressed his glass to his lips. “First Blackmoore was acting bizarrely and now this? What’s next? Will I suddenly have the urge to stop drinking?”

The rest of the night passed by in a hazy blur as the three friends jumped back and forth between such sobering subjects and giving into intoxication.

By the time Duncan awoke and pushed himself up off of Harlington’s sofa, his recollection of the evening had all but been broken into jumbled fragments that barely fit together no matter how hard he attempted to piece them.

On the other sofa, Fairhaven let out a soft snore, face-down in a cushion as one of his arms spilled down the sofa’s side and onto the floor.

I don't even remember the coach ride that got us here, Duncan sighed.

He swore under his breath when the grandfather clock’s face told him that it was already eleven o’clock. However, he could have guessed as much by the blinding rays that streamed in through the edges of the curtains.

Our drinking bout must have extended well past sunrise.

After gathering his belongings and unceremoniously shoving his boots on, Duncan asked a servant to convey his thanks to Harlington for letting him spend the night.

His head, the sun, and the loudness of the bustling streets all continued to punish Duncan even on the coach ride home.

He felt a measure of relief wash over him as he pushed the front door open and entered the comforting shade, mumbling thanks as Rowley took his jacket.

“I take it that you didn’t get much sleep last night, Your Grace?” a man’s voice called out from the drawing room.

Duncan angled his head slightly and found Mother, Lady Punton, Lady Penelope, and Viscount Gloushire curiously watching him through the partially opened door.

He pushed the door open the remainder of the way and leaned against the frame. “My, my, calling on us again, Lord Gloushire? Isn’t this the third time this week alone? We may have to start charging you for boarding and food,” he retorted.

Mother shook her head in irritation at this ‘joke’, but the other man maintained an innocent expression. “Come now, Your Grace, you know that’s unfair. The dowager duchess was just explaining that you’re barely home these days, so I am simply eating what would have been your portion of the meals here.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Duncan let out bitterly, the heaviness of the alcohol still lingering in his throat. “After all, you already have a history of taking what’s mine.”

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” glowered the viscount, his politeness faltering for a brief moment.

Duncan froze. In truth, he himself didn’t know what he meant by it, nor why his eyes flitted over to Lady Penelope when he said it.

The parchedness of his throat burned so harshly Duncan wondered if he had somehow managed to swallow literal pins and needles in his drunken stupor—if he had, it would have hardly been the stupidest thing he and the others had gotten up to in their revelry.

Bewildered eyes watched his own tired ones, waiting for an answer to Lord Gloushire’s inquiry.

“Tired,” was all Duncan could mumble before turning his back on them, his eyes meeting Lady Penelope’s one last time as he did so. “So tired.”

His wobbly legs dutifully carried him up the stairs but gave out at once when he reached his bed. Tumbling onto it, Duncan sighed into the unused sheets and pleaded with his brain to stop torturing him so.

His brain apparently took pity on him as sleepiness began to fog his vision once again.

So... tired was the last thought to cross his mind before he allowed himself to fall into the abyss of unconsciousness.