Page 27

CHAPTER 26

“Y ou’re doing it wrong!” Reggie whined, stomping his foot so hard that the splash almost reached Duncan on the river bank.

“That’s not a nice thing to say, Reggie!” his older sister tutted, already bending down into the coursing river for another smooth pebble. “Perhaps you should try it yourself instead of being so bossy!”

Duncan raised a hand hesitantly. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you so, little Miss Lucy, but you can only skip stones across still water.”

“Are you sure, Your Grace?” Her shoulders drooped disappointedly, the river’s current coursing around her shins. “Have you tried it?”

“Many times, back when I was your age.” He smiled, absent-mindedly etching circles into the dirt with the stick he was holding. “It is with a heavy heart that I must report that all my valiant efforts ended in vain every time.”

“Let’s play tag!” the younger of the children suggested. “I want to be it!”

“No, I shall be ‘it’ first!” Lucy declared. “After all, I’m the eldest.”

“No fair!” Reggie wailed.

Already sensing another potential argument beginning to brew, Duncan stepped ahead of the situation with a recommendation, "How about this? The first one to find a smooth black pebble can be the first to be ‘it’?”

The children’s eyes widened in excitement at this new challenge, forgetting their disagreement at once.

“Found one!” Reggie exclaimed, proudly waving the pebble in the air as he giddily danced. “I’m ‘it’! I’m ‘it’!”

Accepting her fair defeat, Lucy agreed and began splashing through the water at once.

“Please be careful!” Lady Punton—who had been resting on a large rock to Duncan’s right—called after the children before turning to Duncan, “They already seem rather at ease with you, Your Grace. Perhaps it's time you considered becoming a father yourself.”

Duncan flashed her a weak smile, thinking of Fairhaven’s confession from the other day. “Perhaps one day, Lady Punton. Naturally, I shall have to find a wife first.”

“A fine young man like yourself should have prospects lined out the door!” the older woman chuckled, her sentiments similar to the ones Lady Penelope had voiced in his room the other night.

“Perhaps one day,” he repeated half-heartedly.

Turning to the side so he could sneak a glance out of the corner of his eye at the happy couple sharing a picnic blanket, his chest suddenly tightened. “The truth is that some things simply just aren’t meant for us.”

He allowed his gaze to linger a little longer on Lady Penelope, shoulders relaxed as she sketched the brighter section of the river further downstream.

“That is true for some things...” Lady Punton answered, snapping his attention back to her, “...but certainly not everything.”

A squeal from behind them caused them to perk up in alarm. Duncan turned his head just in time to see Gloushire on a knee as Lady Penelope cupped both hands over her mouth in surprise.

The older woman next to Duncan seemingly regained all the vigor of her youth as she jumped from her spot and rushed to embrace her daughter.

For a fleeting moment, Lady Penelope locked eyes with Duncan, and he swore that instead of the glee and jubilation he had expected, he was instead met with compliant resignation.

His heart pounded in his chest, desperately pleading to confirm whether this was actually the case or if his imagination was running away with him once more.

But it was too late, Gloushire was already cupping Lady Penelope’s face and pressing his lips onto hers, the bouquet he had been holding during the proposal laying by his side.

Inwardly, every fiber of Duncan’s body screamed for him to turn away from the sickening sight. But he felt too heavy to even lift a finger, remaining stiller than the statues that lined the opera house’s gallery. In fact, if the wind was strong enough, it would probably be able to knock him over and shatter him into pieces.

When Lady Penelope was finally released from the kiss, her eyes landed on Duncan once more, thus sending a shudder that ripped through him so forcefully that he spun on his heels.

Facing his new direction, he quickly realized that he wasn’t the only party who was less than thrilled about the news. Lucy and Reggie had stopped their game of tag and were presently the newly engaged couple with polite smiles and apprehensive curiosity.

They don’t appear to be as surprised as one might expect, Duncan mused. So it’s very likely that Gloushire warned them of his plan ahead of time.

“Come here, darlings!” the viscount called to them, motioning with his hands, an elated smile stretching across his face. “Come hug your new mother!”

The children did as they were told and began wading towards the river bank. Duncan snapped out of his gaze just in time to help them out of the water and then followed a few paces behind them to rejoin the remainder of the party.

Despite still dripping with water, the children obeyed their father and took turns limply wrapping their arms around Lady Penelope’s neck.

“Congratulations, Lady Pen,” Duncan’s lips said before he could stop them.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Her voice came out just barely above a whisper—perhaps she was too stunned by her good fortune to speak.

Duncan knew that, from a completely impartial point of view, he should have been more excited—the goal that he and Lady Penelope had both been working towards since practically the moment they met had now been recognized.

But instead, he was met with an emptiness so vast that he worried he would collapse into himself. The next thing he knew, he was mumbling something to Mother about suddenly remembering some urgent business that he needed to tend to.

His eyes watched Mother’s lips move, but his ears couldn't quite seem to catch what she was saying.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go, Mother,” he muttered again.

As he stalked away, he got the vague sense of his name being called and voices asking where he was going, but he didn’t turn around.

He pushed forward on the beaten path until it turned into a paved walkway. Duncan’s feet didn’t stop or summon the coach when he got to the gates. Rather, his feet carried him down the busy streets.

His walk had been aimless at first—his mind too aggravated to plan where he wanted to. But he still somehow found himself at the gates of Harlington’s estate.

“Blackmoore?” his friend muttered bewilderedly. “Good heavens, you’re as pale as a ghost!” He stuck out an arm to stabilize Duncan as he stumbled through the front door.

“Water,” Duncan managed to mumble. “Need water.”

Feeling his legs begin to give out from under him, Duncan threw an arm around Harlington’s shoulders, further deepening the other man’s concern.

Harlington repeated Duncan’s request much more forcefully, sending a servant to dash down the hallway.

Leaning against the nearest wall for additional support, Duncan placed a hand over his own pounding heart, its beat growing louder and louder.

“What’s going on, Blackmoore?” Harlington’s voice sounded strained with concern.

Duncan looked up at him, pushing through the difficulty he had breathing. “I wish I knew.”

* * *

Penelope opened a groggy eye to check the clock, which told her it was now a quarter to six.

As she reached up to rub the sleep out of her eyes, it suddenly dawned upon her that this was her first morning waking up as an engaged woman. Tilting her head slightly, her eyes landed on the bouquet of flowers that Lord Gloushire had proposed to her with, now happily resting in a vase.

Based on the way her friends had reacted when they had gotten engaged, Penelope knew she should have been more elated—gleeful. But besides the sense of relief that she no longer had to worry about Uncle Winston, she felt what could only be described as a hollowness.

You should be more grateful , she chastised herself. In this case, Lord Gloushire is a savior—a very kindly one at that. Be happy.

Bearing this in mind, Penelope pulled herself out of bed and decided to do something she had never done before—she was going to send a love-sick note.

She had seen her friends do something similar before, spraying the notes with their perfume, pressing kisses to the paper before sending it on its merry way. But Penelope had never been compelled to do such a thing.

But sending a love-sick note to your fiancé the morning after your engagement felt like the right thing to do. So, she pulled her hair into a low chignon, settled into her favored chair at the breakfast table, and picked up her quill.

The trembling quill in her hand hovered just above the paper as Penelope racked her brain for what to write. She began by addressing the note to him, at least that was a start.

But she found herself stuck once more. After all, she couldn’t just thank him for proposing, could she?

A thought barged into her mind and Penelope pushed away with all her might. But the longer she sat staring at the blank piece of paper before her, the more her resolve failed her.

By the end, she had surrendered to the notion and for the next few minutes, the only sounds to be heard were her own steady breathing and the scratching of her quill against the paper.

Suddenly, she found herself quickly running out of space on the paper as reflections about his eyes, his smile, and his touch filled the page. The trembling in her hand only grew more intense with every line she wrote until she was forcefully snapped out of her fervor when she almost wrote “Your Grace” instead of “Lord Gloushire”.

She dropped the quill onto the table as though it had betrayed her when in truth, it was her own fault that the only way she could bring herself to compose the note was by thinking of His Grace.

The note turned out well in the end, but could she really send it to Lord Gloushire knowing its origin?

It’ll be better than not sending him anything at all, she reasoned, so she tied it up and asked a maid to send it off for her before preparing to go downstairs for breakfast.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Penelope greeted the dowager duchess as she entered the breakfast room.

“Good morning, pet.” The older woman smiled. “Did you get any sleep last night or were you too excited?”

It took a moment for Penelope to fully comprehend the question.

“Surprisingly, I managed to sleep quite well, Your Grace,” she answered with a sheepish smile. “Perhaps the excitement was so overwhelming that it tired me out.”

“Even so, that is rather fortunate seeing that we have quite a lot of work ahead of us!” the dowager duchess exclaimed with a gentle squeeze to Penelope’s hands. “A few of the guests may be surprised to be receiving the invitation this late into the Season but it will be a simple matter to explain that it simply couldn’t be helped given the suddenness of the courtship and subsequent engagement.”

Just after Penelope muttered her agreement, Mr. Rowley entered carrying a note for Her Grace. Penelope looked up from her cup of tea in time to see the dowager duchess’ smile drop.

“Are you all right, Your Grace?”

“It’s from Duncan,” explained the older woman. “It seems the urgent business he left to attend to yesterday is taking longer than expected and he shan’t be home for the next few days.”

“Oh.” Penelope swallowed, attempting to conceal the shakiness in her voice, “I see.”