Page 5 of Tall, Dark and December (The Rake Review #12)

CHAPTER FIVE

WHERE A RAKE WOOS SOCIETY

P enelope stood close to the veranda doors in the event she needed to make a quick exit. It wasn’t the setting that was frightening, a fittingly seasonal display of holly, candlelight, and pine, as the Duchess of Mercer’s sophisticated style reached each corner of her ballroom. The orchestra was proficient—not always the case—and the gathering exclusive, therefore it was not a blind crush of bodies, heat and stench.

She’d come to her first ball in years for two reasons.

To keep a close eye on her sister.

And her pupil.

Her beautiful concerns stood across the way, one seeking a profitable start to business endeavors, the other a profitable start to a Season. Penelope sipped from a glass of ratafia that was as horrid as she remembered while considering her chanciest gamble of the two with pride and apprehension.

Dear heavens, did her rebellious American clean up well.

For almost two weeks, she’d worked to mold Weston Whitaker into what was needed for his success, their meetings notations she drew fanciful circles around on her calendar. She looked forward to them in a way she’d never looked forward to etiquette lessons, and she’d miss them madly when they were over. Recognizing this folly, she nonetheless treated her instructions as professionally as she could in the midst of their profound conversations and deepening friendship.

She didn’t care to mention the flirtations, though they were there as well.

“Don’t shake hands,” she’d told him yesterday. “We don’t understand the gesture.”

“You’re offended, you mean,” he’d added with a wry smile as he munched on a lemon scone, his new favorite. Then he’d winked, a first.

And her heart took a slight but noticeable tumble.

Penelope tunneled her hand into the concealed pocket of her gown and touched the penny she’d brought for courage and luck. His luck, her courage. Whitaker would be fine—and so would she despite her unease. He knew to avoid discussing politics and finances until liquor was introduced later in the evening. He knew to keep his curses to a minimum and his thoughts on the rigidity of English society out of the conversation completely. He knew which fork was used for salad versus mutton. Under his own guidance, for personal reasons he’d not shared, he’d vowed to keep his intellect moderately hidden.

The rest she’d left to Brixworth—who had done a remarkable job.

Penelope’s breath had seized when she walked into the ballroom and spied Whitaker strolling down the marble staircase sandwiched smartly between the Duke and Duchess of Mercer, his sardonic expression stating he recognized he was being managed.

For one, she’d never seen him entirely clean shaven. If he had the face of a god before, his chiseled jaw was on glorious display now. His formal coat accentuated the broad lines of his shoulders, the ivory waistcoat adding a touch of elegance against sharp shades of black. His cravat was perfectly knotted, his thick hair finally cut in the latest style. Still, there was a singularity about his interpretation, or perhaps it was the way he carried himself. A rolling looseness no Englishman had perfected, not even a duke.

Despite her wishing it weren’t so, her gaze was drawn more to him than any other person in the room.

Including Neville, who’d been delighted to find she was attending. The marquess passed her on a turn on the dance floor, his smile pleasant. Quite agreeable, really. His jaw didn’t appear to be crafted from marble, certainly, but he was acceptable in every other way. She’d arranged to waltz with him during the next set, one strike off her card.

Because she had to, she smiled back.

Seconds later, a warm sensation stirred her as surely as a caress.

Whitaker’s bright green gaze lifted over the mostly feminine group surrounding him, possibly because he was the tallest man in attendance with the exception of his brother. She was the focus of his attention for mere seconds—and he hers—before he glanced at Neville with a frown she shouldn’t be gratified to see.

Possessiveness had no place in their relationship.

And a man who received scented notes from Emelia Rossmore of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania had a life elsewhere. One he was set to return to as soon as he finalized his dreams.

Before Penelope could decide how to solve a problem with no immediate solution, a specter from her past cornered her.

“Who’s the man talking to Colbrook?”

Tristan Tierney, the Duke of Mercer, muffled a sneeze and glanced in the direction West pointed. He claimed the chalk covering the slick marble floor, sprinkled about to keep the aristocracy from ending up on their asses, aggravated his allergies. “Weeks of lessons, and you’re calling Lady Penelope by her surname? Americans are a rare breed, I will say.”

“It’s nothing, simply a way to aggravate my tutor. Who is he, Tris?” After days of close proximity to a woman he was harboring a veiled infatuation with, he recognized her tells. Penny chewed on her bottom lip when she was distressed. Twisted a strand of flaxen hair about her finger. Tapped her toe. Twitched her skirts.

The flushed cheeks he wanted to shelter with his palms as he drew her into a kiss, he’d figured were his and his alone.

Tristan turned to him, his grin exultant. “Tris. Only my darling duchess calls me that.”

West groaned when he realized what he’d said, questioning if it would be improper to ask his brother if he had a flask hidden in his jacket. “Can we discuss brotherhood and your continued obsession with your wife later? Now, I need information.”

Tristan adjusted his cravat, his lips closing on ducal secrets. Obviously, he didn’t want to tell West about the man who had Penny trapped against a row of overripe ferns. “Between family, I’ll admit I once had a reputation for unruly behavior. I returned from Waterloo a bit of a lost soul, and I often let my grief get the best of me. Camille wouldn’t appreciate my getting into a brawl at my own ball, even for a brother who’s conceivably in the midst of his unruly phase. I recognize a feral look when I see one.”

The answer only made West’s blood heat. This, and Penny’s fingers clenched around the skirt of a gown in shades of pale ivory and gold that made her look like a goddess stepping from a painting. He wished she wasn’t the only person in London who made his homesickness disappear as swiftly as smoke hit by a gust off the Thames. “I can take care of myself.”

“That doesn’t change the fact of my not letting anyone mishandle you in front of me.” Tristan nodded to West’s hands and the knuckles he was popping. “Though I long to hear the story of your life in Philadelphia, as you’re fearsome for someone with such a professorial mind. Brawn and brains is rather the unique combination, a rare sight in England because most have neither.”

“Fine,” West growled and started across the ballroom floor.

He’d do this on his own, like he always had.

“West,” Tristan whispered and grabbed his elbow before he parted a crowd that wouldn’t appreciate it. “Do you want to undo everything she’s worked for over the years? All you have the past weeks? You’ve done an excellent job charming them this evening. Don’t wreck it.”

West’s steps slowed, though his gaze stayed locked on Penny. She and the gentleman—there was no denying he was one of them—were in a seemingly intense exchange.

“If you must go charging over,” Tristan murmured with a smile, as if they were discussing a trivial matter, “use your intellect, not your fists. You have him there, I can confirm. In spades.”

“So, she does know him.”

Tristan rolled his shoulders, seeing no way out except the truth. “Lord Northridge. She was engaged to him for a time.”

Engaged . This information sank like a stone in his belly and increased the rosy haze coating his vision. It also confirmed how little he knew about Lady Penelope Anstruther-Colbrook.

“I won’t fuel gossip that has since died out. If you want to know more, ask her. Suffice it to say, there was a minor scandal Northridge made worse in how he handled it. It’s been years, most in society have forgotten. Though his viscountess, who is home with their infant, likely wouldn’t welcome him talking to his former intended.”

“This is why she hides herself away,” West whispered, blood streaking wildly through his veins. He was going to pummel that arrogant nob’s face into pulp.

Tristan released his arm with a muted groan. “I’m afraid to ask, but what, precisely, is your relationship with Lady Penelope?”

“We’re business associates,” West lied and straightened his cuffs, finally grateful for Brixworth’s devotion. “I’m going over there. If you want to lead to make it look incidental, act the protective older brother and concerned host, here’s your chance.”

“Bloody hell,” Tristan whispered and shouldered through a crowd appreciative of any interaction with a duke.

Every eye fixed on them, West nodded as he circled the ballroom’s perimeter. Luckily, the Tierney genes were robust. Height was an advantage when one wanted to look over a crowd or down on a man.

Which is exactly what West planned to do.

The viscount was laughing while Penny was stone-faced when they reached the dessert table, located close enough to the couple to make this a valid reason for the trip. Tristan selected an iced cake and glanced to the side, reacting as if he’d just noticed who stood there.

Gesturing to West to follow, he strolled over. “Northridge, Lady Penelope,” Tristan said, taking a neat bite of cake, “I hope you’re enjoying the ball.”

“Your Grace, it’s lovely,” she said and gave a subtle curtsy, exhibiting no indication of her displeasure. “I thanked Her Grace earlier for the invitation. I believe she had to get back to your son.”

Tristan smiled, tenderness softening the hard line of his jaw. “Ethan is in what we call the ‘fits.’ He’s delightful but also throws tantrums when he doesn’t get his way. Bedtime is a struggle, and his nurse cannot always make it happen, but my wife can.”

“Haven’t talked to you much since Cambridge, Mercer,” Northridge murmured, his speculative brown gaze bouncing between the brothers. Evidently, he didn’t want to discuss children, a duke’s or his own.

Tristan hummed, clearly saying, Yes, there’s a reason for that.

Spurned but unrepentant, Northridge shifted his focus to West before Tristan had a chance to formally introduce them. “Mr. Whitaker, isn’t it? What American university did you attend? I have a family friend currently at Yale College if you know of it.”

Tristan frowned, his fingers nearly destroying the cake.

West discreetly elbowed his brother before he raced in to defend the slight. He’d already dealt with this question twice this night. “I’m self-made, as it were. I have to say, Lord Northridge, this town is passionate about academia. Cambridge, was it?” West exhaled and scratched the underside of his jaw. Penny’s liquid amber gaze followed the movement, sending a bubble of heat dancing along his skin. If she looked away, he’d have a better time managing this charade. “I’m speaking there in two weeks. You should come.”

He’d finally agreed to the offer after a number of convincing talks with Penny.

The viscount’s lips parted in confusion. “Speaking? At Cambridge?”

West dipped his chin, glancing down on the blackguard. “To students seeking a profession in steam power. The administration was hoping for a series of lectures, but I can’t spare the time.”

“Don’t forget your work as a consulting engineer with the Royal Society,” Tristan murmured, popping his remaining dessert into his mouth.

“Can’t forget,” West said in sighing agreement, as if the world rested on his shoulders.

With a snort, Penny glanced at her slippers. Nothing ladylike about it, which is when West liked her best.

He caught her gaze when she lifted it, needing the connection they’d found in his dank office to exist here as well.

He didn’t know why he needed it; he simply understood with a jolt of terror that he did.

For a long moment, the clink of crystal and the hushed melody from the orchestra retreated. As it often did in the warehouse when they were surrounded by workers and Penny’s oft-dozing chaperone, truly, it seemed just the two of them. His fingertips itched to touch, his body to seize , commands he was starting to have trouble denying.

If he took a step closer to his desire, he would be unable to stop himself.

“Why, this is a popular spot,” a voice behind West murmured. “I hate to intrude, but Lady Penelope, dear, I believe I have this waltz.”

West would have thought nothing of Penny having a go on the dance floor—or not much—although she’d mentioned during their lessons that the waltz held more significance. Filling one’s card was as important as breathing at these damned affairs, wasn’t it? Ladies hung the slips of paper from their wrists, waving the signatures about like veritable trophies.

Yet, the way her smile vanished and the remorseful expression that followed meant he’d not only be waging war against a stammering viscount, but also a bloke who knew Penny well enough to call her dear . A man who, when West turned to scrutinize him, held a greedy sort of bearing another greedy soul instantly recognized.

The familiar feeling of unworthiness rushed over West like a wave. He was an outsider in a foreign land playing at being a duke’s brother.

In that instant, West decided to forgo a war he had no chance of winning.