A Winter Wedding Read online

  Yet something warned him it was too late. He would never be able to see Penelope Rose the same way again.

  Two

  Penelope Rose stared at the door where the Duke of Marchford had left. Had he just…? It wasn’t possible that… Had he just asked her to marry him? The Duke of Marchford, the biggest matrimonial prize in all of Britain, and consequently the whole world, had just entered her private bedchamber and proposed marriage.

  Marriage!

  Penelope put a hand to her chest to try to stop her heart from beating at such a rapid clip. She must be sensible. Was that not the highest praise he could offer her, after all? He was only in jest; it was not a true proposal. How utterly awkward and foolish she would have appeared had she accepted like a ninny, only to have him have to explain it was all in fun.

  Thank heaven she hadn’t done that.

  But what if she had? And what if he had agreed? She could be married. Her, Penelope Rose, the confirmed old maid—the one ignored by every other suitor who passed her by to get to her more attractive sisters—could get married at last. And to a duke no less!

  She gloried in the fantasy: Being announced at tonight’s ball as the fiancée of the Duke of Marchford. Putting the newspaper clipping announcing her engagement next to the clippings she kept for each one of her four sisters. Standing up beside him in St. George’s, saying their marriage vows. Reveling in the look of envy from every girl who ever ignored her as a nothing companion. Perhaps that last thought was beneath her, but she was indulging in fantasy and could not help herself.

  She thought that might be the best part, but her imagination continued onward. She and Marchford—James she would call him now—arriving home. He would carry her to his bedroom—their bedroom. He would slowly unfasten her gown…

  “Hello, miss!” The maid entered the room, carrying her new blue gown. “Got it all pressed and ready. Are you all right, miss?”

  Penelope jumped up and fanned herself with her hands. The room was unbearably hot and she feared her maid might guess she had been lusting after the master of the house, the duke himself! “I am fine.”

  “You look all red in the face.”

  “It’s nothing. I…I was standing too close tothe fire.”

  “But you weren’t nowhere near the fire, miss.”

  “I’m fine!” Penelope cursed Marchford. It was all his fault for putting treacherous thoughts in her head. First he mocked her by proposing marriage in fun, and now she was supposed to find him a wife. Fie on him!

  “Now you look right mad, miss,” said the overly observant maid.

  “Thank you for your observations as to my countenance,” said Penelope crossly.

  “Oh no, I done said too much. I am always opening my mouth and out pops the first thing I think. No good, it is. They say I’m not ready to wait on any of the real ladies until I learn to keep my mouth—oh!” The maid put her hand over her mouth, realizing what she just said.

  Penelope sighed. Since she was only a companion, she was a training subject for a young maid who was not ready for “real ladies.”

  “I’m so sorry, miss. I didn’t mean it like that. I can go get another maid if you wish.” She turned to leave, but Pen called her back, struggling to remember the young maid’s name.

  “Abigail is it?”

  “Yes, fancy that. Me named Abigail wanting to be an abigail.” She giggled. “I’m afraid I’m not too good at it.”

  “I appreciate your candor. We will get on quite well, you and I.” There was no point in getting the young maid in trouble. “But I won’t be wearing the blue gown. One of my old ones will do.”

  Penelope could not bear to have Marchford think she was putting on a new gown for his enticement. He had pretty girls falling at his feet, and she would rather wear sackcloth than be numbered as one of them.

  “But this is the one Her Grace bought for you. And it’s mighty pretty,” objected Abigail.

  “Yes, it is. But I will wear one of my old gowns tonight.” Penelope was firm. The Dowager Duchess of Marchford was desirous of seeing her more elegantly attired and had bought her a new wardrobe, with Penelope’s share of the proceeds from their Madame X matchmaking business. Using their combined talents, they had created a lucrative business creating matches for society’s elite under the pseudonym of Madame X. It had allowed them to remain in London despite Marchford cutting off funds to try to force his grandmother to retire to the Dower House in the country.

  Abigail’s face fell, but Penelope refused to relent and was dressed in a lavender gown of her mother’s that had faded into something of a gray. Penelope resisted all attempts to dress her hair and instead twisted it back herself into the usual knot. It was not attractive, which was entirely the point. One could never accuse her of putting on airs or trying to seduce the duke.

  The Duke of Marchford was waiting for the ladies in the drawing room to leave for the ball and rose when Penelope entered. Despite her best intentions, she caught her breath when he approached.

  If ever there was an image of the perfection of man, the Duke of Marchford personified it. He was tall, broad in the shoulders, and trim in the waist, which was perfectly accentuated by the superb cut of his double-breasted bright-blue frock coat and formfitting slate-gray trousers. His features were dark and chiseled, with a long nose and a square jaw, but not so brooding as to be out of fashion. Add dark brown hair and mysterious gray-green eyes, and he was every young lady’s dream beau. Despite considerable effort, Penelope had given up the hope of finding fault with his appearance.

  In contrast, Penelope Rose knew very well she was undeniably plain. The only brunette sister in a family of blond beauties, Penelope watched as first her older sisters then her younger sisters all found husbands. Pretty could make up for a lack of dowry, but poor, plain sisters? They became companions.

  As the companion to the Dowager Duchess of Marchford, Penelope held very little status to the members of the haut ton and was accordingly ignored. She was not a servant but was hardly a member of their set in society. She hovered somewhere between shabby gentry and honored servant, and, as such, held no place in either world.

  “Miss Rose.” Marchford acknowledged her with a nod of his head. “You are looking…” He paused as if trying to find the right words. “You appear quite yourself tonight. Very good of you.”

  Good of her? “Yes, quite. You are looking very well.” She stopped before she admitted how utterly handsome he was.

  Marchford regarded her with an interest that made heat slither up the back of her neck. They had lived under the same roof for almost a year, but she could not remember him gazing at her with such intensity. She wondered if something about her was out of place, and she smoothed a nervous hand over her hair to ensure everything was pulled back tight.

  Marchford cleared his throat as if trying to change the subject, even though he had not said a word. “Please, sit. I am sure my grandmother will be down shortly.”

  Penelope perched on the edge of a chair, ready to take flight if the need arose. Marchford also sat, stood up again, walked aimlessly around the room, then sat down again in the same chair.

  “I do not wish to be married,” he blurted.

  Penelope stared at him.

  “I mean…that is to say…” Marchford stammered, as if surprised himself that he had spoken out loud. “I have no inclination toward the married state. It all seems a bother to me, but I shall have no peace until I do.”

  “Ah, the burden of being young, titled, and rich,” said Penelope without mercy.

  Marchford scowled at her. “You would not care to be chased about for nothing more than your money and your name.”

  “I will consider myself fortunate, then, never to have been chased at all.” Penelope did not bother to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

  She expected a stinging retort, but it never came. Instead,
Marchford gave her such a look as she had never seen before. It was quite disconcerting.

  “Perhaps someday you will be chased and you can tell me your opinion on the matter.” Marchford’s tone was soft and low.

  Penelope’s jaw dropped, and she struggled to find something to say. “I…I wonder what is keeping Her Grace.”

  “My grandmother moves in her own time and does what she will.”

  A twinge of fear had Penelope calling the butler to bring her coat. If anything she was overly warm, but she knew the gown she wore would bring offense to Her Grace, and she had tangled enough with the aristocratic Marchfords for one day.

  “Oh, Penelope. What have you done to your hair?” Antonia Lockton, Dowager Duchess of Marchford, swept into the room, elegantly attired in an azure-blue silk gown, which perfectly matched the sparkling blue of her eyes. Her white hair was ornately coiffed and bejeweled in an older style, which befitted her advanced years.

  “Is it out of place?” asked Pen, once again smoothing her hair back to the harsh bun.

  “Could you not have dressed it up a bit?” asked the dowager. “You would not know it to look at it now, James, but Penelope has the loveliest hair. It is so long and thick and—”

  “Enough!” roared Marchford, surprising both ladies. He cleared his throat. “I’m sure Miss Rose’s hair is fine indeed, but that is utterly irrelevant, and besides, we are late.” He stalked out of the room, calling for the carriage to be brought around.

  The dowager’s eyebrows elevated considerably up her forehead then slowly fell back down into a knowing look that made Penelope squirm. “I see,” she said, looking between Penelope and the retreating form of the Duke of Marchford. “I see.”

  After a relatively short carriage ride, they arrived at the home of Mr. William Grant, one of Marchford’s closest friends. Marchford handed both of them out of the carriage, Penelope unusually conscious of how his gloved fingers closed around her hand as he helped her out.

  He escorted them into the house for the Grant ball, his grandmother on one arm and Penelope on the other. Heads turned when they arrived, many interested in the arrival of the duke. It was not unusual, but the attention irritated Penelope, possibly because she was still chewing on his “utterly irrelevant” comment regarding her hair.

  They relinquished their wraps to the butler, bringing a gasp from the dowager. “Penelope Rose,” chastised Antonia. “What are you wearing?”

  “A gown. My gown,” Penelope clarified. She raised her chin in defiance, despite the fact that she had intentionally hidden the gown under her coat so the dowager would not discover the insubordination before it was too late to make her change her raiment.

  “Should have had the maids burn them,” the dowager muttered. “James, talk some sense into her.”

  “She looks fine,” said Marchford absently. A weaker, more lackluster defense one could hardly imagine.

  “What nonsense!” Antonia rapped her cane with a crack on the marble floor. “The gown is perfectly hideous and you know it.”

  “Yes, of course, it is horrid,” said Marchford in an aloof manner. “But if Miss Rose finds it sufficient, who are we to quibble? You should not go about changing things that are better left as they are. The gown is perfectly good enough for Miss Rose.”

  Penelope stifled a gasp. If this was his attempt at support, she hoped to never experience his censure. Of all the dreadful things one could say, she could not imagine anything more crushing.

  “How can you be so beastly—oh look, here is Lord Langley.” Antonia’s tone changed instantly with the arrival of her former beau. Antonia and Lord Langley had shared a romance in their youth and had only recently begun to speak to one another again. From the look of Langley’s wide smile and quick step, their friendship was indeed rekindled.

  “Ready to take them all at whist, my sweet?” asked Langley, offering his arm to Antonia.

  “I’m off to the card room,” said Antonia, and she left them without a second look.

  “I hope you have given some thought to finding me a bride as soon as may be,” Marchford whispered to Penelope as he led her into the ballroom.

  “Oh yes,” said Penelope, keeping her tone even. “I have some lovely ladies in mind for you.”

  He sighed audibly. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

  “I will ensure that they are ‘perfectly good enough’ for you.” She gave him a vicious smile, but he was looking ahead and did not see. Before the night was out, he would pay dearly for that comment. Oh yes, that son of a duke would pay.

  Three

  Marchford led them into the festively decorated ballroom awash with the colored silks of the ladies’ gowns and the well-tailored coats of the men. Hundreds of candles twinkled in the drawing room, boldly embellished with sprigs of holly and bright red bows. It was perhaps a little provincial for London society, which viewed Christmas as a quaint tradition of the common populace. But Penelope, herself raised in the country, loved it. Having spent three refined Christmastides in London after her parents died, she had missed the annual festivities.

  Though it was proper for a lady to be escorted into the ballroom, Penelope noted that Marchford failed to release her hand once they were inside and instead covered her gloved hand with his protectively. She knew it was an oversight—he was not attending to her in the least—but the continued contact warmed her straight down to her slippered toes. Her unwanted, inappropriate, and utterly inconvenient response to him was clearly his fault.

  The Duke of Marchford pressed forward into the room, taking her along with him. All heads turned when he passed, but his aloof manner kept all but his intimates and the outrageously bold from approaching. It was December in London, so society would have typically been limited, but Parliament had been required to open session early. The crowded ballroom revealed the season was also getting an early start.

  “Where are we going?” Pen whispered.

  “Card room. Or better yet billiards. Only safe place.”

  “Coward,” she hissed.

  “They are looking at me like a prized goose, shot and plucked, and hanging by its neck in the shop window.”

  She smiled at the analogy. Served him right for being so handsome, and amusing, and blasted good company. The ladies in the ballroom had noted his movement from one side of the room to the other, and began to drift toward him in ever shrinking orbits until they fell willingly into the gravitational pull of the unmarried duke.

  “It is your own fault for remaining a bachelor,” chastised Penelope in a low voice. And for being undeniably attractive, she mentally added.

  “No, that is entirely your fault,” he returned in a seductive undertone.

  His reference to his mock proposal sent tingles down her spine, and she wrenched her hand away from his arm to prevent herself from falling into his arms and declaring that she would marry him within the hour. Curse him!

  Taking advantage of an unprotected duke, a lady wearing a gown so sheer Penelope did a double take before averting her eyes slid up to Marchford and giggled something in his ear. He acknowledged her with a tight smile but turned to Pen with haunted eyes. Help! he mouthed to her. Women circled like buzzards around carrion.

  It was dangerous to stand between a marriage-minded miss and her ultimate prize. Pen was met with glares from determined maidens who saw her as interfering in their plans to corral the duke into conversation, marriage, and bed, in any order. One lady elbowed her. Another trod on her foot, trying to vie for Marchford’s attention.

  Penelope considered abandoning him to his fate, but she could not stomach the thought of leaving these women in command of the ultimate prize. Besides, what if his horror were to turn to interest? She was filled with an emotion unfamiliar to her, but it was definitely not jealousy. No, not that at all.

  “Your Grace, please recall you promised to lead in Lady De
vine’s niece.” Penelope’s pronouncement was met with glares from the ladies and a look of relief from Marchford.

  “Yes, of course. You all will excuse me.” Marchford gave a slight nod of the head and detangled himself from their clutches.

  “Here is my first matrimonial suggestion,” said Pen in an undertone as they picked their way through the guests back to the entryway. “Frances is the niece of Lord Admiral and Lady Devine, a nicer family you could not hope to find. Frances will make her debut this season and is expected to do very well. You could save everyone a good deal of fuss and bother by making an offer before she needed to complete the season.”

  “Quite a business for you, this Madame X,” observed Marchford coolly.

  “Indeed,” replied Pen without apology.

  “Though I do thank you for extricating me from that situation.” His eyes warmed and he inclined his head to her.

  “Glad to be of assistance,” said Pen lightly. Her conscience pricked her momentarily, for she knew he would not thank her for the young lady she was about to connect him to; yet one look at his infuriatingly handsome face was enough to set her back on her devious course.

  They reached the entryway and were relatively alone as they waited for the Devine family. “Forgive my curiosity,” continued Penelope. She had tried to resist asking but could not contain herself any longer. “You hardly are in need of a matchmaker. Why not find your own bride?”

  “No!” Marchford was so emphatic it startled Penelope. “I do not want a romance, only a bride.” Gone was the amusement from his eyes. He was serious in his aversion to love. But why?

  Penelope reached out to touch his hand but caught herself in time. Lord Admiral Devine and his family arrived at that moment, distracting him from her awkward gesture. Marchford was naturally acquainted with Admiral Devine and his wife, and the introduction to Frances was quickly made. Frances was quite pretty and quite young, maybe fifteen at best, and her gown was the pinkest pink Pen had ever seen.