PROLOGUE

 

London, 1813

Penelope Hunt's hands shook violently, despite the determined clasp of her fingers. Her knuckles had gone white, and her face had likely drained of all color, as well. Despite the crackling fire in the inn's hearth, cold shrouded her, as if her blood had been replaced with ice water.

Staring down at the rumpled bit of parchment at her feet, her eyes began to water, causing her vision to blur. It didn't matter; she'd read the words eight times after discovering the letter resting on the pillow beside her in Colin's place. The first reading had caused a fissure deep within her heart, and each rereading had only caused that crevice to grow, leaving a resounding ache which seemed to echo to the furthest reaches of her body.

Upon arriving at the inn last night, she had been filled with happiness and hope. At the foot of the bed rested her portmanteau, in which a white muslin morning dress—her best one with the French lace and pearls bedecking the bodice—had been stored. A matching hat with pink roses pinned along the brim, and short, white lace gloves completed the get-up, along with the pearls her stepfather had given her on her sixteenth birthday. A modest, yet beautiful wedding ensemble she had thought to wear today.

A second travelling dress lay in the bag as well, a deep mauve carriage gown that she'd always thought made her look older than her years. The perfect frock for a newly married woman.

Never had she imagined she would return to London alone and unmarried. After all, when a girl ran off to Gretna Green in the dead of night, she typically returned home a married woman. Yet, she would return without her virginity, her dignity, or the expected husband. There would be nothing to show for one night of poor judgment but a paltry sheet of paper upon which Colin's hastily scrawled words spelled out Penelope's worst fear.

A hot tear escaped the corner of one eye, scorching a path down her cheek toward her jaw. Her chin began to tremble, and try as she might, she could not bring it under control. With a loud sniffle, she dashed at her tears, anger making her motions jerky and unrefined. Penelope despised weakness and had never abided simpering, weepy females. How was it that Colin Worthing possessed the power to turn her into just the sort of woman she hated?

Deciding she didn't care, since no one was here to see her anyway, she buried her face in her hands, crumpling Colin's letter and weeping upon the paper. Her chest heaved with sobs, and a sound that very much reminded her of a wounded horse echoed from the walls around her.

It was a wonder she heard the angry bellow of a man's voice and the pounding of booted feet upon the steps before the door flew open to reveal her stepfather. A large man—both tall and broad—with limbs like tree trunks, he made quite an imposing sight in his many-caped greatcoat and beaver hat, his hair a sodden, bedraggled tangle from the rain.

She shot to her feet, clutching the wrinkled, damp slip of paper to her breast. Even knowing she must look a fright, she did nothing to set her tousled hair, rumpled nightgown, or blotchy, wet face to rights. While the Marquis of Hartford had not sired her, he had helped her mother raise her after her own father had died when she had been only seven years old. For all intents and purposes, the man was her papa, and just then, she knew he saw and felt her pain. He knew, without her having to tell him, that everything had gone wrong.

Closing the door swiftly behind him, he held his arms out to her.

"Oh, dearest," he murmured.

Hurtling across the space between them, she fell into his arms, not bothering to stifle her noisy sobs. Patting her back, he held her in silence until the spasms in her chest stilled, and her sobs had quieted to soft groans interspersed with hiccups.

"Where is he?" Hartford asked, his voice clipped and brusque.

Penelope gazed up at him, her heart sinking at the expression of fury on his face. She had never seen the lines upon his brow look so deep. Or the corners of his mouth draw down so far.

"He is gone, Papa. He's not coming back."

Handing him the letter, she stood back and tried to collect herself. His brown eyes darted back and forth as he scanned the note, darkening when he came to the end. His large, meaty hand closed around the paper, crumpling it into a ball.

"That bastard. That spoiled, arrogant little ingrate!"

She shuddered when his voice thundered from the rafters. Even though he would never harm her, his anger frightened her. If she'd ever had any doubt of Hartford's love for her, this moment would have eased them. His fury was all on her behalf.

"Come, get dressed. We've a long ride back to London. I am going to leave you with your mother, who has been worried sick since we found your note telling us where you'd gone. Then, I have an afternoon call to make. Lord Worthing and I have much to discuss."

Viscount Worthing, Colin's father, would be furious with his son for what he had done. After all, even third sons were held to a gentlemanly code of conduct. Seducing young debutantes with promises of marriage and deflowering them before leaving them cold was simply not done.

Penelope knew what would happen if the two men met to discuss what had occurred in this room. Colin would be dragged to Hartford House by his collar with the marquis' pistol trained at his back. A quiet wedding would follow, after which they would be secreted away on a trip to some country estate under the pretense of a honeymoon trip. In truth, they would be hiding out to escape the gossip sure to follow their rather hasty nuptials.

Though no one should be surprised if they wed. After all, Colin had publicly courted her all season. If anything, that fact only made his betrayal all the more nefarious. It wasn't as if he had made his despicable intentions known from the start. He'd been the perfect gentleman—kissing her hand, bringing her flowers, charming her parents. Only in private had he stolen a few chaste kisses and intimate caresses. She'd only allowed it because she loved him, and had thought he loved her back.

It had all been a game to him, she realized. He had never loved her, only sought to earn her trust so that he could deflower her. Penelope's mother had warned her of such men before the start of her first Season, but she had never believed Colin could be capable of such behavior.

"No!" she exclaimed. "Please, do not go to Colin's father. I couldn't bear it!"

Hartford's brow furrowed in consternation. "But, Penny, if I don't go—"

"Then Colin would have ruined me without having to pay the price for his indiscretion. Yes, Papa, I know."

"He … he … assaulted you."

Sighing, she dried the last of her tears. Like her mother, she'd always possessed the uncanny ability to pick up and move on after a crisis. It was how they'd gotten by after her father's death. It would be the way she healed from this wound, as well.

"No, he did not. Colin might have seduced me, but I wanted to be seduced. I thought myself in love with him, but I realize now that I was foolish and indiscreet. I thought I wanted to marry him, but I could never trust my body, mind, and heart to a man who would sneak away like a coward in the middle of the night and leave nothing but a note behind. I would despise him, and I am certain he would abhor me. Neither of us would want this marriage, and no good could come from forcing it."

A sound of frustration emitted from the back of his throat, and he pressed a large hand against his brow, attempting to smooth the wrinkles with this thumb and forefinger.

"You do realize there will be gossip? Your abigail found the note you left, and you know how servants talk. People may come to know. Your chances of making a good match after this will be slim."

Raising her chin, she squared her shoulders. "That is quite all right. I've decided that I rather dislike the business of courting and shopping for a husband on the Marriage Mart. It's all intrigues … smoke and mirrors. Lies. I want no part in it, or any man who would think me ruined just because of one indiscretion. Besides, perhaps I do not want a ruined man who has spread his seed from here to Bath."

Chuckling, the marquis took her shoulders in a firm but gentle grip. "You have always been an infuriatingly independent woman, as well as reasonable and level-headed. Of course, you know your mother will insist."

"Tell her you tried, but Colin and Lord Worthing would not be swayed. Tell her what you must, but please do not force me to marry him. It would ruin me … truly ruin me."

Nodding, he released her. "Very well. You know I would do anything to make you and your mother happy. She might not like it at first, but in time, we will all forget this ever happened."

They both knew he attempted to be optimistic, but Penelope said nothing. She did not tell him that she planned to do just the opposite. Forgetting what Colin had done would be a mistake, but remembering … ah, remembering would protect her. No man would ever use or manipulate her again, that was certain.

"I will wait for you downstairs in the dining room," the marquis declared, striding for the door. "I hope the food here is decent so we can have a meal before setting off for home."

"I'll be down in a moment," she promised, closing the door behind him.

Taking her time, Penelope changed from her nightgown and into her traveling clothes. As she unbuttoned the front of the prim, white garment, she tried not to think about Colin's deft fingers performing the same action the night before, or his lips following the opening vee as the two sides fell apart to reveal her breasts. Swiftly stuffing the gown into her portmanteau, she finished dressing, ensuring she portrayed the perfect image of a highborn lady before stepping from the room.

Hands covered with gloves, hat held between her fingers, and every strand of hair in place, she felt prepared to face the world once more. Just before leaving, she took once last look back. Spying the wrinkled note where her stepfather had left it, she went back to retrieve it. Without a second thought, she placed it, along with the rumpled nightgown, inside her bag.

"Thank you, Colin," she murmured as she strode toward the stairs, "for a most valuable lesson."