CHAPTER TWELVE

 

 

 

Penelope took a careful sip of her hot chocolate, sighing as the sweet taste and warmth of it flooded her senses. Comfort in a cup, her mother had always called the drink. Unfortunately, there remained only so much the hot confection could do to soothe her troubles. Having decided a night of respite from the social whirl was in order, she'd dressed for an evening at home—wearing her most comfortable and demure night rail and warmest dressing gown. Curled up in bed with a roaring fire in the hearth, she stared down at the pages of a book she could hardly remember a word of.

She'd been looking forward to finding time to read her copy of Glenarvon, the scandalous, anonymously published novel that had the ton in an uproar. Despite the supposed outrage of many of the ton's most distinguished members, the book's shocking content had become the topic of conversation in every drawing room, ballroom, and gentleman's club in the city.

Yet, now that she had discreetly acquired a copy, she could not muster an ounce of interest in the sensational events of Calantha's life. Rather, she found herself focused on the melodrama of her own making.

She'd thought that engaging in love affairs with both Colin and Edmond would satisfy her—sating her physical desires, while repaying them both for their duplicity. Yet, all it had done was muddle her head.

First, there had been Edmond, who had surprised her with his dominant hand in the bedroom—or, carriage. She'd set out to seduce him, but had found herself overcome, unsure by the end which of them had actually held the upper hand. However, it had been his tenderness afterward that had disarmed her, remaining with her long after the physical euphoria had faded.

And Colin … her chest ached as she remembered his impassioned words.

"Give me one more chance, and I swear upon pain of death that you will never know hurt by my hand again."

Yet, the revelation that he would conspire with Edmond to trick her had hurt. Once had not been enough, when he could so easily make a fool of her. After all, she had, indeed, become jealous of Sybil Beauchamp, just as he'd intended. Yet, the sincerity in his gaze as he'd promised to prove his love to her gave her pause. Could he have been telling the truth all along? Did he really love her?

"No," she murmured to herself. "It's all a farce … just a game men play."

It was true, and Penelope had seen it happen countless times. She had allowed a man to play with her heart once—she would not allow it to happen again. Let Colin think she was softening toward him! Let Edmond believe she was finished with his best friend and wanted only him! Let them both drive themselves mad trying to win her … in the end, she would belong to no one but herself.

Closing her eyes, she allowed her mind to wander back to her encounter with Colin the night before. Her cheeks warmed at the memory, and the surface of her skin began to tingle. While it had not lasted very long, every second of it had proven to be pure rapture, and she found herself longing for more. Or perhaps, it was more of Edmond's domination she needed. Sighing, she forgot her book and allowed her mind to wander. She imagined Edmond here with her now, undressing her and stretching her body across the bed. Biting her lower lip, she envisioned the soft fabric of his cravat binding her wrists to the bedpost. His leafy green eyes would gleam like dark emeralds as he lay between her legs, fucking her with hard and fast strokes.

Yet, all of a sudden, Colin's face appeared within her field of vision, despite Edmond's presence between her thighs. His face filled with naked lust for her, he knelt beside her, hands kneading her breasts in a steady rhythm, his fingers on her nipples heightening the pleasure of Edmond's strokes.

Moaning, she lifted her nightgown, finding the curls blanketing her mons wet from desire. Just the thought of the two men touching her, one suckling her breast while the other fucked her, made her tremble.

As her fingers encountered the slick flesh, she allowed her fantasy full rein, picturing every wicked thing she could conjure. She bit back a cry as her insides quivered, her mind running wild with fancies of Colin filling her mouth and thrusting with wild abandon while Edmond knelt behind her, pounding into her without restraint, all while her hands remained tied, leaving her at their mercy.

She splintered with a whimper, her core clenching around her fingers as she plunged them deep, heightening her pleasure. Fighting to control her harsh breathing, Penelope kept her eyes closed, not ready to relinquish her daydream just yet. It seemed far preferable to pondering emotions she did not wish to feel.

 

***

The following morning, she found the marquis awaiting her in the dining room—a rare occurrence. He typically opted to have tea and toast at his desk in the mornings, preferring to attend his business as early as possible, before schmoozing other politicians over lunch at one of his clubs and attending sessions at the House of Lords.

Giving him a bright smile, she took her seat at his left, waiting for her tea and biscuits to appear before her.

"Good morning," she chirped, injecting her tone with cheer.

The last thing she needed was for him to detect her state of exhaustion due to a sleepless night. Tossing and turning in bed, she'd been unable to turn her thoughts from either Colin or Edmond. Thinking of one inevitably led to contemplating the other, until she found her thoughts overcome by them.

"Good morning, dearest," he mumbled, his eyelids lowered as he perused his crisp, ironed copy of the London Gazette.

The servant appeared with her breakfast, and she stirred sugar and milk into her tea and slathered her biscuits with butter and jam. Hartford's gaze raised to her and held—probing, steady.

"Did you enjoy your quiet evening at home?" he inquired between sips of his own tea.

She nodded, chewing a bite of biscuit and swallowing before answering him. "Oh, yes. It was quite lovely. I enjoy London, but the constant social whirl can grow exhausting at times."

Lifting his eyebrows, he gave her a pointed look. "Yet, you plan to reside here permanently once you come of age."

Her spine straightened at his words, knowing all-too well what would come next. It was a conversation they'd had several times, and it should come as no surprise he would broach the subject with her given her twenty-fifth birthday now looming less than a month away.

"I see no reason to follow you and Mother back and forth every Season once I become the proud owner of my own townhouse and have hired a suitable companion. Besides, everything I could ever need is here. In your old age, you and Mother are entitled to enjoy your time together without me underfoot all the time."

He smiled, the lines around his eyes becoming more prominent. "We love having you around, dearest."

She returned his smile. "I am not a girl anymore, Papa. It is time I make my own way in the world. You needn't worry—I shall be quite all right."

He nodded, leaning back in his high-backed chair. "Of course you shall. Yet, it is difficult for me not to worry, you know. A father needs to know his daughter will be safe and protected. It is difficult for me not to worry that you might have been too rash in your decision regarding marriage."

Her fingers tightened around the handle of her teacup, and she drew in a shaky breath. "Well, I do not. I meant it then, just as I mean it now. Marriage is out of the question. There is not a single man in London I wish to bind myself to for the rest of my life."

Pursing his lips, the marquis inclined his head. "Not even Lord Edmond Ingham?"

The blood in her veins ran cold at his question. Did he know?

Tamping down the panic rising in her chest, she took another sip of tea and reminded herself he couldn't possibly. He simply asked because he must have noticed them spending a great deal of time together. First their dance at the Avonleah ball, then a walk the following day, and the picnic later that week, followed by their night at the theater. The marquis proved astute to have noticed something … even if he did not know the full extent of it.

"Don't be silly," she scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Edmond is only a dear friend. Besides, I have it on good authority that he's set his sights on Miss Cassandra Lane."

Hartford scowled. "Miss Lane? That whey-faced chit isn't half as beautiful as you."

She laughed. "Perhaps not, but I am on the shelf—a fact that has become common knowledge."

"Do not pretend to be ignorant of the fact that every eligible bachelor in London would come knocking on this door if they thought there existed even the slightest chance—"

"But there isn't one," she insisted, her tone becoming sharper. "Papa, I know you mean well, but please … let it be. I am happy the way things are."

Reaching for her hand, he gave it a squeeze. "Of course, forgive me."

As they finished their meal, she found it hard to forget. She'd lied by telling him she was happy. In truth, she hadn't been happy since the morning she'd awakened to find Colin gone with his letter folded on the pillow beside her. However, she'd vowed to make her own joy. Unlike many other ladies of her acquaintance, she had not allowed herself to believe she needed a man to be content. All men had ever done was seek to use her. Well, she had turned the tables on them, and did not intend to stop now. By Season's end, she would have gotten her revenge on both, and would walk away without an ounce of regret.

If anything, the only thing she might mourn was that she'd never know what it was like to have them both at the same time. Thinking of her imaginations from the night before—of being shared by Edmond and Colin, filled by both of them at once—she shivered.