Penny’s mouth stuck around the polite words of greeting she’d rehearsed for Lionel and his youngest brother. So good to see you again, Lord Hawton. Nice to meet you, Mr. Retford.
But the words weren’t appropriate anymore. She’d already met Emmett Retford at the museum.
Everyone peered at her with expectant expressions, except for him. His chocolate-brown eyes reflected her sense of astonishment.
Penny! The voice in her head might as well have been Mother’s scold, but it broke her tongue loose. “Welcome, Lord Hawton. Mr. Retford. So good to see you again.”
So good to see Lord Hawton again, she should have said. Mother’s glance was sharp.
Mr. Retford tipped his head toward Mother. “Miss Beale and I shared a few passing comments on a canvas at the museum today. I’d no idea she was Miss Beale, of course.”
How kind of him to save her from her slip. Penny smiled her thanks. His return smile melted something in her knees.
“Please.” Father bade them to be seated. Then he coughed, a dry, unproductive sound that made Penny’s stomach swoop. Father coughed like that when he experienced a heart palpitation, as a way to “get the drum beating again,” he would say. The palpitations were harmless, he’d said, but induced by too much work. Would he rest easier soon? She prayed so.
Penny took a spot on the brocade sofa, expecting Lord Hawton—oh, she must think of him as Lionel if she was to become his wife—to sit beside her.
Instead, he settled into a wingback chair near Father. “Emmett cannot stay away from museums and galleries, I fear. You may recall he is an art historian.”
Mother tipped her head to the side, allowing the lamplight to land on the diamonds at her throat. “You are a collector, Mr. Retford?”
“A professor.” Mr. Retford—Emmett, since he was to be family—sat across from Penny in the lone available seat.
He did not look much like Lionel. There was the same trim build, but Emmett was taller, more solid. If Lionel didn’t slick back his hair, it might prove to be the same gold-tinged brown of Emmett’s. Lionel’s mustache might be fashionable, but Penny preferred Emmett’s clean-shaven look—
Mother cleared her throat, drawing Penny to attention. Heat prickled at her cheeks. She should be conversing, not comparing her almost-fiancé to his brother. “You teach, then, Mr. Retford?”
“At Oxford, but I am a consultant, too. I won’t bore you with details.”
“I am not bored in the least.” It was true. Mother must have found the prospect dull, however, because she turned toward Father and Lionel. “Did you enjoy your visit with your friend?”
“Whitacre and I were at university together. Faithful friend. He gave me a ride home from school when Viola was born.”
Lionel’s daughter. All Penny knew was Viola’s mother died in childbirth. “I look forward to meeting her tomorrow.”
Emmett’s face transformed. “She’s amazing, you’ll see.”
“You’re fond of her.” Odd how she’d not yet had a full conversation with Lionel about Viola. Nor had Lionel’s features brightened at the mention of her the way Emmett’s did.
“As if she were my own.”
“Does she know how to read?” The moment she asked, she regretted it. Now Emmett would think her as odd as Mother did.
His brows rose. “Simple sentences, yes.”
“I teach reading at the Home for Friendless Girls. They were orphaned by a cholera epidemic four years ago. I missed them while I was in Europe and then in Newport for the summer. But please do not judge me as ungrateful for my travels.” She knew how blessed she was to see the world.
“On the contrary, Miss Beale. I have formed quite the opposite impression of you.”
A kind comment, since he hardly knew her.
But something passed between them at the museum and again here in the parlor, right under the noses of her parents and his brother. Something as bright and unexpected as a bolt of lightning before a storm, lifting the hairs on her arms and capturing her breath.
Perhaps this was what poets described as infatuation. Penny had never experienced it before, but she knew a marriage forged on attraction alone would not fare well without friendship and love.
Unless you were Mother, who thought an English title more important than compatibility.
But a title of nobility didn’t mean a man was noble in spirit, did it? One’s lineage didn’t indicate one’s worth, and marriage should be based on more than money.
Perhaps she shouldn’t be thinking about marriage while looking at Emmett, whose smile made her toes curl in her silk shoes.
She was to marry Lionel. This attraction to Emmett would pass. She must not give in to it. Indeed, she must introduce a new, nonthreatening subject of conversation until Lionel and her parents included them in their conversation. Art again, or England?
She settled on both. “One of my favorite memories of London was the art.”
“Did you have a favorite piece?” He looked like he wanted to know. Then again, he was an art historian.
“Everything. Sculpture. The glass and architecture of the cathedrals. Tapestries. The illuminations in medieval manuscripts.”
“The work of skilled craftsmen gifted by God.” His broad, approving smile did not help her smother her attraction to him. “Your parents acquired several new pieces on their voyage, did they not?”
Panels and tapestries. Paintings and vases. Mother thought such items lent an air of wealth and history to their homes. “Indeed.”
His eyes darkened. “Including a pair of paintings by Gainsborough, perchance? A gentleman poses with books, and a lady with a map?”
“They hang in Father’s office. You’re familiar with them?”
“They used to hang in Hawton Park, our home in Nottinghamshire. The subjects were our mother’s ancestors.”
How awkward. To think Mother had asked Emmett if he was a collector, when his family had found it necessary to part with paintings of family members to pay bills. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be. The paintings were relegated to the attic some time ago. I’m relieved they are appreciated once again.”
“Would you like to see them?”
His feet planted, as if preparing to stand. “Please.”
Now? She’d meant after dinner. But he seemed so eager.
Farrow, the English butler her parents had brought back some years ago, entered the parlor. “Dinner is served.”
Emmett’s fingers fidgeted against his sides. “Another time, perhaps.”
She stood. “Soon.”
After all, she’d be seeing plenty of Lionel, who must be excited about marrying her, given that he had brought his daughter and brother all the way to America to meet her.
The thought cheered her, until Lionel offered her the most mechanical of smiles before escorting her into dinner.
If he was happy to make her his bride, he hid it well.
The next morning, Emmett struggled to hide his good opinion of Penny. Not that he could say aloud that she was the loveliest woman of his acquaintance, so he settled for something else. “Bang-up shot, Miss Beale.”
Penny grinned, a vision under a grass-green picture hat that matched her dress and the stripes on her croquet mallet and ball—a becoming coincidence. Her steps were light on the lawn behind the house, as if she didn’t mind a whit if her shoes or hem would be stained by dewy grass. “You may call me Penny, if you like, Mr. Retford.”
He’d called her that in his thoughts since meeting her last night. “And I am Emmett.” He probably should have tacked on your new brother.
“Viola and I are in the lead now.”
Naturally, the mallet and ball Viola chose were trimmed with yellow, her favorite color. “Do not be sad, Uncle Emmett. One must be a good sport, win or lose.”
“True, Viola,” he said, exchanging amused glances with Penny.
Viola squatted to view her shot. “You tell me all the time.”
Penny’s laugh tickled his ears, and it was impossible not to join in.
Viola took her shot. It missed the hoop by several inches, and she frowned. He sauntered to where his red ball awaited him on the grass, patting the top of her miniature picture hat as he passed. “Think of it as a kindness, poppet. You’ve offered me the opportunity to redeem myself.”
“To win, you mean.” Viola looked to Penny. “He thinks he is funny.”
“He is.” Penny grinned. “Although we are not truly competing. I thought Father would join us as he loves a good match, but with three of us, we play for enjoyment, not the contest.”
Emmett gave it his best shot, anyway. Thwack. The ball rolled through the hoop, knocking Penny’s green ball to the left. She’d not mind the hit, since it gave her a better angle for her next shot.
“Thank you for setting me up, sir.” Her voice was teasing. “He plays well, Viola, but I think we may best him, after all.”
“Oh, I do hope so. Despite what I said earlier, winning is more enjoyable than losing.”
“I thought we were not competing,” Emmett reminded them.
Giggles overtook Viola, and he and Penny laughed with her. Their subsequent shots all missed their marks, but no one minded the silliness.
At least, Emmett didn’t think anyone minded. Lionel and Penny’s parents sat on the veranda, chairs facing the expanse of lawn and an excellent view of the game, but it didn’t appear that any of them watched. Instead, Mr. and Mrs. Beale’s heads turned toward Lionel.
Rather than woo Penny’s parents, Lionel might have done better to play croquet and grow better acquainted with Penny—and his daughter, who skipped toward a bed of fading pink roses. She reached to take one in hand.
“Take care, Viola.” Penny’s tone was gentle. “The thorns on that bush are tiny but sharp. Like puppy teeth.”
“I want a puppy, but Papa says no. The hounds are enough.” Viola’s fingers stroked rosy petals. “But hounds don’t live inside, and their mouths foam. And there are so many of them at Hawton Park.”
“How many?” Penny paused over her shot, her expression tentative.
“Dozens.”
Emmett shook his head at Penny. Not quite, he mouthed.
She laughed and struck the ball with the mallet. “If you like, Viola, I will ensure a bouquet of those roses goes back to the Bellevue with you. They are a sorry substitute for a puppy, but I hope you enjoy them nonetheless.”
“They smell better than the hounds.” Viola danced back.
“I second that.” Emmett stepped up to his red ball. Thwack. A solid shot. The ladies clapped for him.
They continued the round, with Viola twirling and Penny chatting and Emmett teasing, but something gnawed at his abdomen. Lionel.
How could he miss out on spending time with his daughter and future wife?
Perhaps Lionel still felt the need to solidify things with her parents, but in Emmett’s understanding, the arrangement was secure, or else Lionel wouldn’t have made the trip across the Atlantic.
Did Penny find the prospect of marrying Lionel suitable, too?
If Penny felt affection for Lionel, it didn’t show. And he’d been watching her. Couldn’t stop watching her.
So she didn’t necessarily love Lionel. Did she want to be Countess of Hawton as badly as her parents seemed to wish it? Or did she do this in obedience to them?
The answer mattered a great deal to him.
A blond servant set a tray of lemonade and petits fours on a white wicker table nearby. Penny bade the young fellow pause. “Clark, I’d like to send a bouquet of roses home with Lady Viola. And if there are enough, I’d like a few more bouquets for tomorrow. This may be the last of the season.”
“Yes, miss.”
“What’s tomorrow?” Viola gave voice to Emmett’s question.
“I’ll visit the Home for Friendless Girls. I like to take a few bouquets of whatever is in bloom. Every young lady enjoys flowers, don’t you think?”
Ah, the orphans she’d mentioned last night. “You mentioned reading to the girls, but clearly you do more.”
“Flowers aren’t the same as a kettle of porridge or new stockings, but if I can add cheer to their rooms with flowers or rugs, it is not much. I receive more from them than I give. Viola, your turn.”
Emmett knew then why she was marrying Lionel. Not out of greed for his title. Not because she wanted to leave Philadelphia, either, because her heart resided with those girls. She was marrying Lionel out of obedience to her parents.
She tapped her green ball to strike the center peg and end the croquet match. And even though he shouldn’t, he couldn’t help liking everything about her. Even the obedience that led to her engagement to his brother.
“We’ve won, Miss Beale!”
“Well done, Viola.” She embraced his niece and then shook Emmett’s hand. “A fine game.”
“I thought we were not competing,” he teased, still holding her hand.
Lionel sauntered toward them across the lawn. It felt as if the day grew dimmer.
“Now, Viola,” Lionel said in that tone of his that stiffened Emmett’s shoulders, “Miss Partridge wouldn’t like you leaping about like a hoyden.”
Viola’s shoulders slumped.
“Viola has been most ladylike.” Penny’s defense of Viola made Emmett’s shoulders relax. “We made an excellent team.”
Viola’s countenance brightened again. “We won, Papa. Ladies over lads. But Uncle Emmett will be a good loser.”
“Of course I will.” Emmett chucked her chin.
He’d be a good loser in the game, and in the coming years if the burgeoning pull in his chest for Penny didn’t die.
I shouldn’t be drawn to my brother’s intended. Please, God. Kill this attraction, so I can feel for her as a brother would.
He’d never before been jealous of his eldest brother, but the visceral twist of envy coiled in his chest now. Lionel, Penny, and Viola stood conversing on the grass, creating a tableau of familial bliss. And he wanted what his brother had. Not the title or estates, but Penny.
Focus on your task. Emmett turned away, stuffing the jealousy down. He was not in Philadelphia to fall in love with someone he could never have. Or even to lend support for Lionel and Viola as they welcomed Penny into their family.
He was sent here by the Prince of Wales for one reason. The portrait of his ancestor Lady Dunwood, sold by Lionel and purchased by Mr. Beale. Penny said it now hung in her father’s study. There hadn’t been opportunity for him to view it after dinner last night—not with Lionel dominating the conversation.
Emmett must gain entrance to Mr. Beale’s study and do what must be done.
His old college chum, Seymour Whitacre, would be waiting tonight for a report of Emmett’s progress. Yet so far, he had naught but a sorry tale of romantic angst to share.
Some spy he made.